satoru . . !

Satoru scoffs, dropping onto the couch like he owns the room.

“I’m never late. Everyone else is just early.” Suguru turns slightly, just enough to glance at him.

“You kept me waiting.”

Satoru grins.

“Yeah?” he says lazily. “Did you miss me?” Suguru doesn’t smile.

But his gaze lingers.

“You’re irritating,” he replies.

“Mm,” Satoru hums, stretching his arms behind his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It never is with them. Suguru finally moves, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. He stops in front of Satoru,Too close for anyone else.

Exactly right for them. “Your control is slipping,” Suguru says quietly.

Satoru’s grin sharpens.

“Is it?”

Suguru’s eyes flick briefly toward the faint distortion in the air, the subtle warping of space where Infinity hums just a little louder than necessary. “You’re restless.”

Satoru tilts his head.

“Maybe I’m bored.” Suguru’s gaze drops to Satoru’s wrist, the ink there is dark.

Permanent.

Unmistakable.

Geto Suguru. His own wrist burns faintly in response.

Not pain.

Recognition.

“You don’t get bored,” Suguru says.

Satoru’s expression flickers, just slightly.

Enough for Suguru to notice. “Everything else does,” Satoru corrects.

Suguru reaches out.

His fingers wrap around Satoru’s wrist without hesitation.

Without permission.

He never needs it. The moment skin meets skin that same sharp, electric pulse.

Familiar.

Grounding.

Satoru exhales slowly.

“…There it is.” Suguru’s grip tightens just a fraction.

“You’re drifting again.” Satoru looks up at him through lowered lashes, something unreadable settling behind his usual arrogance.

“And you’re pulling me back?” he asks. Suguru doesn’t let go.

“Someone has to,” he says. Satoru laughs softly, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Sounds like you need me.”

Suguru finally meets his gaze fully.

Steady.

Unwavering.

“I do.” The words land heavier than anything else in the room.

Satoru stills.

Just for a second. Then his grin returns, but slower this time. Sharper.

“Good,” he says. Suguru releases his wrist and  the absence lingers.

Like a missing weight. “They’ll start noticing,” Suguru says after a moment. Satoru leans forward slightly.

“Let them.”

“You’re not subtle.” 

“I’m not trying to be. Youn know troubles my middle name”

A pause. Suguru studies him.

Then—

“What did you do this time?”

Satoru’s smile widens.

Too pleased. “Nothing,” he says.

Suguru raises a brow.

“…Yet.”

Suguru exhales quietly, turning away again.

“You’re going to make a mess.” Satoru stands this time.

Steps closer. “I always do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Satoru adds. “You’ll clean it up anyway.” Suguru glances back over his shoulder.

A small, knowing smile.

“Of course I will.”

Because that’s how it works.

Not balance.

Not equality.

A closed circuit.

One pulls.

One steadies.

Satoru and Suguru were a closed circuit. They had been since the day their skin first brushed in a crowded hallway during their first year the sharp, electric sting on their wrists followed by the black ink of each other's names blooming like a brand. Gojo Satoru on Suguru’s right wrist; Geto Suguru on Satoru’s left. It was a divine decree. They were the strongest, and they belonged to each other.

Until the Tuesday that tasted like copper and betrayal.

Suguru was mid-sentence, reaching for a porcelain teapot, when a sensation like a hot needle dragged across the underside of his left wrist. He hissed, the teapot shattering against the low table.

"Suguru?" Satoru was on his feet instantly, his blindfold pushed up, his Six Eyes scanning the room for a threat that wasn't there. "What happened? An attack?"

Suguru didn't answer. He was staring at his left wrist. Directly opposite the soulmate mark he shared with Satoru, a new line of script was rising through the skin. It wasn't the clean, bold ink of Satoru’s name. This was jagged, weeping a faint, translucent gold the sign of a Second Link. A rarity. A glitch in the universe.

Your name was etching itself into his marrow.

"I didn't touch anyone," Suguru whispered, his face going ghostly pale. "Satoru, I haven't left the room in four hours. I haven't... I don't even know who this is."

The cruelty of a Second Link was the "Passive Contact." Most soulmates required a touch to activate the mark, but for someone as powerful as the Twin Stars of Jujutsu, the universe sometimes skipped the formalities. Somewhere on campus, you had walked past a door he was behind or on a mission. You had breathed the same air. And the tether had snapped shut.

Satoru leaned over, his fingers gripping Suguru’s arm with a strength that would have crushed a normal man. He stared at your name. His jaw tightened, the air in the room beginning to vibrate with the sheer pressure of his Cursed Energy.

"A third," Satoru breathed, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. It was hollow, dark, and predatory. "Someone thinks they can wedge themselves between us, Suguru."

"I don't even remember seeing them," Suguru said, his thumb brushing over your name. As he touched it, a wave of your emotions flooded him—loneliness, a quiet hunger for coffee, the slight chill of the hallway. It was nauseatingly intimate. "But I can feel them now. They’re... soft."

The atmosphere in the High-Rise suite didn’t just change; it curdled.

Satoru had been watching the gold script etch itself into Suguru’s left wrist with a detached, clinical fascination, a predator watching a new rival enter the territory. But then, the air in the room didn't just vibrate; it shattered. 

Satoru let out a strangled, jagged sound, his right hand flying to his own left wrist, clutching it so hard the skin turned deathly white.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was sharp, his own pain forgotten as he reached out.

Satoru didn’t answer. He ripped his hand away, baring his skin. There, directly parallel to the heavy black ink of Geto Suguru, a new name was burning its way into his flesh. It wasn't gold. For Satoru, the "Limitless" sorcerer, the mark was a violent, electric violet. It thrummed with a frequency that bypassed his Infinity, sinking straight into his nervous system.

Your name. Identical to the one on Suguru but on his right wrist.

The silence that followed was louder than an explosion. They stood in the center of the room, two gods suddenly tethered to a ghost. The "Closed Circuit" had been breached. The perfect binary of their existence had been forced into a trinity, and the sheer need that flooded them was instantaneous and total.

"It’s the same," Satoru whispered, his voice cracking, his Six Eyes dilated until the blue was almost swallowed by black. "Suguru, it’s the same name. They’re ours."

He wasn't just talking about a soulmate. He was talking about a missing piece of a weapon. As the marks finalized, a psychic bridge snapped open. They felt your heartbeat. Something they never even knew was missing.

For Gojo and Geto, the strongest who lived in a world of their own making, the "hole" was the isolation of their own ascension. They had spent years viewing the world from a height where no one else could breathe, mistaking the cold of the summit for a natural state of being. They were two halves of a whole who believed their circle was closed, their stillness absolute.

Then, your name appeared—a third ink-stain on the skin of their wrists, a rhythmic, phantom pulse under their own.

For Gojo, it is the sudden, violent shattering of the "Infinity" he keeps between himself and the world. He has spent his life seeing everything with his Six Eyes but feeling very little. To suddenly feel a third heart beating against his own ribs, someone who isn't Geto, someone he hasn't even fully met, who he doesn’t remember is like the first time he ever felt the bite of a blade. It is a resonance that bypasses his technique entirely. He realizes that for all his godhood, he has been a ghost haunting his own life, waiting for a frequency he didn’t know he was tuned to.

For Geto, it is an even more terrifying revelation. He is a man who swallowed the rot of the world to protect it, thinking his burden was shared only by Satoru. To feel the steady, unknowing pulse of a soulmate is to realize that the room he thought was full of only duty and blood actually had a door he never tried to open. It is the "ancient desire" finally being named: the need not just to be understood by a peer, but to be anchored by a third point, turning their fragile line into a stable foundation.

They look at their wrists, then at each other, and the realization is starving: they have been the strongest duo in history, yet they were both dying of a thirst they only just recognized.

The pain wasn't a pinch. For you, it was an absolute, white-hot evisceration of your senses.

You were tucked away in the back of the library, the quietest corner of Jujutsu High, when your right wrist suddenly felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. A scream died in your throat, stifled by the sudden, overwhelming pressure of two distinct, warring energies slamming into your soul. You clutched your arm, gasping for air as the skin bubbled and wept, the ink forcing its way up from the bone.

When the smoke cleared from your vision, you stared down at your skin in pure, unadulterated horror.

Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru.

The names were etched in a shimmering, violent violet and a deep, pulsing gold. They sat side-by-side, occupying your skin with a terrifying arrogance. You weren't just a soulmate; you were a bridge. A third point in a triangle that was never meant to have one.

The Instinct to Hide was immediate. 

You didn't feel chosen. You felt scared.

Everyone knew what they were. The Twin Stars. The pinnacle of the sorcery world. They were gods walking among mortals, and you? You were a Grade 4 anomaly, a "Shield" whose only talent was making yourself small and invisible. Your technique, Iron seclusion, allowed you to wrap a force field around your physical form so dense that even Cursed Energy struggled to permeate it. Coupled with your abnormal regenerative healing, you were the perfect survivor, but you were never meant to be a prize.

"No," you whispered, the word trembling in the stagnant library air. "Not them. Anyone but them."

You knew their reputations. Satoru was a void that consumed everything he touched; Suguru was a shadow that swallowed the world whole. To be tied to them wasn't a romance, it was an invitation to be erased.

The memory of your mother’s voice usually feels like a silk ribbon smooth, cooling, and easy to hold. But now, with the names Satoru and Suguru searing into your pulse, her words feel like a cruel irony, a fairy tale told to a child who was never meant to see the monster under the bed.

"A soulmate isn't just a partner, sweetheart," she had said, her fingers tracing the blank, expectant skin of your wrist while you were small. "They are the anchor to your storm. The world is loud and frightening for people like us, but when that name appears, the noise stops. It’s like finally finding the North Star after being lost at sea."

You remember the way she looked at your father a quiet, Grade 3 sorcerer with a softness that made the harshness of their profession disappear.

"It’s unconditional," she whispered, her eyes bright with a certainty you now find terrifying. "They won't just see your strength; they will cherish your shadows. They are the only ones who will truly let you thrive because they are the only ones who will truly know you. It is the greatest blessing the heavens can grant a sorcerer: to never truly be alone again."

In the suffocating silence of the library, you look at the violet and gold script. Her "North Star" was a gentle light; yours are two supernovas that threaten to incinerate everything you are. To your mother, a soulmate was a sanctuary. To you, looking at the names of the two most powerful, volatile men in existence, it feels like a sentence.

The First Pulse

Suddenly, a jolt of pure, manic need surged through your wrist. It wasn't your own. It was a projection a jagged, starving hunger that felt like a cold hand reaching through your chest.

They knew.

The psychic bridge had snapped open the moment the ink dried. They were feeling your heartbeat, your fear, the very scent of the old paper surrounding you. You could feel them, too two massive, celestial bodies suddenly pivoting in your direction, their intent so heavy it felt like the gravity in the library had doubled.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had to go. You had to bury yourself so deep in your own technique that even the Six Eyes couldn't find the shimmer of your soul.

You wrap your fingers around your wrist, activating Iron Seclusion. The barrier snaps into place, a cold, dense weight that mimics the "stillness" you've lived in for years. You try to drown out the sudden, rhythmic double-thrum of their hearts against your own, desperate to believe that if you hide well enough, even the "blessing" of heaven won't be able to find you.

You pushed your Cursed Energy to its limit, pulling the invisible veil of your shield tight against your skin. Usually, your shield was a defensive bubble, but now you collapsed it inward, using it to mask your heat, your scent, and your energy signature. You became a black hole in the sensory world, a static-filled void.

You sprinted for the back exit, avoiding the main halls where the high-ranking students loitered. You didn't have classes with them, you were beneath their notice, a support-track student who spent her days healing minor bruises and reinforcing training barriers. You belonged in the background. You needed to stay in the background.

The library didn't just go quiet, it went dead.

For Satoru and Suguru, the sensation was like being plunged into an abyss. One second, the psychic bridge was a roaring torrent of your fear, your heat, and the frantic rhythm of your heart. It was the most intoxicating thing they had ever felt, a divine frequency that harmonized their own clashing powers.

And then, it was gone.

No heartbeat. No scent. No emotional residue. Even the violet and gold marks on their wrists, which had been glowing with a feverish light, suddenly turned a dull, matte grey. They didn't disappear, the ink was still there, but the life was gone.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was a ragged whisper. He was clutching his left wrist, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. "I can't... I can't feel them."

Satoru was standing in the middle of the hallway, his Six Eyes darting frantically, scanning every atom of the air. 

His Infinity was flickering, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his blood pressure. "They didn't die," he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and genuine terror. "People don't just die and leave no soul residue. They vanished. They’re still here, Suguru. Somewhere in this building... but they’re gone."

In the basement levels, you were curled into a ball behind a stack of rusted training equipment, your hands clamped over your mouth.

Your ability wasn't just a shield anymore; it was a sarcophagus. You had collapsed the force field so tightly against your skin that it was effectively acting as a second dermis, a layer of "non-existence" that blocked every signal your body produced. No heat signatures for Gojo’s Six Eyes. No cursed energy leaks for Geto’s spirits to track.

But the cost was agonizing.

To keep the Shell up 24/7 meant your Cursed Energy was constantly recycling, a closed loop that left you feeling cold, lightheaded, and perpetually exhausted. Your abnormal healing was the only thing keeping your organs from failing under the pressure of the constant reinforcement.

You just had to make it to graduation.

The campus of Tokyo Jujutsu High had become a graveyard of nerves. Without the stabilizing influence of their soulmate bond, Gojo and Geto hadn't just become restless—they had become volatile. 

The training grounds felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. The air was thick with Satoru’s unrefined Cursed Energy, snapping like static electricity against the stone. You pressed your back against the cold wood of the pagoda, your iron seclusion vibrating so hard it made your collarbone ache. You were a ghost, a glitch, a nothingness—but seeing them like this, seeing the "protectors" of the school unravel into something so fundamentally cruel, made the papers in your hand feel like a death warrant.

Satoru didn’t look like the untouchable god of Jujutsu High anymore. He looked like a man starving in a room full of plastic fruit. He grabbed the younger student by the collar, hoisting him up until the boy’s toes barely grazed the dirt.

"Think harder," Satoru hissed, his voice low and jagged. "The library. That Tuesday. Who ran? Who left in a hurry? I don't care if they were a Grade 1 or a window washer—who moved like they were terrified of being seen?"

"N-nobody, Gojo-senpai!" the boy stammered, tears tracking through the dust on his cheeks. "It was just the usual crowd... I didn't see anyone run. It was quiet. It was just quiet!"

Satoru’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. "Impossible. Someone walked past us. Someone took the air out of the room and then just... vanished." He dropped the boy, spinning around to face Geto, his movements twitchy and erratic. "Suguru, he’s useless. They're all useless. How can someone be so close I can feel their pulse under my skin one second, and then be absolutely invisible the next?"

Geto didn't offer a comforting word. He didn't even look at Satoru. He was staring at the palm of his left hand, tracing the grey, lifeless name of yours that sat like a scar on his wrist. The refined elegance he usually carried replaced by a cold, predatory stillness.

"Maybe they didn't run," Geto murmured, his voice sounding like a blade sliding over silk. He stepped toward the trembling student, his shadow stretching out like a many-limbed monster. "Maybe they're still here. Watching us. Hiding in plain sight while we rot."

He knelt beside the boy, his hand reaching out to brush a stray tear from the kid's face with a tenderness that was far more terrifying than Satoru’s rage. "Tell me, Kohai... have you noticed anyone lately who seems a bit too quiet? Someone who doesn't talk, doesn't eat, just... exists in the corners?"

"I... I don't know everyone's names, Geto-san," the boy whispered, trembling. "Please, I just want to go to my dorm."

Geto’s expression didn't change, but the air around him darkened. "Go then. But if you remember a face even a blur in the hallway you come to us first. Because if Satoru loses his patience before I find them... there won't be a dorm left for you to return to."

You didn't wait to see the boy scramble away. You turned and moved, a silent shadow within the shadows. Every step felt like walking through deep water; iron seclusion was draining you, pulling from your very life force to keep your presence at zero.

"They're looking for a ghost," you breathed, your lips barely moving behind the veil of your technique. You looked down at your wrist, where the names burned like brands under the heavy bandages. "They can't find what isn't there."

The encounter happens in the open air, where there is nowhere to hide and the sky feels too wide. You are crossing the training grounds, sticking to the shadows of the eaves, when the 

resonance hits so hard it physically staggers you. It’s like a tether snapping taut, pulling your chest toward the center of the courtyard.

They are standing there, the "Twin Stars," looking uncharacteristically frayed. Gojo has his blindfold shoved up, his Six Eyes scanning the air with a frantic, electrified energy. Geto has his hand clamped over his right wrist, his knuckles white, his usual composure replaced by a raw, searching hunger.

You keep your head down, clutching your books to your chest, and try to scuttle past like a ghost. You wrap Iron Seclusion around yourself so tightly it feels like wearing a lead suit, desperate to dampen the "scream" of your soul.

"Hey. You."

Gojo’s voice isn't breezy this time. It’s a command. He’s in front of you in a blink, the space between you warping as he forces the world to bring you closer.

You jump, dropping a notebook. "G-Gojo-senpai! Geto-senpai! I’m so sorry, was I in the way?" You scramble to pick up your things, keeping your marked wrist pressed firmly against your stomach.

"Did you see anyone else come through here?" Geto asks, his voice tight. He’s looking right at you, but he’s looking through you, searching for a "strong" sorcerer, someone who could possibly match the violent power he feels thrumming in his own veins. "Someone... significant?"

"Significant?" You blink, widening your eyes in a mask of dull, Grade 4 confusion. "I—I didn't see anyone. Just the usual cursed spirits near the gate. Is everything okay? You both look... a bit pale."

Gojo leans down, his face inches from yours. He’s trying to read your flow of Cursed Energy, but Iron Seclusion makes you look like a flat, grey stone in a river of light. "My head is ringing," he mutters, more to Geto than to you. "The frequency is right here, Suguru. It’s deafening."

"Maybe it's the heat?" you suggest, your voice small and trembling with perfectly faked intimidation. "The sun is really bright today. I get migraines sometimes too. Should I go get Shoko-san for you?"

Geto sighs, a sound of pure frustration, and rubs his temples. To him, you are just a flickering candle, and he is looking for a second sun. "No. Just go back to class."

"Yes, senpai! Sorry to bother you!"

You bow low and practically bolt, your heart hammering a frantic SOS that you know they can feel, even if they haven't realized yet that the "insignificant" girl is the one holding the other end of the chain.

The Department Head’s office is stifling, smelling of old paper and incense, but to you, it feels like an interrogation room. You keep your right hand buried in the pocket of your blazer, your thumb obsessively rubbing the spot where Satoru and Suguru are etched into your skin.

The Department Head a gray-haired, bureaucratic sorcerer who cared more for quotas than souls—had looked at your transfer papers with a bored flick of his wrist. 

"A transfer?" The official doesn't even look up from the papers. He sounds bored, which is exactly what you want. "To the Kyoto branch? "

“yes," you say, your voice a practiced, dull monotone. "My technique, Iron Seclusion... it’s not suited for the front lines. I’m just a Grade 4. I think I’d be more useful with the logistics team there."

The man sighs, finally marking a thick red line through a document. "The higher-ups don't like moving pieces mid-semester. If you want out of the active rotation, you have to fulfill the minimum requirement for the quarter. Three more missions. Complete them, and I’ll sign the papers."

A surge of pure, unadulterated relief washes over you. You almost want to thank him. 

Three missions. That was it. That was the price of your life.

As you walk out into the hallway, your heart is light for the first time since the names appeared. You’ve done the math. The school is a machine of logic and hierarchy. They would never pair a Grade 4 anomaly with the Special Grade duo. It would be a waste of their time and a death sentence for yours. To the school, you are a pebble; to them, they are the mountain. There is no reason for your orbits to ever cross again.

You check your phone. The notification for your first mission has already arrived.

Location: An abandoned textile factory in the outskirts of Saitama.

Grade: 4 (Low-level fly-heads and lingering shadows).

Assigned Sorcerer: [Name].

You are alone.

A small, giddy laugh bubbles up in your chest. No Gojo. No Geto. Just you, your "useless" shield, and a few weak curses. You can do this. You’ll be invisible, just like you’ve always been. You’ll finish these three jobs, get your transfer, and disappear into a cubicle in Kyoto where the violet and gold on your wrist can stay buried under long sleeves forever.

As you walked back to your dorm to pack your tactical gear for the first solo mission, you looked at the grey, silent marks on your wrist. For the first time, they didn't look like shackles; they looked like a bad dream you were finally waking up from.

"Just three," you whispered, your thumb tracing the edge of the bandage. "They won't even notice I'm gone until the bus crosses the prefectural line."

The mission was a joke. Three minor curses, a few sweeps of your Iron Seclusion to crush them against the concrete, and you were done in thirty minutes flat. You practically floated back to the dorms. One down. Two more, and you’d be a ghost in Kyoto, safe from the two suns that threatened to burn your world down.

The "best feeling ever" was a dangerous drug. You were so buzzed on your own relief that you didn't notice the resonance in your chest smoothing out into a low, contented huma purr that wasn't yours, but theirs.

You stepped into the common room, intent on grabbing a soda and vanishing, when you saw him.

Suguru Geto was draped over a sofa, a book open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. He was people-watching, his dark eyes tracking every student that walked by with a clinical, almost desperate intensity. He looked like a man trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

You stiffened, your "Shield" snapping into place instinctively. You kept your head down, your gait deliberate and heavy, trying to look as "Grade 4" as possible. You steered a wide, awkward arc around the couch, heading for the vending machine.

Don’t look. Don’t breathe. Just stay invisible.

"You're back early."

The voice was like silk sliding over a blade. You froze, your hand halfway to the coin slot. You didn't turn around. Maybe he was talking to someone else.

"The girl with the barrier technique," Geto continued, his voice tilting upward with a hint of genuine curiosity. "I don't think I caught your name the other day."

You slowly turned, your face a mask of wide-eyed, stuttering surprise. "O-Oh! Me? I’m... nobody, really. Just finishing a low-level sweep. I didn't think a Special Grade like you would notice someone like me, Geto-senpai."

Geto closed his book, leaning forward. His right hand—the one with your name—was resting on his knee, his fingers twitching in time with your frantic pulse. He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second, the "ancient desire" flared in his eyes.

"You're very... contained," he mused, his gaze drifting to your covered wrist. "Most sorcerers leak cursed energy like a sieve. But you? You're like a vault. It’s quiet around you. Almost too quiet."

He stood up, the height difference immediately making the room feel smaller. He took a step toward you, his expression softening into something dangerously observant. "Tell me—did you feel anything strange out there? A change in rhythm? A... pulling sensation?"

You forced a self-deprecating, nervous laugh, the kind that made you look small and slightly pathetic. "Oh, Geto-senpai, I’m actually really embarrassed about it. My Iron Seclusion is... well, it’s a bit of a defect. It’s so thick it basically smothers my own senses. I couldn't feel a 'pull' if it hit me with a truck. I’m basically sensory-deprived whenever I use it."

Geto’s expression flickered—a flash of pity, perhaps, or just the disappointment of another dead end. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "I see. A defensive trade-off. That must be frustrating."

"It’s why I’m better suited for paperwork," you chirped, bowing quickly and scurrying away before he could ask anything else. You didn't stop running until you were behind your locked dorm door, clutching your wrist as if the names might leap off your skin.

The next week was blissfully quiet. You stayed under the radar, wore oversized hoodies, and successfully avoided the 'Twin Stars' by memorizing their training schedules. You were a ghost. A phantom. You were winning.

Then, the ping of a new mission notification hit your phone.

Location: Subterranean transit tunnels, Shinjuku.

Grade: 2 (Multiple sightings of high-output territorial curses).

Assigned Sorcerers: [You] & Kento Nanami.

Your heart did a strange little flip. Nanami. He was a Grade 1, stoic, professional, and most importantly not a soulmate. He wasn't one of the 'strongest' who moved like a whirlwind; he was a man who clocked in, did his job with surgical precision, and went home.

"Two out of three," you whispered to the empty room, a giddy smile breaking across your face.

Being paired with Nanami was the ultimate safety net. He was too disciplined to care about your personal life or your 'flow' of energy. He would expect you to put up your shield, stay out of the way, and let him handle the heavy lifting. To him, you would just be a tool, a 'Shield' to protect the perimeter while he worked the (7:3) ratio.

As you packed your gear, you felt a surge of triumphant joy. You were so close to the exit. You were almost to Kyoto. You were almost free.

You didn't realize that your sudden burst of happiness sent a sharp, intoxicating thrum through the bond. Somewhere in the school, Satoru Gojo tilted his head, a blindfolded grin spreading across his face as he felt a wave of "victory" that wasn't his own.

(Let me just say this while your ability blocks most things, a soulmate's bond is strong so without meaning some strong emotions can still filter through to your partners.)

The subterranean transit tunnels were a labyrinth of damp concrete and oppressive shadows. Nanami moved with his usual mechanical efficiency, his blunt blade finding the 7:3 ratio with every strike. You stayed back, your Iron Seclusion acting as a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the smaller, crawling curses from flanking him.

But the report was wrong. This wasn't a Grade 2 nest; it was a breeding ground for a Special Grade fetus that had begun to distort the very space of the tunnels.

A massive, multi-limbed curse surged from the ceiling, its sheer weight slamming into your barrier with the force of a falling skyscraper. The impact vibrated through your bones, the pressure so intense that for one flickering, agonizing second, your concentration snapped.

Iron Seclusion dropped.

It was only for a minute—maybe even less—as you scrambled back, gasping, and forced the barrier to knit itself back together. You felt exposed, naked, like a nerve ending stripped of its skin. You quickly reinforced the shield, the dense, cold energy snapping back into place, burying your presence once more.

It’s fine, you told yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. I was only "visible" for a second. We’re deep underground. They’re miles away at the school.

You didn't realize that to a Six Eyes user, a second of your unfiltered soul is like a flare gun going off in a pitch-black room.

Up on the surface, in the middle of a bustling Shinjuku street, Satoru stopped mid-sentence. His blindfold didn't hide the way his head snapped toward the subway entrance, his breath hitching as if he’d just been punched. The "ghost" frequency he’d been chasing had finally, violently, become a signal.

Across town, in the quiet of a temple, Suguru dropped his tea. The phantom pulse on his wrist hadn't just thrummed; it had screamed. For that one minute, the hollow space in his chest had been filled with a terrifying, beautiful warmth—and then, just as quickly, it vanished back into the "stillness."

They both moved instantly, driven by a starving instinct they still didn't understand.

Down in the tunnels, Nanami finished off the curse and adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable behind his goggles. "That was a significant lapse," he said, his voice a calm, dry reprimand. "Are you injured?"

"No," you lied, your voice trembling as you clutched your wrist. "Just... lost my footing. I'm fine, Nanami-san. Let's just finish this. Please."

The subway air was thick with the smell of blood and damp concrete as you emerged, ducking your head and letting Nanami lead the way. You kept your jacket sleeves pulled low, your fingers white-knuckled around your wrists. You felt like a radio tower that had briefly broadcasted a signal to the entire world, and now you were desperately trying to cut the power.

Across the city, in a secluded corner of the Tokyo Jujutsu High courtyard, the two strongest sorcerers met. The air around them was electrified, distorted by the sheer output of their frustration.

Satoru was pacing, his blindfold discarded, his Six Eyes glowing with a manic, crystalline light. He looked like a live wire, sparking at the slightest touch. "It was right there, Suguru. For sixty seconds, it wasn't just a hum. It was a scream. It was loud."

Geto was leaning against a stone pillar, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his knuckles bruised from where he’d punched a training dummy into splinters. He wasn't smiling. The "gentle" philosopher was gone, replaced by a man who looked starved.

"I felt it too," Geto said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "It wasn't a curse, and it wasn't a mistake. It was a soul. Our soul." He looked down at the gold-etched name on his wrist, his thumb tracing the letters with a possessive, aching intensity. "And then it just… went dark. Like someone slammed a door in our faces."

Satoru stopped pacing, turning to face his best friend. The realization hit them both at the same time, a cold, sharp clarity.

"They’re hiding," Satoru breathed, a dark, incredulous laugh bubbling in his throat. "Someone out there belongs to us—the two strongest people on the planet and their first instinct is to bury their presence so deep even I can't track it."

"They don't want to be found," Geto added, his eyes narrowing. The thought didn't just hurt; it offended him. He had spent his life protecting the weak, swallowing rot for a world that didn't love him back, and now the one person meant to be his "anchor" was treating him like a threat. "They’re using a barrier. A dense one. That flicker in the tunnels… they slipped. They lost control for a minute, and now they’ve bolted the door again."

Satoru’s grin turned into something predatory, something ancient. "Let them hide. They can't keep a seal like that up forever. Every time their heart jumps, I feel it. Every time they're scared, I know. We’re going to find our 'Shield,' Suguru. And when we do, I’m going to make sure they never feel the need to close that door again."

“theeere you go babydoll, show em. you got it. fuck ‘er for me.” hakaris right behind you, that stupidly large hand helping you bounce your hips down on kirara, the filthy sound of your thighs plopping down on her.

whatever hand hakari didn’t have on you was recording the scene, the good stuff that reeled in extra cash for you guys.

“o-oouuh baby.. go a little faster okay? know you can. feels greaaaat.” kirara slurred, a dumb pleased smile plastered on her face. her manicured hands going up to hold on your hips, bouncing you.

“you heard ‘er, speed up. look at the camera while you’re at it.” his hand left your hip to grip the side of your chin, pulling you back to get a view your glossy eyes in the camera. all the attention was driving you up the wall, all the hands on your body and the camera observing your pleasured face.

with all your new found courage and the need you felt to please the camera- and your oh so sweet girl beneath you, you sped up. hips clashing back down against the woman. so loud and obscene it filled the room, blocking out any distant noise from the TV-cameras. you could feel kirara shaking, sensitive girl she was. pierced cock twitching inside of you unashamedly.

“pleaaase give it ta’ me baby.. i know you can! feels so good..” kirara nearly whined out, her star shaped pupils completely blown and dilated with complete focus on your face that hakari had long released from his grasp. still recording the nasty shit going on between you two. you could feel her hips stutter and begin to fuck right back up into you jus’ the way she liked it. sloppy and quick.

you buried your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling that non perfumed scent of purely her. that alone could be your own equivalent to an aphrodisiac, heavenly. the sound of sweat damped skin slapping into eachother was something you’d hear in porn.

“pleaaaase, cmon cmon cmon.. know you want to- sooo bad!” pure rambling out of her mouth, she pulled your face up to connect your lips in a wet, heated kiss. her pierced tongue sliding its way in. her way of shutting herself up really.

“awh fuck, let me get that.” you could hear the grin and arousal in hakaris voice, even after the recording you’d be far from done. he moved the lousy phone camera over to record the sloppy scene of you and kiraras tongues fighting one another. the room was full of the pathetic whiny moans swallowed into wet kisses.

a sharp smack hit you- hakari from the pure feeling from it. you were getting sloppy.

“don’t get lazy on me now girl, ride it. show ‘em how you like taking it.” his guiding words made something in your gut twist into something much more intense- pulling a groan straight from your throat. you fucked back onto kirara with more intensity than before, disconnecting from the kiss to moan and whine into her neck, her hands immediately shooting to hold onto you- anything really. hakari gave a pleased huff of approval.

“yes- yessyesyes cmon baby, gimme- mnnhgg..” her head tilted back in pure bliss, though her hips never quit moving up to meet yours. you hadn’t even spoke this whole time, pleasure made you a very different person. all that came from your throat was uncontrolled moans and whines, chasing as much friction as you possibly could.

“g’nna cum baby- take it take it take it..” it was only a few more sloppy thrusts upwards and she was cumming- quick, thick spurts of release into you that had her reeling- fucking herself into you through that overstimulation to make it last as long as she could make it.

you hadn’t last much longer truly, hakari’s free hand that wasn’t focused on recording the sinful act was under your body using two fingers in fast, pressured circles to give you that extra push of stimulation, your body arching downward and pressing you further into the lady beneath you, chest to chest. you’re convulsing by the time kirara’s spent and done, a lazy fucked out smile on her face when you cross that finish line, tightened up around her like she’d disappear if you didn’t.

hakari let out a low whistle, hard and leaking a damp spot through his slacks. sheesh. pressing his thumb down on that red button to stop the recording.

The café had stilled in that moment. Even the old espresso machine, which was usually hissing and wheezing about, seemed to fall silent. 

Panda’s hand froze mid-air, halfway to his muffin. Toge’s mutter died on his tongue. Even Maki had lifted her gaze, holding an expression that was dangerously close to surprise. Because it is not every day a bride walks into this café. 

Your eyes dart across the room — frantic, urgent, desperate to find someone, and it’s only when your eyes find him that he realises — it’s him. You were searching for him. 

At that realisation, he lurched up to stand at once. It was a little too clumsy, too sudden, as though his seat had grown immediately hot.

He thought he should speak, ask something rational, like what are you doing here? Or say something gentle, like asking if you were okay, but his tongue felt thick and lumpy in his mouth, sodden just as the dirty hem of your white dress. 

So when you began to speak, he almost sighed with relief.

“Yuuta,” you said, his name softened between your lips, and your whole face seemed to ease.

“Oh, it’s so… I’m so happy you’re here. I didn’t know where else to go. I just— I left. I left him, Yuuta. I was standing there, staring at the aisle, at him, at all of it. The expensive flowers. The expensive carpet. The expensive champagne, and suddenly it was like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do it. So I ran. I just— I ran.”

Yuuta isn’t sure what he can say to that.

It’s loaded, so he doesn’t know where to start asking questions. He simply stares at you. And then turns back to see his seated friends, as though one of them will ground him away from this dream that he seems to have slipped into. Because it is a dream, right?

But when Panda only gave a low whistle in response, it was the kind that seared the reality of the situation into his brain.

“Now this,” Panda had said, leaning back, “is better than Love Island, my friends.”

He knows now that this is real. And you’ve apparently left a wedding. You had agreed, once, to marry someone else, and then you hadn’t. This is an afterthought he tries to suppress, given everything else that’s staring him stark in the face. But he does think it, even if it were only for a moment.

Maki crossed her arms then, watching you closely. “You’re dripping mud all over the floor,” she comments, but her voice doesn’t come out with any sort of sting, but rather as an observation.

You looked flustered, but ignored the comment as you took Yuuta’s hands, clutching them with a desperation that made his heart stumble out of his chest.

You were cold to touch, and he wonders if he should give you his jacket.

“I don’t want to be who I was,” you confessed now softly. “I was this girl who lived in a bubble. I looked at him, Yuuta, and I thought— this isn’t it. This isn’t my life. This isn’t me at all. And all I could think was… I needed to find a friend. A friend who knows me.”

It’s out of place to hear this confession from a person he hadn’t seen in years now, but everything about this situation was out of place.

You belonged at the end of an aisle, and he belonged here.

You were meant for cathedrals and champagne halls, and he was meant for a chipped mug of coffee and a menial job. Yet, you were here holding his hand. 

It was all out of place. 

—

The group, to Yuuta's surprise, was astonishingly well-composed in the wake of your situation.

Toge and Panda had gone to the counter to get you something warm. Maki, whose name, you would only learn later, had wordlessly stripped a navy shawl from her own shoulders and flung it across yours in a gesture that was brusque.

And then there was Yuuta.

Yuuta was crouched before you, perched on the low table opposite. His body was tilted forward as he stared intensely at you. You didn’t blame him, though the intensity of his stare, mingled with the realisations of what you had just done — of the words you had mumbled to him, of the man you had abandoned, of the people whose names would be lighting up your screen, of the entire state of your life — all of which had suddenly all come boiling to the surface. 

And sitting there, clutching the borrowed shawl tight around your shoulders, you felt the shame and embarrassment rise sharply in your throat.

“Are you okay?” Yuuta tried, the words falling clumsily from his mouth.

And immediately he realised how stupid that sounded. Are you okay? What a ridiculous and pathetic question. Of course, you weren’t okay. People who were okay didn’t abandon weddings midway through. People who were okay didn’t search, wild-eyed, for the face of a boy they hadn’t seen in almost half a decade. People who did this were — undeniably, certifiably — not okay.

He glanced sideways at Maki, who was already looking at him like he was the dumbest man alive.

He gulped. He wanted, very sincerely, to punch himself in the face.

“I just feel like someone has reached down my throat, and has grabbed my small intestine, pulled it out of my mouth, and tied it around my neck.”

The description was grotesque, or even dramatic and childish, but it was the truth of your body.

“If you get me,” you attempted to add, your voice dropping to a meek, apologetic murmur.

And at that, Yuuta really wanted to punch himself in the face. He should be saying something, anything to distract you from your situation — to make your world lighter, but where could he begin? He knew nothing anymore. Not about you, not about the person you had become, not about the life you had just abandoned.

“I am glad to see you, though,” you added softly. “It’s strange. I haven’t seen you in years, but you’re my only true friend I’ve had in such a long time.”

“A friend who wasn’t even invited to the wedding,” Maki remarked. Her voice was sharp, but the remark itself was plain. It didn’t feel accusatory, but more so — observational. 

“Maki,” Yuuta protested, however, as his chest was tightening.

“We did drift apart,” you admitted, eyes not leaving his. “But you would always be my friend, Yuuta. You know that, don’t you?”

He could swear your eyes twinkled just then.

—

You sat with both hands curled around the hot chocolate. The porcelain of the cup radiated a simple and welcoming warmth that you clung to, sip after sip, while they all stared at you. There are questions simmering beneath their tongues, you can feel it, but the warmth of the cup around your palms, the warmth of the drink down your throat left you a bit listless, and comforted — that you didn’t mind. You simply sipped on the drink as they watched you like some exotic creature they were meant to study. You look up now, at the group, and then at Yuuta. “Can I borrow your phone?” you asked, quietly but firmly too. “I need to call my father.”

Yuuta startled, cleared his throat, already reaching for his pocket. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

You handed him the empty cup, the porcelain had tints of red from your lipstick, and he exchanged it for his phone. You stood up and drifted to the far side of the café, for privacy, he assumes. 

“Who is she?” Panda asked first, his voice sly, delighted by the scandal at hand. “Don’t tell me you were having an affair with an engaged woman. How perverted is that?” He paused, grin widening as he looked at her now. “Kudos, though. She’s pretty.” Yuuta’s brow knit, irritation flashing across his face. “It’s not like that,” he said quickly. “I haven’t seen her in years. She’s just— an old friend. We grew up together. We don’t even talk anymore.” His voice trailed off. It’s all out of place. “And yet,” Maki murmured, arms folded, eyes narrowing in clinical interest, “she runs to you as she leaves her future husband. Isn’t that interesting?”

Yuuta hesitated, words catching. Then, softly, almost pleading, he said, “I mean… look at her. She doesn’t seem like she has a lot of good friends. She probably just needed someone outside of those circles. Her family— they’re the rich kind, you know. They’ve got their own world, their own orbit. I don’t know why she’s here, but I’m assuming she has no one else.”

At that, he could visibly see Maki soften, her shoulders relaxed. You were not the threat afterall. You were just a woman with a family of idiots. 

“That’s… kinda sad,” Panda said in response, voicing what everyone was feeling. And for once, his voice held no joke at all. It was sincere. 

You stood by the window, with the phone pressed to your ear. You almost wish he wouldn’t pick up. You didn’t want to face this reality of yours. This life you lived. You wish you could start a new one here, with Yuuta and his odd group of friends. 

When your father’s voice came through, it was clipped, cool, controlled — as though you had interrupted a board meeting, or worse, humiliated him by existing in the wrong place.

“Where are you?” he demanded, without any effort to establish a preamble. “Come back. Now.”

You swallowed. “I left.”

“I am aware,” he said. “You have thirty minutes. Return.”

“No,” you whispered.

“Speak up,” he urged. He hated it when you mumbled to yourself. Meek. Weak. Small. 

Your voice was trembling, though you forced it to sound steady. “I couldn’t—” You failed. “I could not do it, Papa. I tried. I really tried, but when I looked at him… I wanted to leave, and so, I did.” 

You pressed your hand against the cold glass, the rain outside smearing the city into indistinct lights. Something to steady you, you tried to focus on the colours. 

“I only wanted to apologise to you and Mama. I love you both. And I’m only sorry for that. For abandoning you to deal with this for me. But I never wanted it, and you knew it.” 

You clutched the phone tighter, as though by holding it you might tether yourself to something familiar, but the voice on the other end was not safety. It never was. 

“Goodbye,” you said then. Final. Ending. “I hope you forgive me.”

When you lowered the phone, the café seemed to tilt, the air thinning around you. Your stomach hollowed, your skin prickled. You wanted air. You wanted your bed. 

“Are you alright?” Yuuta’s voice cut through cleanly into the fugue — steady, warm, and concerned.

You turned, slow and uncomposed. Your eyes were rimmed with red, and before you could reason your way through it, you closed the distance between you and him. You all but collapsed into his arms.

He was startled and nearly lost his footing until he steadied himself. Then he steadied you, pulling you upright into his hold. His arms folded around you as his palm pressed to the back of your head in a slow, patting you now. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. He repeated them anyway, again and again, slowly, until the sound itself became a tether. A mantra. A spell. And the more he said it, the more you began to believe it. 

When your sobs stopped, as the deep tremor in your chest had flattened down and softened, you pulled back. The world may look a little blurrier now, but you felt lighter, too.

—

There wasn’t a lot left to do now. The evening had already begun to fold itself into routine, the kind they all knew by heart. Usually, it was Maki who left first — she had a strict regimen, physical health scheduled into her life with the same precision she levelled at everything else. She stood, gathering her things, then fixed the two of you with that measured, sharp-eyed stare as you held her shawl out to her.

“Thank you for the shawl,” you said, a little awkwardly. 

“You’re welcome,” she replied, matter-of-fact. Then, after a beat: “You’ll be fine. Ask Yuuta for my number if you need a place to stay. My roommate’s moving out, actually, so the timing is sort of perfect.”

Your eyes widened, catching faint light from the café’s low lamps. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Maki said, shouldering her bag. “Just, it’s not a big deal. Just be… cool.”

“I can be cool,” you said, feeling defensive all too suddenly, though grateful at her proposal. You hadn’t mapped this out realistically at all. Where would you stay? How would you pay for things now?

Panda lasted another half hour before lumbering up from the couch, crumbs trailing from his shirt. He clapped Yuuta’s shoulder with a heavy hand that left an ache long after, rolling through Yuuta’s bones.

“You have so much to tell me,” he said, grin spreading wide, teeth flashing. “Can’t wait to see you Monday.”

It sounded less like enthusiasm and more like a threat. Yuuta frowned as Panda winked, shambling out into the drizzle with a parting wave.

That left Toge. He lingered the longest, nursing another cup of tea in silence, his gaze flickering between the two of you. Eventually, he stood, setting his empty mug down with a small click. Yuuta rose automatically, and you followed — nothing really left to do at the café but leave. Still, the act of standing felt imposed, almost abrupt, and guilt nipped at you, the faint sense that you had been a burden this evening.

Outside, the air was damp and cool. Inumaki hesitated by the door, then glanced at you once, at Yuuta, and back again. Without a word, he shrugged off his own coat — a dark woollen thing, faintly scented with smoke and tea — and draped it carefully over your shoulders

“Salmon,” he murmured, tone soft, almost tender.

You turned to look at Yuuta, feeling tended to, but confused nonetheless. 

Yuuta, fumbling for clarity, added, “You can return it next time you see him.”

“Thank you,” you said, still confused but clutching the coat closer around yourself.

Yuuta watched, throat tightening. Something faint and warm filled his chest, blooming against the night chill. “Um, what do you want to do now?” Yuuta asked. His voice was gentle and unassuming, as if the question cost him nothing particular or grave. Like the energy it took to move a muscle at best. 

You blinked, a half-smile breaking through on your face. You expected he’d bid you farewell and wish you good luck on your way. And this would be the end of this.  

You would preside after this evening only as an anecdote, a funny story to be told at parties.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, feeling lighter than you’ve felt in a year. Then, sheepishly, you speak up. “I’m hungry.”

For the first time in a long time, you heard Yuuta laugh. It’s a quiet, incredulous, almost disbelieving laughter. 

You smiled. His laughter always carried this particular alchemy.

It pulled you back, just a little, to an image of a boy — slight and sunburnt, and a girl — bright and unburdened. To summer afternoons that were filled with knee scratches and ice creams, where time had stretched itself out for you and you alone. Where his laughter accompanying your own meant the evening would be well-lived and light. 

Now, you’re here, years later. 

“I have a bike,” he said suddenly. “I can drive us up to the high street.”

You blinked. “You have a bike,” you repeated, tone incredulous, baffled, impressed, but baffled nonetheless. 

Because the Yuuta you remembered — scrawny, awkward, scared of his own shadow Yuuta — had somehow grown into this. Into a man who rode a bike. Into a man whose jacket stretched slightly over the curve of real muscle, whose hands looked steady enough to hold both the handlebars. 

The thought invoked something strange within you.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. 

Still awkward, you concluded with a smile. Still him.

The rain had eased into a mist, soft enough to blur the streetlamps into trembling halos. Yuuta wheeled the bike out from the narrow row where it had been chained, the frame slick with water, the metal gleaming in the half-light. It wasn’t anything glamorous — but a sleek red motorbike, well-worn yet polished, the kind of machine that spoke of quiet care. You noticed it immediately, how clean it was despite the weather, as though he’d taken time to tend to it, to keep it shining.

And yet, seeing him swing his leg over it, steady and confident, made something twist unexpectedly in your chest. A strange contrast to the boy you remembered, awkward and hesitant. This was new, unfamiliar — and it unsettled you in ways you weren’t prepared to admit.

He glanced at you then, his expression caught somewhere between soft pride and embarrassment. “You, uh… you’ll have to hold on.”

The words made your pulse stutter. He said them with such plain practicality, and yet.

So you slid onto the seat behind him, hesitating for a beat before wrapping your arms around his middle. His body was warm even through the fabric of his jacket, the steady rhythm of his breath grounding you against the cool, damp air. You hadn’t realised how cold you’d been until now.

Yuuta stiffened, just slightly, then exhaled, adjusting his grip on the handlebars. “Ready?”

“Mm,” you murmured, your cheek brushing against his shoulder.

And then you were moving. The bike hummed under you, wheels hissing against the rain-dark road. The night opened itself up in streaks of light and shadow — shopfronts shuttered, puddles gleaming, the occasional car spraying water as it passed. The air rushed past, damp and sharp, tugging at your hair, carrying the faintest scent of soap and rain from his collar.

—

There were only a precious few places open at this hour. It was that liminal hour between early night and late evening. This was when the city was pausing for a brief moment to start the night — commuters were seen to be returning to their flats, and the noise emanating from cafés was thinning down to a lull as they started closing down. Yuuta was racking his brain for the different possibilities of cuisine, but the truth is, the options were few and very limited.

Yuuta walked beside you after parking near the stretch everyone colloquially called “food street,” and was turning this task over in his head, as though the very act of deciding on food were a kind of responsibility he must shoulder for you. Almost reverently, for your sake.

His mind ransacked through all the possibilities — the ramen joints with neon lights on side streets, but too shabby, and perhaps too makeshift for you. You would be a pale flare in that kind of place, the white of your dress catching every eye. Worse yet, someone might assume he was your husband and think him a figure so careless enough to drag you here on your wedding night.

Convenience stores, he thought, were too sterile, lit with fluorescent bulbs, though he suspected you hadn’t had the opportunity to have a proper meal all day. He imagined you standing there outside the store in your wedding dress, peeling back a corner of film from a microwaved meal, and recoiled. He wanted to give you a meal that wasn’t pre-sealed in plastic. 

He could cook for you, he thought briefly. But the idea felt awkward, inappropriate. He hadn’t seen you in years. And you were a lady, after all. 

As though he was caught in a well-timed play, his eyes immediately caught sight of red lanterns glowing above a narrow wooden doorway. He had seen this place before, always in passing, and always from the corner of his eye when he was on his way to the laundromat, but never saw a real opportunity to enter. He wasn’t one to eat out often, besides the occasional social obligations he was invited to. He preferred cooking at home. It was a private ritual he liked.

He slowed, then turned to you. Your gaze was already drawn to the lanterns.

“What do you think?” he asked, his voice soft, tentative.

You looked at the doorway, the lanterns, the promise of something warm and sustaining, and then back at him. 

“Honestly,” you replied with a tired smile. “I could eat anything right now. It’s a free game.”

And so, you entered, slipping beneath the lanterns.

The interior was smaller than you had expected. There were long counters of dark wood, and some fake green plants were scattered around the corners. 

There was already a bunch of patrons on occupied tables, people who seemed to be mostly office workers still in suits hunched over their bowls and plates. The air was thick with the fragrance of grilled fish, miso, and the faint scent of the bitterness of charred onion. You would eat well tonight, at least.

At the entrance stood the proprietor, who was a middle-aged man with his hair pulled back into a low knot, and his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. He looked up as the two of you entered, and you could tell he attempted to repress his surprise at seeing you in your state. 

“Table for two, then?” he asked, his demeanour reverting to a calm assurance of someone who had seen all sorts of late-night guests pass through his doorway.

Yuuta nodded quickly. “Yes, please.”

The proprietor gestured you toward a small table tucked into the corner. You were grateful you wouldn’t catch the eyes of most of the patrons from here; you were half-shielded. 

Yuuta hovered for a moment, awkwardly, unsure whether to pull the chair out for you or pretend he hadn’t thought of it, and in his hesitation, you had already firmly seated yourself with a heave of sigh, smoothing the damp folds of your dress. He followed, sitting opposite you now — dejected by his lateness.

For a moment, neither of you spoke before Yuuta picked up the menu, eyes skimming without really reading. The truth was, the act of choosing a meal seemed suddenly impossible, just as choosing a place to eat did.

You leaned over your own menu, propping your chin on one hand, watching him. Intently, he would say. 

Finally, he looked up, as though catching your gaze. “Um,” he said, clearing his throat. “They have fried chicken? And, uh, a few noodle bowls. Do you—” he hesitated, “uh, want me to pick, or—”

“Yuuta,” you cut in, grinning before you could stop yourself, “I told you. Anything. I’d probably eat the menu itself if they deep-fried it.”

The waiter arrived with two glasses of iced water, setting them down with a clink. You reached for yours immediately, the cold, sweating glass delicious against your palm, and took a long swig.

“So,” you spoke up, as you propped your chin onto both your hands. “Tell me then.”

Yuuta blinked. “About?”

“About your life, I mean.” 

The clarification didn’t quell any of the weight for Yuuta. 

You’ll admit you did not know how to ask this without sounding intrusive, nor how to stop once you had begun. 

“What do you do now? For work, I mean. Do you have a wife? Is your favourite ice-cream flavour still vanilla?  What made you start riding bikes? I never, in all my life, expected to see you on a motorcycle. You look—” you paused, then smiled at him, “you look cool.”

Yuuta smiled back, a little sheepish. “I work as a physical therapist. I help people with rehabilitation after injuries, surgeries… that sort of thing.” 

You considered this for a moment — and yes, it made sense. A vocation rooted in gentleness, in patience, in touch. If anyone was suited to gently coaxing people back to their bodies, it was Yuuta.

He went on, “I still like vanilla, I guess. I haven’t thought of it much, but I like butterscotch lately. I ride motorcycles because they’re cool, like you said. And because my father used to.” 

A small, boyish tug crossed his mouth at the thought.

“And I don’t have a wife… not yet, at least. ”

You laughed softly at that, not unkindly, but with something between amusement and disbelief over his sheer sincerity. A lesser person, you thought, would have parried, would have given you one answer, or would have given you none at all. Yuuta, in his way, had offered you everything you asked. It was just his nature to do so. 

“Well, butterscotch makes sense. They’re practically the same,” you mused, leaning back in your chair now. Your back feels relaxed against the slope of the chair. 

“They’re not,” he said quickly, not defensive so much as insistent.

“They’re the same,” you grin. 

Then there was a beat. It was not awkward, but suspended rather. 

“And you know,” you added lightly, “the rest… It’s good to know.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Just sort of acknowledges it the way one lets the silence do. 

And so, the food arrived. 

You squawked it down elegantly as you could. And Yuuta, for his part, managed to manipulate the utensils and plates on the table, quietly, to push more food toward you. Sliding dishes closer to you, turning bowls so they faced your side instead. 

You must have eaten ten times more than he had. And you didn’t complain either, not as the lightheadedness that had strained you all evening began to disappear out, leaving with each full bite.

Eventually, the plates emptied out, leaving the table looking strangely naked. And though you were full, you felt a strange emptiness in realising that the night had come to its natural end as you both made your way outside. 

“So,” Yuuta said, after a moment.“I can call Maki. You could stay with her tonight, if you need someplace to stay. Or… if you have a place, I can take you there.”

“I don’t—” You stopped yourself, almost like you were recalibrating.  “I don’t have a place, and I really do appreciate Maki’s offer. I probably will take it. But…” 

Then, suddenly, you drew inward into yourself and grew shy, in a way he had never quite seen you before. 

“I just… I don’t know her. I’m sure she’s nice, but could I stay with you instead?”

His eyes grew in size over that. His apartment was small. His place is really only meant for one. But he could move, he thought. He could make space somehow.

You hurried to correct yourself. “J—just for tonight, I mean. I feel like I’m all over the place today.”

“O–of course,” he said, almost meekly. “I can take you to my house. For tonight.”

And so you hopped onto his bike again. The ride back became a scrunched rush of sensations — the street signs slid past you in a haze of bright flashes, the wind was needling through your clothes, the soaked weight of your wedding dress billowing against the wind. And without notice, you had managed to nuzzle further and further into Yuuta’s back, drawn by the heat. Something he didn’t miss, not when the contact stopped his breath in small.

— 

By the time you two reached his apartment, the rain had dimmed in its volume, mere dust specks falling at an asynchronous pace. 

Yuuta parked beneath the narrow space for parking outside his building. The engine died, and the sudden quietness settled.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your arms were still around him.

“We’re here,” he said softly, not daring to be the first to move. 

You blinked, as if coming alive from a dream now, and slowly unwound yourself from him. The absence of your touch left a phantom warmth in its place. Yuuta swallowed against it and swung his leg off the bike, steadying it before offering you his hand.

You took it without hesitation, as you followed him upstairs. 

You climbed the stairs together, your dress grabbed carelessly in one hand. It left faint damp prints all over the cemented steps. He lived on the first floor, so it wasn’t much of a trek, but after the day you’ve had every movement had slowly started to feel like a chore. 

He fumbled slightly with his keys at the door and turned before opening it. “I didn’t know I’d be hosting,” he muttered, embarrassed.

You smiled as you looked down at the state of you. The brown ends of your garb, the wet hair — “I think I’d be the last person to care about that right now, Yuuta.”

The apartment was tiny, as he’d warned you on the ride back home. A neat entryway. A quaint little kitchen to the left. A drab green sofa facing a television. A bookshelf that was, surprisingly, full —  of manuals, novels, rehabilitation texts stacked in a certain order you couldn’t make sense of. 

But it was clean.

And it was warm inside. 

“I’ll uh… make tea. You can take a shower.”

And so, you did. 

The bathroom was filled with steam that cleansed you whole, almost a baptism. Water ran over your scalp and down your spine, rinsing away the day’s dirt and the rain.

When you got out of the shower, wrapped in a dim blue towel, you walked out to the sight of clothes neatly arranged on his bed. 

You dressed slowly — donning pants that fit you just about, and a large hoodie that swallowed you whole. The fabric sat heavy and warm against your skin. It smelled faintly of detergent and something sweet that brought you comfort.

When you stepped back into the living room, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, with two mugs in his hands.

He looked up.

And then his gaze stopped. The hoodie hanging loose at your thighs. The bare legs, and then his eyes shifted away. 

You shifted your feet to cross the room slowly. 

“Thank you,” you said, taking the mug from his hand, your fingers brushing his.

“Careful,” he murmured, watching as you brought the mug to your lips. “...It’s hot.”

You settled onto the green sofa, tucking one leg beneath you, blowing softly over the surface of the tea. He remained where he was, leaning against the counter.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” you asked, one eyebrow arched. 

He felt his throat tighten as he walked up to place himself beside you on the sofa, leaving a careful inch of space between the two of you — a morally measured inch.

He puts the television on, his only saviour against the awkwardness of the silence befalling. There is a channel that’s playing a reality show of some sort — the ones that have giant balls of cushions that contestants seem to be bouncing off of. It’s strange, but it’ll do, he thinks, turning to look at you, to find you oddly invested. 

He smiles. 

You finish your cup eventually, placing it down on the table with a clink as you no longer seem invested in the TV but more so, his face. 

You keep turning to stare at him, and he notices this in his periphery but can’t bring himself to meet your gaze. 

And when he finally does, moments later. “I should get the bed ready for you,” he said, already half-rising.

“Don’t go,” you said, immediately as your hand closed around his.

He stops. 

“What?” he had managed to breathe out. 

Your thumb rubbed against the top of his hand. “Just stay for a bit.”

He sits, noticing how you don’t let go of his hand. You seem enamoured by his hand and its anatomy, running your hands across and over it as though you were a sculptor trying to understand the shape of him. 

He doesn’t say anything, as he sits there feeling every touch of yours — it scorches against his own skin. Marking him whole. 

“We need to sleep,” he said as he felt your movements slowing, though his voice lacked conviction. “Eventually.”

“Must we?” You tilted your head, mischief skimming over your features. “Can we not stay up all night like we used to?”

“I have work,” he says. But what he really wanted to say was he’d stay up all week for you if you had simply asked. 

“Right,” you said, dejected if only for a moment. “I’ll let you go then.”

But neither of you moved.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a thought, one that’s been brimming to the surface ever since you walked into the cafe to find him. 

“You left your wedding,” he said, plainly. 

“Yes.” You met his eyes without flinching.

“And you came to me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

And then the room seems to contract around him.

“Yuuta,” you say. His name is careful in your mouth. Delicate. 

He waits. His pulse is unpleasantly loud in his ears.

“Don’t you know why?” you said, your eyes low now. 

Something in him breaks just then.

He breathed in before he leaned toward you. It wasn’t sudden, not when he had imagined this for years despite his wits asking him not to. He stopped mere inches from you, as he waited. For you to initiate this, for you to come to him. 

And you did — meeting his lips halfway, pulling him into a kiss. The contact was warm, your lips moved against him languidly, like you both had all the time in the world.

His hand rose at last, tentatively finding its way to what he could grab first — your waist. You drew him closer in reply, your fingers sliding upward, curling up the fabric of his t-shirt sitting on his shoulder. 

The absurd laughter from the television carried on as you continued to kiss, tongues lapping against one another for the very first time. 

He’s sure this is a memory that will etch itself in his brain for eternity to come. 

Yuuta pulled away after a moment, his lips still close enough to brush yours. 

“Are you su—” 

You kiss him again, firmer this time, though still tender. It is an answer, or perhaps a refusal of the question.

“S’okay,” you murmur when you part. Your forehead rests against his.

“You left me,” he says. 

“I did.”

“For years.”

“I did.”

“Don’t ever—” He stops. His heart aches just then as he tries again. “Again—”

“I won’t,” you say. You don’t hesitate. “I won’t ever leave you again, Yuuta.”

You think, distantly, that this feels more binding than anything you might have said at your wedding today, standing in front of your family, standing in front of that stranger for a fiancé. 

“Don’t just say that,” he warned, though his voice had softened, as though he remembered the hurt all over again. 

“I do not,” you answered. “I missed you too much to leave you again.”

He drew you closer this time, to let your head settle beneath his chin, as his cheek rested against your hair.

“I kept thinking about you,” he says eventually. His voice vibrates faintly against your temple. “Even when I tried not to.”

“Yeah?” You say. Curious, wanting to know the deep imprints you had left on him.

“Yeah,” he said. “All through college.”

“Today,” you say carefully. You hear hum in response. 

“When I was getting ready, I was left alone for a moment. The moment before I’d have to go out and walk to the altar,” you continue. “I thought that the dress I was wearing felt too tight, and I never wanted a veil, but my mother wore one, so I had to as well. And I thought about the last time I felt happy — I mean, truly happy — was when I was a teenager.”

Yuuta doesn’t say anything, but you notice his arm enclosing you further into him. He’s warm against your skin. 

“And now I don’t know what I’m doing. I ran,” you said. “And now I’m here with you.”

He exhales slowly, his hand moving along your arm. “You don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he says. “You don’t have to decide the rest of your life tonight.”

You tilt your head up at him. “But I already did one big thing. Life-changing big thing.”

“You just ran from a wedding,” he says gently. 

A small huff of laughter leaves your mouth. “You always did that.”

“Did what?”

“Make things less catastrophic,” you added. “That’s part of why I ran to you today. Well, that and you know.”

“Yeah,” he says plainly. He knows. 

You shift, drawing your knees up slightly, turning toward him more fully. “Are you sure about this?”

“What about?” He asks, surprised. 

“I’m a burden,” you say. 

“You’re never a burden,” he replies immediately. 

“No,” you say, your finger coming up to hush him. “Listen to me, I have no skills outside of sustaining an audience of wealthy people. I have a degree that I didn’t enjoy. And I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a burden”

“Like I said,” he says then. His hand comes up to brush your hair back. “You don’t have to think about that tonight. And it’s okay, I’ll take care of you until you figure things out.”

“You think I can just… reappear and take up space in your life again?” You ask.

His jaw flexes. “You already have.”

You reach up, smoothing a wrinkle near his collarbone — a meaningless gesture, an excuse to touch him again. “You’re not angry?”

“I’m just happy you’re here with me,” he admits. He thought it was only ever possible in his dreams. Now that you’re here, it was hard to hold any resentment he had built up. 

And you then at some point you’re helping him place the cups back as you sit and watch him make up his bed for you.

You walked up to him now. 

“Thank you,” you say, though you knew the words feel insufficient.

“Of course,” he replies quickly. “Do you need extra pillo—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as you suddenly inched forward to kiss him. Your hand loops around his neck as his hands find your waist. And he keeps kissing you fervently and your mind wanders, onto images of him in college kissing other girls. It’s a silly thing — to be bothered by a version of him that you left and hurt, finding solace in other women. 

You fall onto the bed at some point with him over you, he pulls back. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, smiling up at him. “You were asking me something?”

He laughs, but it catches in his throat. He looks away, as if the ceiling suddenly had a large stain.

“Yuuta,” you rasped. “Look at me, please.”

You moved his face to make him meet your imploring gaze. You found his expression to be open, almost boyish in its vulnerability.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits, ducking his head into your neck, away from your eye contact again, “You make me nervous…”

You run your hand through his hair, grazing up and down his nape. He likes the sensation. He thinks he could rest here forever. 

It was safe to say that you were aware of your effect on him, whether it was physical, as you feel him against you now, or mental, but hearing it out loud is different. 

“I make you nervous?” You ask, trying to maintain a sense of mischief in your tone, but it simmers down and is overpowered by a genuine curiosity and amazement.

“Yeah,” he says, looking up at you now. “You always have.”

At that, you scrunch your brows. It’s a brief reflex of disbelief. “Not always. We were friends, weren’t we?”

“We were,” he says. We are. “But you made me nervous. You just didn’t see it back then. You always made me nervous.”

“Why?”

“You were so pretty,” he says, strangely unabashed.

“You are,” he says, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face. His fingers linger there, grazing your temple, your cheek. “You are pretty.”

“So pretty,” he murmured, bending down to kiss your neck now, no doubt tomorrow you’d be blessed with flurries of red kisses all over your neck. 

You clothes didn’t last long on you after that and you soon found yourself bare atop his bedsheets as he licked and sucked his way along the vast skin he had since left exposed. 

He was moving so languidly, but you were wound tight like the string of a bow. 

“Yuuta,” you said then, as you was leaving kissing your stomach. “You’re good at this.”

“Thanks,” he says briefly, too invested in kissing down your abdomen. 

“No,” you say, pulling his head up forcefully now. “You’re really good at this. Had a lot of experience in college, did you?”

He looked up then, just with his eyes to gauge if this was a real concern or if this was you being you. Teasing. 

“Always knew you’d be a possessive one,” he said plainly. 

“The most,” you said with a pout. 

He came back up then, kissing your cheek.

“Good,” he replied softly. “Means you plan on keeping me this time.”

“Hey,” he said again, more softly. “Was that a real question?”

You hesitated. That was answer enough.

“I dated,” he confessed simply, his arm moving to hold your hip. “A little.” Honest as always. 

Your stomach dips.

“But it was never…” He pauses. “It was never you.” Honest as always, you think again.

You frown faintly. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not just saying this.” His thumb moves absently against your side. “I liked some of them. They were kind. But I always knew it was you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed plainly. 

“And you?” he says then, coming back down to kiss your stomach. “You were about to marry someone.”

That one lands, as you find him inches away from your clit. 

You swallow.

“He was,” you admit as he was about to press a kiss against your trembling thigh, “Boring.”

And then your knees part, your cunt is fully on display. And you don’t think you’ve ever felt this bare before. You watch in your own awe as Yuuta licks his lips and finally presses his mouth to your clit.

You have an instant reaction, what with the way you buck into his mouth and release a struggling moan. His thumb seems to massage your outer lips, with his tongue trailing up and down your folds. 

His lips suction against the bundle of nerves, with his tongue caressing the nub right after. Rolling up and down as he groans into you.

You can’t hold back the string of moans and whimpers that emerge from your throat, your eyes roll back into your skull, as your legs vibrate, your hands yank on Yuuta's hair, before you find your brain turn to mush. 

He comes back up, his mouth slick as he says, “Think he could do that?” with a smirk. 

Your hand comes up to brush your thumb along his jaw. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“You were gone for years,” he says. “Think this is the least I’m allowed.”

“Oh, is this payback then?” you ask.

“Not payback,” he says, his hand coming down to finger your slick pussy. “If you’re enjoying this, can it be considered payback?”

“Yuuta, please,” you whimpered, your hand reaching out for whatever skin of his they could find purchase in.

“Please what?” he asked gently, kissing the corner of your mouth as your hand moved to feel his shoulder blades.

“Need you,” you whined, turning to kiss him. You pulled back, “Now.”

“Need me?” he repeated your words against your mouth.

You nodded.

Yuuta reached down to guide one of your legs up and bent back towards your hip, looping it to rest in the slope around his waist.

He took his cock in hand, moving up and down against your clit a couple of times before he pushed in. 

It was a welcoming burn as he moved a couple of times before you adjusted to the sensation of him inside you.

Your hands slid up to brush against the short strands of Yuuta’s undercut. 

“Is this okay?” He asked, then placed a soft kiss against the corner of your lips, as though soothing you through the stretch.

“More,” you pleaded, pulling him into the crook of your neck.

Yuuta snapped his hips up hard into you, sheathing himself entirely inside of you. A moan tore out of you again. 

“Shit,” Yuuta breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he kept moving. “You’re so pretty.”

You trembled beneath him, your eyes drawing down to the sight of him pulling in and out, in and out, you were mesmerised at the sight of him, sweat sheening as he looked so vulnerable for you.

He set a rhythmic, steady pace, it was almost languid. His movements weren’t quick, but rather, they were deep, pressing you down into the mattress so hard with every move of his hips.

His thumb came down to brush against your clit, gently at first and then a little firmer when he saw the way it made your expression go glassy and unfocused. 

“I’m gonna come,” you declared. “Kiss me.”

And so he did, bending down as he kept his movements steady, kissing you deeply. 

“‘m close too,” he groaned against your lips now, coming up to brush another unfocused kiss against your forehead, as his panting breaths caught on. 

And then you came, your legs trembling as he kept moving. Soon after, he did too, craning down to crash his mouth to yours, his hips stuttering.

Yuuta collapsed beside you, catching his breath as you moved to fall onto his bare chest. Like clockwork, his arms gathered you against him, slowly then drawing circles against your back.

The adrenaline that carried you through the evening has finally begun to dissipate, leaving only a heavy drowsiness in its wake.

Your head droops heavy against his chest.

“You’re exhausted,” he murmurs.

You shake your head weakly in protest. Your fingers have slowed against him. Your breathing has deepened.

“I don’t want to sleep,” you admit softly. “I want to stay up and talk to you all night.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” he replied, voice mirroring your softness, as the circles on your back never falter.

You swallowed.

“I feel like if I close my eyes, I’ll wake up back there.”

He didn’t hesitate. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His hand flattened briefly against your spine, firm. Present. “You’ll wake up tomorrow to a tray full of breakfast and some flowers.”

That made you lift your head. Just enough to look at him.

“You’re getting me flowers?” You smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “Now that we’re…” he trailed off, still too timid to admit it.

You tilted your head. “Dating?”

“…Yeah.” The word came out softer than before. “I’ll buy you flowers every day.”

A tired laugh slipped out of you, warm against his skin.

“That’s a bit much,” you murmured, shifting so you could see the small, earnest curve of his mouth.

“Oh?” he said, one brow lifting. “Thought that was the kind of treatment princess was used to.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a slow kiss to his lips.

“Princess will settle for kisses every day for now,” you said against him. “If that’s okay.”

He hummed softly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek as you settled back down. His arms tightened, just slightly, as you listened to his heartbeat.

chuuya

helping chuuya relax after he's had a long day

riding him while he praises you

fingering him :P

he caught you touching yourself and decided to help

his favorite view

he know how to use his fingers

dazai

i just know its long

he lovesss when you tease but eventually becomes impatient

69

how fwb would be with him

i just know he's grinning like a FREAK watching your tits bounce

akutagawa

gets off sooo much from you dressed up all pretty for him

you know exactly how to calm him down

riding his face

bonus: fukuzawa

he's so gentle :(

Mirren loved the way the two of you looked together. He always had. Whenever you checked yourself out in the mirror, Mirren was quick to find his place behind you. Innocent at first, just resting his head on your shoulder, his eyes scanning over you both in the reflection. Then it had started getting a little more… naughty. Not all at once, but little by little he wordlessly moved his hands. Up under your shirt, raising it enough to see your belly, his hand warm and wandering as he felt your skin. Then a little more, up over your chest while he flashed you a cheeky smile in the mirror. At that point you usually flushed and playfully wrangled your way out of his grip, both of you laughing.

Once, with a little bit of wine if your systems, he had pulled you up in front of the mirror intentionally. His cheeks flushed and a certain goal gleaming in his dark eyes. His hands guided your hips, firmly keeping you against him. One hand snaking its way underneath your shirt once more, predicably pushing it up over your chest and leaving it splayed right below your collarbone. The cold air of the farmhouse was neglible compared to the warmth of the wine coursing through your body and Mirrens own figure behind you. Your eyes take an embarrassed moment just to take it all in, for once not letting the impulse to pull away move your body. His other hand carefully, tentatively moves over your stomach on its way down to your groin. His eyes watches your own through the reflection, observing you. His hair was already messy but still tied back, his glasses fogged slightly from the heat he radiated. His hand continues, long fingers skillfully undoing the button of your pants before pulling down the zipper. Your heart beating loud enough to drown out the usual doubts you have to watching yourself like this. As he slips the tips of his fingers under the edge of your underwear, you also feel his lips connecting with the side of your neck. Soft kisses peppered along your skin, his head buried in. Yet you can see the gleam of his eyes, still watching you half lidded. Instincually, your hands softly touch his wrists, not asking him to stop but simply to touch him back. His fingers finally run over your slit, firm enough to part them and feel the wetness. You can feel him smile against you neck when he hears the soft sound you make in reaction. He continues rubbing your pussy, slowly and intentionally playing you. Observing your every facial expression and twitch. When you cant take the look anymore you finally turn your face away and close your eyes, just focusing on the pleasure as his fingers slide into you and his hand palms your chest. You hear him huff slightly, not enough to break you away from the trance he's put you under but notable when you think back to it. He doesnt let his mild disappointment stop him though, he kept working you to the edge before he pulled away and pulled you to bed with him.

This time though, after he had convinced you (quite easily) to let him take you in front of it properly he wouldnt let you look away. His hand was firmly tilting your head towards the mirror as you watch him fuck you. The other hand kept the pace, pulling you back into him over and over again. His glasses and hairtie had been messily left behind on the bed, together with the rest of your clothes. You could barely stand the feeling of baring yourself so clearly to him yet he couldnt seem to get enough. You had tried to close your eyes but he'd made it clear that wasnt an option if you wanted to finish, completely halting his pounding whenever you did. Simply leaving you pressed against him and breathing ragged in your ear, gently coaxing you to open your eyes.

"Come on… open your eyes, darling, I want you to see this…" he muttered, lovingly pressing kisses to the shell of your ear. "You look so pretty… I'll happily keep you like this all night if you're going to be stubborn, you know? But" – he pulls back slightly just to slide back in and grind you against him – "I doubt thats actually what you want…"

With only another moment to gather yourself, you open your eyes again. You watch as his own eyes widen ever so slightly with that look of delight and crazy youve seen him wear so many times before. But you only get a moment to properly observe the way he looks behind you – eyes gleaming, hair messy and falling over his shoulders and strands in his face, that dangerous smile – before he starts his pace back up. The rythmic sound of skin against skin overwhelms you and you fight the instinct to close your eyes again just to get some relief from the situation. But then you feel Mirrens hot breath against the side of your face as he pressed your upperbodies against each other in a claustrophobic grip.

"Don't close them again, please -hah- watch. I want this image burned into me, I want to imagine this over.. and over -ah- and over again… I want you to do the same. Whenever you see yourself in the mirror, -hah- I want you to think of this moment. The way my cock slips in and out of you, the way youre panting, the ways ive marked you… All of it, I need you to remember it."

He drags his hand down over your chest, catching a nipple between two fingers and playing with it, the other finding its place between your legs. His eyes catch yours, delerious and predatory.