✨BlackHarryPotter✨

“Fuck you,” the man points a finger angrily at Sanji, and then, to your surprise, it gets turned your way, “and fuck you.” He ends before storming out of the kitchen. 

For a second, it’s quiet. Everyone looks around the room before things go back to normal, and they get back to their duties. Even you quickly got back to work, not wanting to get yelled at again. For whatever reason. 

“What did I do?” You ask one of the servers near the table where you place the serving platter. One of them offers a shrug, which does nothing to answer your question. 

Sanji is laughing when you walk up to him. There’s something kind of scary about the control he holds over the knife in his hand while he’s laughing. It’s also kind of hot– like almost everything you saw Sanji do.

“What’d you do to that poor man?” Sanji asks around a laugh. 

“I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even know his name!” You say in frustration, also quite loudly, with the way multiple people turn and look your way. Your face goes hot with embarrassment after looking around the room. “I didn’t do anything,” you repeat, this time much quieter. 

“Before you came in he was saying something about how he came here to cook but-”

“I thought you were teaching him?”

“I was. Now, as I was saying,” he looks up and sends you a smirk. He continues after you light out a sheepish sorry. “But he said I was too busy with you.”

“That’s not your fault,” you pause when the rest of his words catch up with you, “wait, what do you mean you're too busy with me?”

“I don’t know,” Sanji responds quietly, a light blush lighting up his face. He walks away after sending you a small smile, not even noticing how quickly he finished up plating the meal he was putting onto one of the serving trays. 

Cooking is another thing Sanji was good at. He was good, but he was also fast. Much faster than you were, even after Sanji had started spending moments of downtime training you. 

“He was angry that you were spending too much time with me instead of teaching him,” you say in realization after Sanji comes back. Your eyes fall downcast onto the table.

“Hey,” Sanji says, coming in close when he notices the sad look on your face, “you just need a little extra care, that’s all.”

You let out a soft laugh, “that’s one way to put it. He could have been a really good cook, and I just kind of ruined it.”

Sanji shakes his head, his brows furrowed, “you’re one of the best servers here, and when you finish your training,” Sanji hands you his knife, “you’ll be double the trouble.”

“And making even more new-hires quit,” you respond, looking down at the knife. 

“No,” Sanji says with a laugh, "Let's practice your chopping skills,” he says after grabbing another knife. 

It was just a few vegetables, ones that you chop yourself, but Sanji could do it much faster by himself. He steps up to your side after grabbing another knife for himself. You chop what is there silently, noting to give yourself a pat on the back later for not letting yourself get distracted when Sanji’s shoulder would brush against yours. 

-

“What is it, lad?” Zeff asks when you knock on the already open door to his office.

“Hey, I’m just uh,” you pause, trying to find the right words, “apologize for getting that guy fired.”

“Apologize? You did me a favor!”

“How?” You ask in confusion and sit yourself down in front of the wooden chair in front of his desk. 

“If he’s going to get frustrated that easily, he shouldn’t be working here,” he picks up the money he was counting and continues on, “you can Sanji.”

You want to question him more, but with the way he quickly focused on the money in his hands, you decided to just leave it. Besides, the yell from the kitchen coming through the doorway sounds a lot like your name. 

“Order up,” Sanji says, ducking in close to whisper the words when you’re close enough to the platter. It’s almost a shame, you think, you have to leave the kitchen with such amazing looking meals that Sanji makes, only to return later with an empty plate, just to do it all over again. 

The rest of the night runs much more smoothly compared to what happened earlier. It’ll probably become another horror story that you can tell the new hires. Since it’s one of your new skills, you should just give in now and play the role.

“All done?” Sanji asks after you come back into the kitchen empty handed. 

“Yeah. It’s just two tables that I’m waiting on to leave,” you step up to Sanji and look over his shoulder, “what about you?”

“Just a little bit of prep work,” he responds, sending you a smile. “You wanna help?”

You glance around the kitchen, noticing that you two are the only ones left for the night. This also means you’re left with the small pile of dishes you see soaking in the water. Great. 

“If you help me with the dishes in there,” you point a finger towards the door to the dining room, “and the rest are still at the tables.”

Sanji lets out a laugh, “if you give me a portion of the tips you’ve made tonight,” he says sneakily. 

You let out a light laugh of your own, “a portion?” You go and grab a knife (another thing you’ll have to clean) and join him. 

“Yeah,” Sanji says, drawing out the word, “I think 30/70 should work.”

“70?” You ask in astonishment. He’s chopping something you’ve never seen before. Your lack of understanding gives you the perfect opportunity to watch his skilled hands work. If you end up spending a second longer than needed watching him work, it’s because you’re trying to make sure you fully understand, and definitely not for another reason. 

“I’m kidding. You don’t owe me any of your tips,” Sanji says, knocking his shoulder into yours and sending you another smile. 

“That’s too bad, you probably could’ve convinced me,” you respond and go to grab one of the vegetables from the small pile he has. 

“Oh yeah? You’re that easily persuaded?” Sanji asks, his brows raised. 

“Really, it just depends on who it is,” you say, trying your best to copy the movements of his hands. 

Sanji chuckles, “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says softly. 

It goes quiet after that. You can hear light noises from the dining room, but what you mainly hear is the noise of the knives against the cutting board. That is, until you start to only hear your own. Too lost in the repeated motion, you fail to notice Sanji watching you. 

“Almost,” he says into your ear before the heat of his body is at your back, “your slices should be thinner,” he places his head onto your shoulder before his hands are on top of yours, “use your knuckles to guide the knife.”

His body is warm right on top of yours, and you have trouble holding yourself back from leaning back into the warmth. His hands guide yours, easily correcting your mistake, “sorry,” you murmur. 

“It’s okay,” Sanji responds softly, his breath puffing on your neck. He pats a hand on your side when he pulls away.

You miss the heat of his body, but he soon returns next to you to put all of the pieces into a container. As much as you hate to watch him go again to put it into the fridge, it gives you ample opportunity to watch his ass as he walks away. 

You look away when Sanji comes back and wipes an imaginary piece of dust away on the table, “gotta go!” Sanji gives you a look of confusion, and you quickly clarify, “go check the tables, I mean.”

You let out a breath once you’re out of the kitchen. The two tables that were still in the dining room are gone when you look around the area. It makes you happy to see that both tables have left you tips, but that also means you’ll have to return to the kitchen and pretend like you weren’t just staring at Sanji’s ass. 

You pocket the tips and head back to the kitchen with what you need to clean. Sanji cranes his neck to send you a smile when you’re back, one that you easily return. 

“I see you brought me a present,” Sanji says with fake excitement. He grabs the dishes and puts them into the soapy, warm water with the others, “dry those for me?” He nods in the direction of the clean, but wet dishes beside the sink. 

Grabbing a cloth and drying means you get to be beside Sanji again. It doesn’t allow you to stare at his ass, but you do get the occasional touch of his arm brushing yours. Once you’re caught up with what had already been out, you get to grab the ones directly from Sanji’s fingers. 

“Sorry,” Sanji murmurs after his wet fingers brush yours. 

“No worries,” you respond, sending him a smile. When his fingers brush yours again, Sanji doesn’t apologize, and you smile softly to yourself as you dry the plate in your hand. 

“Almost done,” Sanji says down into the water, a sad edge to his voice. 

The tone of his voice lights a fire underneath your feet to spur you closer, you just hope you aren’t reading it wrong. “Sanji,” you say softly and lean forward when the man turns his head. You almost want to pull away when his lips don’t respond to yours, but when one of his wet hands makes its way to the back of your neck, you let out a soft noise as your lips continue moving against his. 

You pull back slowly from the kiss, smiling against each other’s mouth, “let’s finish these dishes,” Sanji whispers, his thumb moving in a slow circle against the back of your neck.

You press a soft kiss to his lips before pulling away, “are you going to hand me more to dry?” You ask with a smirk when Sanji just stands there. 

“Sorry,” Sanji responds quickly, a faint blush lighting up his cheeks, “I got a little distracted.”

You eagerly finish up the rest of the dishes and quickly put them in their proper places. You return to Sanji as he drains the water and wipes down the counter before drying his hands. A second after he’s thrown the cloth onto the counter, your arms are wrapped around his neck to pull him into another kiss. 

Sanji laughs softly into the kiss, his now dry hands going to your waist to get you even closer. Too wrapped up in one another, you both fail to hear the footsteps of another person entering the room. 

“That’s why he quit,” Zeff says. 

You jump away from each other, trying your best to act like Sanji’s tongue wasn’t just about to be in your mouth. 

Sanji clears his throat before responding, “what?”

“You’re all over each other,” Zeff responds with a smirk. “Surely, he didn’t need help cutting that pepper, but there you were,” he waves an arm in Sanji’s direction, “practically on top of him.”

“I’m still learning,” you say defensively. 

Zeff chuckles and holds his hands up in surrender, “I taught him too, but it wasn’t like that.” The man laughs again, this time much louder at the face you both make.

“Zeff! Gross!” Sanji yells. 

Zeff laughs with a hand on his belly, “get out of here you two, and no fucking in my kitchen!” He yells as you both practically sprint from the kitchen in your haste to run from his words. 

“Wait! Where are we going to go?” You asked Sanji. 

He let out a laugh and continued walking until he reached the doors that led to the outdoor tables and bar. “Coming?” He asks after turning to look your way. 

Once through the door, you sat on one of the leather couches and watched as Sanji placed a chair under each of the doorknobs. “Scared we’ll get caught?” You asked with a smirk.

“I’d rather not have an audience,” he stepped up to you on his long legs, “after all,” he pressed a quick kiss to your lips, “I want you all to myself,” he whispered into your ear. 

His words make you shiver, or really, maybe it’s due to the cool night air. Though as you watch Sanji undress, you doubt the temperature will be a problem after all. 

“I do plan on fucking you in the kitchen, you know that, right?” Sanji says as he gets his pants down. 

“Can you fuck me out here first?” You ask impatiently. 

“Almost,” he chides, “but there are too many clothes in the way,” he observes, looking you over with heated eyes as he fondles his cock through his underwear. 

You push yourself off the couch, right into Sanji’s space as you start taking your clothes off. Thinking he was going to kiss you as you stripped down, you’re left confused when Sanji pulls his button-down back on. 

“Be right back,” he says, pressing a swift kiss to your lips before he’s jogging through the balcony doorway. 

Minutes after you’re fully naked, Sanji’s back through the door with a huff, “I almost started getting mad at you,” you said. 

“Will you ever forgive me?” Sanji asks with a pout. He presses what he brought to your chest, your eyes flicking down. 

“I think I can,” you whisper as you read the label on the bottle. You press a soft kiss to Sanji’s lips, the swoosh of fabric hitting your ears as he pulls his shirt back off. 

You’re quick to open the bottle of lube to slick your fingers up. Your back meets leather, as does the bottom of your left foot, and seconds later, you’re pressing a wet digit into your hole. 

All of your focus was on finding your prostate, even if one of the hottest men you’ve seen in your life was standing in front of you. Said man you could hear moan softly in front of you, the sound going straight to your cock. 

As much as you wanted to put on a show for Sanji, you had trouble with the angle reaching your prostate. Evidently, the look of frustration must have shown on your face when Sanji opened his mouth to ask: “need some help?”

Your eyes opened to his tender gaze, a blush dusting his cheeks as a soft smile lay on his lips. He was still clothed in his underwear, seemingly set on teasing himself. 

“A little,” you groaned, trying again to find your prostate. Your fingers were in deep, but still weren’t enough. 

Sanji kneeled down in the space your lifted leg left for him, one of his hands trailing up and down the skin soothingly. He used what was left from your fingers when you pulled them free to make his way inside. 

Two out, two in Sanji goes, his fingers going deeper than yours could. Your head falls back onto leather as Sanji’s fingers go to the hilt, your hole clenching down on the intrusion. With such skilled hands and fingers, it’s no surprise to you when he’s able to find your prostate easily, even as you clench down. 

“There we are,” Sanji murmurs, his fingers rubbing against it. 

The sensation sends shockwaves through your body, before ending in your cock. You look down to watch where Sanji’s fingers disappear inside your body before flicking up to watch Sanji. Your eyes see Sanji’s watch a bead of precum dribble down the head of your cock, warmth washing over you. 

You whimper in protest when Sanji pulls his fingers free, but he makes up for it by leaning down to lick up the precum as it dribbles down your cock. “Wait,” you gasp when Sanji’s fingers make their way back inside, his tongue still on you. 

Sanji’s eyes move to your face, the movement of his fingers coming to a halt. But it’s like he’s unable to help himself as he drags his tongue up your cock before stopping at the head to press the tip inside. 

“Sanji!” You moan, your hips jerking up, “I don’t want-”

“Don’t think I can get another one out of you?” He challenges. 

“I didn’t-” your words end in a moan when Sanji fucks his fingers back inside, “say that,” you grit out, trying your hardest not to come when he takes the head of your cock into his mouth. 

Quicker than you hoped, you’re coming onto Sanji’s tongue as a third finger joins the other two to rub against your prostate. Sanji swallows it down until you're growing soft against his tongue, and even then, he keeps going. 

The overstimulation has you whining, one of your hands in Sanji’s blond hair to pull him away. Sanji groans as you tug the strands between your fingers, the vibrations going straight through your cock. 

“Sorry,” you say when Sanji finally pulls free. You knew how much Sanji cared about his hair, but perhaps you could convince him otherwise later. The sex-mussed style he currently had was really doing something for you. 

Sanji swallows the gasp his fingers pull from you when he takes them out, his tongue making its way past your lips. He pulls away momentarily to focus on getting his underwear down, and you can’t help but lean up to kiss the pout of concentration from his mouth. 

Sanji smiles against your lips as he gets them out of the way, tossing them behind him. You just hoped they didn’t fly off the edge of the ship to potentially land on someone underneath. 

The first press of Sanji’s cock on your hole comes after he pulls your legs towards his waist, your ankles hooking around his hips. It barely leaves any room for Sanji to move back, the only way he can go is forward, but luckily, he’s quick to add lube to his cock before he can get too far. 

You both gasp when the wet head of his cock makes its way inside. It goes easier than you expected as Sanji sinks to the hilt, probably due to your orgasm earlier. 

Stretched open and full, you feel your cock starting to thicken once more. It glides against the plane of Sanji’s abs when he begins to move. 

What started as a roll of his hips, soon turns quick and frantic. If the same person in that hypothetical you thought of earlier, getting hit with Sanji’s underwear when he tossed them wasn’t able to tell what he was getting up to, the sound of it sure made it known. 

Sanji’s skin slapped against yours as your sweaty bodies came together over and over again as you chased orgasm. It nearly made you feel selfish, knowing that for you, it’d be your second. But Sanji didn’t seem to mind, quite the opposite, in fact. 

He even aided you with a hand around your cock. His hand moved at the same pace as his hips, his fingers slick from a combination of sweat and lube. 

You barely had time to warn him before your second orgasm was coursing through you, your back arching off the leather under your body. You pushed closer to Sanji, making it easier for his hands to move from your cock to your hips, moving your body like a ragdoll as he fucked you through your high. 

With his hands tightening nearly to the point of pain, Sanji came with a loud moan, his hips coming to a rest. 

You felt your cock get a valiant twitch as you felt Sanji’s throb inside you, his cock buried to the hilt as he came deep inside you. You clenched down on his cock, milking it dry for all Sanji was worth. 

Sanji’s moans turned higher in pitch as you felt his cock starting to soften. It nearly felt like payback from earlier, you just weren’t sure if you were going to follow suit and make Sanji have another orgasm like he did with you. 

He collapsed on top of you in a sweaty mess of limbs, your arms moving to wrap around him. He tucked his face into the column of your neck, his warm breath puffing against your skin. 

“Think I can get another one out of you?” You questioned, breaking the silence. You made no effort to change your current position, even as you felt the press of Sanji’s smile into your neck. Instead, you both relaxed into each other, your hands tangled into the hair on the back of Sanji’s head. 

Tonight, the wind feels chillier than usual on your walk back home from the bus stop.

As such, you feel yourself shivering more than you usually do.

Granted, the walk back to your shitty, pathetic excuse of an apartment building in the middle of bumfuck nowhere isn’t ever exactly like those moonlit and effervescently fantastical and beautiful fairytale art pieces you used to see as a little boy dressed in rags in that long-gone antique shop your dad brought you to whenever he had something to sell to make barely enough to fill your stomachs.

Nah, the 10-minute walk from the bus stop that was weathered down by time and with torn-up fast-food bags at its feet instead of flowers, to your trashy and thankfully cheap-to-rent, because God does it look the part, apartment building is always the same.

But the chill in the wind tonight, something about it makes the goosebumps on your skin feel even more present.

Almost every night, when you finish your night shift at your god-awful and life-siphoning minimum wage job at the diner back in the backwater town you’re forced to call home, the dying, flickering streetlights guide you back home, the voices of crickets, stray animals, and local druggies sleeping in the bushes remind you you’re not alone (for better or for worse), and the sight of the shithole you call your home in the distance reminds you just how fucking dead inside and dead tired you are since you just got off work at motherfucking 3 AM.

Shit.

You. Need. To. Fucking. Sleep.

And when you fall asleep tonight, maybe your overworked and exhausted self will rest eternally this time.

…

No.

As pessimistic as you are about your life, that was taking it a bit too far.

You didn’t mean it because…

As much as life, from the day you were born, has been beating you down every goddamn day, month, and year, you will never let down your late father by giving up on your life.

Not when he literally worked himself to death by dumpster diving to keep you barely fed, and in his last days, selling anything he found (or stole) just to be able to afford you your first month of rent in the shitty apartment you live in that you got only because your landlord was tired of him begging on his knees.

Your life is full-on dog shit, no doubt about that.

… But if it wasn’t for your father’s unwavering love for a son that he didn’t even mean to have (He wouldn’t stop telling you that whenever he had too much to drink from the half-finished bottles he found in the alleys), you could’ve still been living in that tent deep in the dark forest that he made out of discarded sleeping bags and ropes that you spent your childhood and adolescence in.

Thank God the officials in your town don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone, and they didn’t order it torn down.

Despite him being anything but the ideal provider, despite him wishing the worst of fates on your mother, who ran away the day you were born, like a morning prayer, and despite him bringing you into this everyday battle called life because he got drunk and didn’t use fucking protection, he somehow loved you more than anything.

Despite your shitty situation, he never yelled at you for eating his share of food for the night, he stole books from the local library to read you bedtime stories when you were little, and hell, he didn’t beat you when you accidentally said you had a crush on the boy in the soccer field at the school you couldn’t go to when you were ten.

His love is the reason you keep on going.

And his final words, which he spoke in that tent, his trembling and weakening hand holding yours, his body falling apart because of the hard life he had lived, are what play in your head like a comforting and warm hug when your head is pounding from a lack of sleep.

“Don’t be a worthless piece of shit like me, you hear me, boy?”

Pfft.

It wasn’t anything graceful, but your dad was anything but a gentleman, so it suited him perfectly.

And frankly, his final words always somehow make you laugh even when your body is sore from standing all day on sticky diner tiles.

…

It’s been a few years since he passed away.

The tent you both lived in is long gone; you found it torn apart when you last checked out the spot where it was, probably rambunctious teens.

But that’s okay, all you need as a reminder of your one and only supporter is what’s hugging you and protecting you from the chilly wind.

Your dad’s signature windbreaker.

His “best steal,” he would call it.

It’s what he wore when he needed to sell something for pennies.

He said it’s all he had if he wanted to look presentable enough not to be kicked out of buildings. 

You wear it everywhere because it makes you feel like he’s still with you and cracking jokes jovially as if your lives weren’t shit.

You did have to wash it somewhat… religiously to get the scent of cigs and beer off of it, but it’s staying with you for life.

…

Life is hard.

But for him, you will be a successful man.

For him, you will live a good life.

And for him, you somehow got a scholarship at the local community college in the hopes of becoming a man that your father can be proud of.

He told you he was already proud of you for surviving the hells of poverty, but now he can be proud of you for being on the journey towards something greater.

And maybe for him, you can find someone to love one day as well.

Heh, if only money wasn’t a goddamn issue every second of your life.

…

You’re not sure why you went down memory lane on your walk home.

Maybe it’s because you just needed something to comfort you while the leaves rustled and the wind whistled a bit louder than usual.

In any case, it worked, and just like that, you find yourself approaching your beaten-up and graffiti-covered apartment door.

God, it’s a hideous sight.

But… It’s nice to have a home to come to, shitty as it is.

Having lived in street alleys and dark forest floors for your childhood and adolescence, it’s still surreal and comforting, even after a few years, to finally have a door to come back to every night.

Well, thank God you have a day off tomorrow. 

At least you’ll be able to, maybe, catch up on 7 days of sleep.

That is, if your only neighbour in this shithole doesn’t…

No, no.

Don’t manifest it.

If you don’t think of your neighbour’s nightly… ahem, noises, perhaps you’ll be lucky and have a rare night of uninterrupted sleep.

With a very long sigh, you pick up your step.

You’re a bit too exhausted to think of showering, or brushing your teeth, or even jerking off, you wanna shut your eyes and worry about the aches in your body later.

You’ll walk in, hang your father’s jacket on the nearby coat hanger, and plop on your bed-

BOOM BOOM BOOM

But unfortunately for you, your tired mind sealed your fate and caused you to make a fatal mistake.

Living in a lawless town such as this, your father gave one piece of advice that you always held close to your heart… but ended up forgetting in your exhausted haze.

Never walk, always run.

It happens instantly.

The reason you felt chills throughout your walk home was that you were being watched.

You were being followed.

…

No, you were being hunted.

The reason why you felt a bit more on edge tonight as you walked back home, stomped up behind you, shoved you against the apartment door right next to yours, and gripped your neck with one of his rough hands to make you look into his eyes.

And unfortunately for you, his face is a familiar one, and his voice-

“Hey, I’ve been wanting to talk to you…”

-is familiar as well.

When you first moved into your apartment, and with your father’s life savings and a shower to use instead of the pond near your raggedy tent, the first thing you ever did was head to the drugstore and buy the cheapest shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and body lotion you could afford, and cleanse yourself of the rough years you lived.

Then, a few weeks later, when you were trying to get your high school credentials as an adult at the local university through their Access Pathways program, that’s where you learned that maybe your dad wasn’t lying when he said that the only good thing he gave you was his handsome looks.

Who knew that having a home and good hygiene does a lot to make a man look good?

At the school and at your job, you’ve had plenty of people look at you appreciatively.

You’ve even had a few boyfriends as well, but… You weren’t at a point yet in your life where you feel like you could be a partner that a boyfriend could introduce to his parents with pride…

All of this is to say, you’ve learned that you’re apparently quite the looker.

And that comes with its… vices.

Case in point, the man pinning you against your neighbour’s door and looking down at you like your body was for him to rip apart and feast on.

“You shouldn’t have fucking ignored me tonight, MC… Especially not when I was trying to be so nice to you…”

He’s a regular at the diner you work at, and he’s a fucking creep.

It’s been a few months since he started showing up, but ever since the very first night you gave him service, he has made it very clear that he wants nothing more than to make you his property.

When you first took his order and turned around to head to the kitchen, you caught him looking at your ass in the reflection of the kitchen door windows.

A few days later, after that first interaction, he asked you if you had a boyfriend, and it showed in his face that he was pissed when you said you did.

Then the next day, he wrapped his smelly arm around your waist while you took his order, smiling like he wasn't doing anything weird.

Then… he began groping you, smacking your ass whenever you turned around, and even rubbing your head whenever he was leaving.

Frankly, he scares you. He terrifies you. But more than anything, he disgusts you.

The way he looks at you is as if you’re a meal.

The way he disrespects you in public and touches you inappropriately just because he wants you.

But you could never defend yourself or cause a scene… because what if you lost your job?

You tried telling your boss what this creep was doing to you, but what did he say?

“So? He pays well, so keep using your good looks, alright? They’re all you have going for you.”

Again, this is a lawless and dark town.

No one cares for anyone.

Humanity is useless.

Only money matters.

If only your father were still here, he would’ve lit that place on fire for what happens to you there every night.

But unfortunately for you, making enough money to pay rent had to be more important than protecting your body and standing up for yourself, so you had to learn to deal with the daily disrespect and inhumane treatment if you didn’t want to end up homeless once more.

If only that diner job wasn’t the most accessible one for you…

You had to learn how to navigate around the man’s inappropriate touches.

You tried talking to him as little as possible, and hell, you even began working in the kitchen just so you didn’t have to see him.

It worked well, and thankfully, you knew how to make good food, so your boss didn’t have a reason to take you out of the kitchen despite the man’s growing complaints about not seeing you on the floor as much anymore.

…

But you should’ve known he’d cross the line one day.

And here he is now… looking at you with this crazed look in his eyes, grinning with his yellow and rotting teeth, and gripping your neck with a bit too much strength.

Though his grip hurts and your voice is a bit tired from talking to customers and shouting orders to the kitchen staff all day, you still have enough fight in your exhausted body to finally speak your mind to this creep, especially now that you’re out of the diner.

“D-don’t- COUGH” Fuck, his grip hurts. “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!!”

You’ve never spoken to him in that manner before, having to hold your tongue at work for fear of losing your only source of income.

It feels good to yell at him.

But, he doesn’t let go; in fact, the glimmer in his crazed eyes makes it look like he liked hearing you fight back for once.

“Oh, that’s no way to talk to me, sweet pea.” He traces his hand that wasn’t gripping your neck on your hipbones under your jacket. “Especially not when I give you all those gracious tips for looking as sexy as you do… I’m just here to claim what’s owed to me because of how well I treat you…”

He never touched you like this before.

The worst he’s done to you before tonight now was touch your bulge under your apron and try to unzip your pants when you were taking his order.

But now, he’s being full-on rough and self-indulgent.

“Fuck off! If you’re gonna follow me to my goddamn home like the disgusting creep you are, I’ll speak to you however I want!!!” You yell, trying to pry his fingers off your neck. “L-let me go! It hurts!! A-AH!” As much as you want to continue yelling at him, his dirty nails digging into your skin pains you greatly.

“Oh, my little prince…” He says in a disgustingly fake and sugary tone. “Hurting you hurts me more than it hurts you, trust me.” Liar, his eyes look terrifyingly jovial and alive. “I don’t want to make you cry, but you need to treat me better. If you just let me into your place and allow you to make right the disrespect you showed me by ignoring me, things won’t have to be like this…”

“I disrespected you?!?!” You scream as loud as you can with a constricted windpipe. “I’ve had to hold my tongue and be nice to you even when you grope my ass like the disgusting and vile pervert you are-

SLAP

AAGH-”

You didn’t even get to finish your words before he slapped the everliving fuck out of you.

The remnant noise of his slap echoes in the dark expanse around you two.

And tears immediately form in your eyes, but you try even harder to pry his fingers from your neck as his grip on your neck tightens, the pain far worse than what you’re feeling on your left cheek.

You can’t even sob; no sound will come through.

Even now, he doesn’t look angry. 

No, he’s grinning like the evil maniac he is.

He likes the fight you’re showing.

It’ll make tearing into you and claiming you as his all the more delicious and worth it.

“I’m so sorry for hitting you like that, my boy…” His breathy and terrifying laughs tell you he’s not sorry at all. In fact, you bet he’d love to hit you even harder. “But you deserved it. How could you talk like that to the man who shows you nothing but love and worship almost every night…”

You can’t even fight back anymore, the lack of oxygen getting rid of what little fight your exhausted body could muster.

…

You didn’t even get to say all that you wanted to him…

“But again, you can make things up to me…” He begins rummaging through your jacket pockets to look for the key to your apartment. “Just let me into your home, let me do what I want… and I’ll treat you how you deserve to be treated.”

What… what’s he going to do to you?

“Actually… I don’t need your permission. Hah! I don’t even need you to be awake!!!”

He manages to find your key and holds it in front of your face, your blurred vision barely able to register the sight.

“You and I are going to have a fun night, MC…” His voice begins to sound like it’s coming from the end of a tunnel. “Tonight is when all my wildest dreams will come true… I can’t promise that you’ll live to see tomorrow, but hey, maybe you should’ve treated me better, handsome~.”

…

Your heart breaks.

It shatters into a million pieces.

But not because of what’s about to happen to you.

You’ve been through hell and back on the streets, and you’re sure you’ve been through worse.

But your heart breaks because this isn’t what your father worked himself to the grave for.

You were supposed to make him proud.

You were supposed to one day rake in millions, live in a penthouse, and make the world a better place, even for just one person, all in his honour.

You were supposed to give him a proper resting spot and not the pond your distraught 18-year-old self left his body in because you had nowhere else to leave him.

…

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

…

If he were here, he would’ve murdered this man.

Your dad was as malnourished and frail as you’d expect any man who barely had enough to eat to look, but he’d fight to the death if it meant keeping you as unharmed as you could be.

As always, in your worst times, the thought of him comforts you even when you feel your consciousness leaving.

He was a disgusting street urchin to others, but to you, he was your hero.

And that’s why in your final moment, you find yourself wanting to be saved.

But life was never kind to you.

No matter how much you fought for better days, maybe this was always how it was going to go.

A tragic start, a tragic end.

But maybe it won’t be too bad if you could see him once more and never have to suffer agai-

SLAM

The door you were pressed up against suddenly opens, and you find your back pressed up against something strong, warm, and firm yet soft.

“The fuck is going on here?”

A deep voice booms.

And you recognize it. He’s the only person other than you who lives in this wretched building.

And you only know his voice because of the groans and dirty talk you hear almost every night as he fucks someone into oblivion.

And you know his name. 

Not because you ever talked to him. Hell, you’ve never even seen the man since he’s most likely never home during the day.

No, you know his name because it’s what every person he fucks screams like a worshipping prayer until the sun comes up as you writhe in bed from the never-ending rumbling and screaming coming from the suite next to you.

Toji.

Your next-door neighbour.

This past week has been shit.

Work has been shit.

Life has been shit.

His bank account looks like shit.

His sleep schedule looks like shit.

And the worst part of it all, it’s been way too goddamn long since he busted a hot, fat nut in some random bitch’s hole.

Toji’s a simple guy living a simple life in bumfuck nowhere.

He works the odd job that needs a guy of his build, makes enough money to buy cheap food and lube, and he spends free time by getting fucked up at the local bar and bringing the most willing whore (Boy, are there plenty) to his place so he can fuck away the built-up tension in his body… and God, isn’t he just full of it always…

His life isn’t anything glamorous.

And honestly, for a man in his late 30s, he’s sure many people think he’s a pathetic excuse who’s wasting himself away.

But eh, he’s fine with where he’s at, he’d say.

Kids? Fuck that shit. Just trying not to get evicted from his place siphons enough out of his soul already.

Marriage? Don’t make him laugh. His bosses nag him enough; he doesn’t need a whore asking him to take her out on dates or whatever the fuck it is that cunts want to do.

He just fucks men because they just wanna get down and dirty without the sappy shit.

It’s gay as all fuck, but eh, nothing beats a hole that he can fuck all he wants and shoot his load into and not worry about a devil spawning out of it.

Fucking hell, pregnancy is disgusting.

But all of this is to say, life ain’t so bad for him.

Sure, he hasn’t fucked a bitch into his mattress in a week, something that barely ever happens.

Sure, he lost one of his jobs because he punched his boss after he got called some racist shit.

And sure! He might’ve blown all his money on online gambling and got nothing in return…

But still, life ain’t so bad…

THUD

That is, that’s how he felt before a few minutes ago, until he was startled awake by something crashing into his goddamn door at fucking three in the morning.

“... the fuck?”

In his half-awake daze, he first thought it might have been a brain-dead deer or something that bumped headfirst into his door.

He tried going back to sleep until he started hearing voices.

Alright, druggies hanging outside of his place isn’t anything new, and he’s willing to let his being startled awake slide since he’s so goddamn fucking tired and beaten down from working construction today.

But when Toji closed his eyes a second time and opened them once more at the sound of yelling, that’s when he threw his blankets off him, put on a discarded pair of loose, old, and low-hanging sweatpants, and began stomping furiously to the entrance of his apartment.

“Holy shit, I’m gonna butcher these worthless idiots.” He mutters under his breath, not sure what to expect, but definitely sure that he’ll be throwing some choice words at the people responsible for waking him up in the dead of night.

His hand reaches his doorknob, and just as he’s about to open the door, he hears a scratchy and gross voice and an afraid yet softer voice going back and forth.

Curious as to what’s exactly happening outside his home, he stands in place trying to gather context clues.

 “Don’t touch me, you fucking creep!!”

“Oh, that’s no way to talk to me, sweet pea.”

“Oh, my little prince…”

“It hurts!!!”

Seriously????

He got woken up by a bunch of sissy ass queers?

He got woken up not just by some relationship drama but by some loudmouth cocksucker drama?

You cannot be fucking for reallllll right now.

Sure, he fucks men because they don’t annoy him and whine as bitches do, but FUCK, he hates how sissy those gay pansies can be.

God, fuck his life. 

He doesn’t need this shit.

And sure, it sounds like someone’s doing some creepy shit, but honestly, he doesn't give a fuck about anyone’s safety in his sleep-deprived state.

He’s gonna open this door, beat the shit out of these fucking fa-

SLAP

Damn, maybe he doesn’t need to beat anyone up; shit’s already hit the fan.

Nah, he’s itching to hurt someone.

If he can’t fuck the night away, he’s sure as hell gonna sleep the remainder of it away, and to do that, he’s gonna open the door, beat these sissies hopefully into real men, and then dream about life on a beach with tight holes to fuck and endless bowls of ramen… hah, maybe he should strive for more in life…

Anyways, he notices that the afraid voice has stopped fighting back, and Toji, not wanting to deal with a dead body in front of his home (a beaten up person is fine, not a dead one though), opens the door, and immediately feels a warm body land on him, the back of a guy’s head landing on top of his chest.

“The fuck is going on here?” He grumbles agitatedly, his voice deep and husky from sleep.

The words leave his mouth before he can think about it.

And immediately, he assesses the situation.

First, and unfortunately for his corneas, he sees probably the ugliest man he’s ever seen in his life, and that’s saying something considering the dumpster bin of a town he lives in.

Yellow teeth, bloodshot eyes, a hideous bald spot, and the most trashy of clothes, this guy offends Toji by just existing.

Sure, Toji isn’t the most luxurious of men either, but at least he can say he’s hot as fuck considering the number of people that wanna have sex with him.

… This was the guy saying shit like “Oh, my little prince”?

…

Disgusted shivers that Toji tries to ignore go through his body.

Not expecting much from the guy that’s straight up resting his head on his fuckin’ tits, he looks down so he can at least not look at Jabba the Hut in human form in front of him.

And damn! Colour him surprised.

He didn’t think guys this pretty lived in this cesspool of a town.

And you know what, he only ever saw other guys as holes to fill, but this guy… Toji might, for once, consider himself attracted.

Though he’s sure this guy, who’s certainly younger than him, would look much better naked on his bed instead of heaving for air with tears gliding down his face.

But wait a minute, he swears that soft hair and worn-out windbreaker look familiar…

…Right… This guy is his next-door neighbour.

Hm.

He’s never seen his face before, since the only time he sees him is when he sees the back of this guy's head every morning by the window as he runs to presumably the bus stop nearby.

Damn, he didn’t know he had a pretty boy living next to him all this time.

Well, he initially didn’t give two shits about beating up some pansies as long as he could sleep, but… things are different now upon visual examination.

…

An idea crosses his mind.

And if he plays his cards right, maybe he can kill multiple birds with one stone tonight…

Maybe it’ll work, but there’s only one way to find out.

With one arm, he protectively wraps it around your chest from behind, and with his other hand, he easily pries the man’s fingers away from your neck.

And with his plan in motion, he looks at the hideous freak of nature with vengeful eyes and darkens his voice.

“What the hell are you doing to my boyfriend?”

…

?

???

For a few seconds, all that can be heard in the dead of the night is the buzz of the old lightbulbs, the rustling of the leaves, and the wind kicking up dust on the gravelly road.

Uh. What?

Despite being exhausted from your definitely illegal 15-hour shift, despite having been almost choked to death, despite you currently heaving for air, and despite you still recovering from the fact that horrible things could’ve been done to your almost dead body, the main thing you’re feeling right now is straight-up confusion.

You’ve never spoken to him, and matter of fact, this is your first time actually interacting with Toji in person, but he’s… hugging you and calling you his boyfriend?

What?!

All you know about this man is that he’s just as much in the shits as you are if he’s living in this dumpster and that he’s goddamn manwhore supreme!

How is a guy supposed to think clearly when he was almost choked to death and is now being hugged by what feels like a behemoth of muscle who’s calling you his boyfriend?

But you don’t get too deep in your thoughts as the creep who followed you home shrieks disgustingly at what he heard.

“WHAT?! What do you mean by ‘boyfriend’?! I’ve been stalking and following MC for months. What do you mean you’re in a relationship with him?! I’ve never seen you in my life!”

…

This isn’t the only time he’s been following you…?

Fuck, you must have been too busy with work, assignments, and finishing your assignments at work to notice him… and you mean BUSY busy, because you should have been able to smell his disgusting scent from miles away…

Feeling the way you shiver uncomfortably in his embrace, Toji pushes the man away from you quite easily, making a disgusted face when he sees spit flying out of his mouth.

“God, you’re fucking disgusting,” Toji says with a grimace. “I should fucking paint this building red with your blood and innards for the shit you’ve been doing to my boy… But stalking and slapping him right in front of our goddamn home!?” 

The way his deep voice booms around the area as he yells makes you flinch.

“Hah! Looking at him was your first mistake, but slapping him? My boyfriend? That will be your last.” He says angrily.

…

After hearing Toji speak and feeling the way his fingers pat you reassuringly, you find yourself connecting the dots and realizing exactly what it is he’s trying to do.

He’s trying to save you and protect you from this lowlife pervert by pretending to be your boyfriend.

…

Once that realization comes to pass, all the built-up tension in your body leaves, and you feel your body finally relaxing in his protective and warm embrace.

You… truly know nothing about Toji other than that he’s a slut, but he doesn’t realize just how much his saving you meant when the world has been nothing but cruel to your life.

“Baby…” Toji says, turning you around in his embrace so you can face him and turning his back to the man so he can act as a wall to keep you safe. “Baby, please be honest. Why didn’t you tell me you were being stalked? You know that getting rid of him wouldn’t be a problem for me…” His calloused hands hold your face gently, something you’ve never felt in your life before, even by your actual past boyfriends.

And it’s in this moment that a barely functioning lightbulb shines down on Toji’s face, letting you finally see the face not just of your next-door neighbour, but also your hero.

You don’t know where to start or where to focus, but your eyes naturally gravitate to his showstoppingly handsome face.

Your only reference for what a handsome man should look like is the magazines you see in the gas station when all you can afford to eat is a shitty hot dog, but Toji is in a league of his own.

Straight mid-length black hair, a handsome face with Japanese features and a jawline carved by the gods, green eyes that remind you of the forest you once called your home, and a charming scar on his lip that indicates he’s no man to mess with, Toji is a man in a league of his own and you can’t help but wonder why he’s in this shitstain town on Earth when he could on the big screen or on magazines…

And why stop at his face when his body is just as much a marvel in its own right?

Wearing nothing but low-hanging sweats that leave nothing to the imagination, you can see that Toji is a very active and hard-working man, considering the muscular and statuesque form he wears.

He’s carved and proportioned to perfection with clear-cut 8-pack abs you grind your cock on, meaty and plush pectorals to rest your face on as he bucks up into your from below, broad shoulders to rest your head or legs on he sucks your dick or eats your ass out, and biceps he could choke you with as plows you from behind… he’s male perfection in it’s most raw, primal, and natural form…

…

If your rapidly vivid thoughts that dance in your head as you check out his face and body are anything to go by, it makes sense why you hear him having wall-cracking sex almost every night…

If only he really could be your boyfriend…

…

Shit!

Right!

You have an act to go along with…

God, how did you go from almost meeting your dad in the afterlife to thirsting and marvelling over your neighbour who literally just saved your life!?!?

“I-I’m so sorry, Toji, I just… I know how stressed you’ve been with work and with how tight money’s been.” If there's one thing your dad taught you about survival, it’s that white lies are one of the greatest tools out there. So, going along with Toji’s act comes pretty naturally to you. “I just didn’t want to burden you… I’m so sorry, honey…”

“Babe… thank you for worrying about me, but what if I wasn’t home tonight? He was gonna fucking kill you!” He grips your shoulders angrily. “Fuck burdens and all that shit, if you’re gone then I have nothing to live for in this goddamn shithole!”

Toji is mentally patting himself on the back for paying attention to those shitty romance movies that sometimes played in the bar as he finished his drinks when there wasn’t anyone interesting enough to pay attention to, they’re giving him good dialogue to come up with.

“I-I know… y-you’re right. I can’t say anything other than that I’m sorry…” You know it’s all an act, but having such warm words directed at you makes you feel… good.

“No, honey, you never needed to apologize. None of this is your fault…” He says sweetly before turning around menacingly to the creep who listened to two and is getting increasingly and very noticeably enraged that Toji is allowed to talk to you so warmly and touch you so intimately when he can’t. “If anyone should apologize and make things right by slitting his wrists and throat right in front of us, it’s this waste of life.”

Toji squeezes your hand comfortingly before he steps up to the man, trying to keep a straight face and not vomit as the creep’s stench enters his nose.

“The shit I fucking deal with for some good ass…” He grumbles in his mind.

But he says something different outside.

“Listen here, and listen well, you worthless, hideous, disgusting, and deserving of death dipshit.” He says with a terrifyingly stoic tone. “I want to kill you. In fact, I probably will in the near future. And I will make sure your death is the most long-lasting and painful killing imaginable. But, the only reason I’ll give you the chance to run away is that I don’t wanna traumatize my boyfriend by turning you into a gorefest. So leave. Leave and enjoy the last days of your worthless life because I will find you. I can promise that.”

…

You can’t be certain if he’s acting or not.

But his warrior’s body and terrifyingly deep and threatening face make you think that… he might really do something vengeful to this man.

But someway, somehow, rather than scaring him into running away, Toji’s words only make the creep more enraged, and he begins to shriek like a banshee and stomp on the ground.

“N-N-N-NOOOOOO!!!!” He screams, fisting what hair he has left with whitening knuckles. “I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT! I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT MC! YOU CAN’T BE HIS BOYFRIEND! THERE IS NO FUCKING WAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!”

His screams and shrieks actually make you cover your eyes because he genuinely sounds like a pterodactyl being crushed by a hydraulic press.

But somehow, Toji remains still and unbothered.

“I’m gonna have to get my ears checked after this…” He thinks in his head, trying and somehow succeeding in maintaining a straight face.

“YOU’RE NOT HIS BOYFRIEND! THIS IS ALL FAKE! HE’S MINE! I FOUND HIM FIRST! YOU’RE JUST SOME RANDOM YELLOW BITC-”

“Pfft.” Toji scoffs. “I’m not his boyfriend, you said? That’s fucking hilarious, considering MC’s in my arms all the time in our place…”

Toji will not mention that he only learned your name because of the pervert just now screeching it out.

“Cute name though,” he thinks to himself.

“BULLSHIT! IF THAT WAS TRUE, I WOULD HAVE FUCKING SEEN YOU! FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK HE’S MY BOYFRIEND! HE’S MY PRINCE! HE’S MY BABY! HE’S MY FUCKTOY!”

Something about hearing this swine call you such things as if he owned you pissed Toji for some reason, and he found himself cracking his knuckles at the man’s tantrum.

“Keep calling him yours, and I might have to show just how pathetically wrong you are.” He says, taking note of how you’re actually shivering from how disturbed you are from this creep’s increasing display of insanity.

“Ifitwasn’tforyoui’dhavealreadybeenballsdeepinhissweetandlooseanddeadthroatandi’dbefillinghiscorpsetothebrimwithmysemen…”

But once the man’s ear-piercing shouting turns into fast whispers of the most disgusting things a monster could say, and once Toji feels you clench onto the waistband of his sweatpants in fear, that’s when he’s done with the nonsense.

“Alright then, man.” Toji sounds both smug and annoyed as he grabs from behind, and just like the man did to you before, but noticeably more gently, he shoves you against his door. “Let me show you just how wrong you are, and that MC belongs to me and me only.”

…

What could he possibly mean by that?

“T-Toji?”

Your voice is faint, both from the abuse your throat endured earlier and from the fact that you were about to start sobbing in fear.

“What are you…-”

But you’re silenced when Toji brings his lips close to your ear and whispers something only for you to hear.

And it’s funny.

Despite the man’s never-ending and disgusting rambles as he actually crumples onto the ground from rage and jealousy, all you can hear is Toji’s deep and luscious rasp.

“Fucking work with me here, yeah?”

“W-wait, what do you mea- M-mm!”

Just like that, your world stops. But not his. You didn’t even finish your sentence because of him.

Because once his lips met yours, you once again lost your breath, but in a different way this time.

But he doesn’t stop or even give you the time to process just what the hell he’s doing to you.

Toji isn’t just kissing you; he isn’t planting soft kisses or giving you little chaste pecks that your past boyfriends gave to you on your first dates, fuck, with the way he’s kissing you, anyone would be crazy to think that you two aren’t ravenous lovers.

One wouldn’t think this man is trying to sell an act.

No.

He’s full-on devouring you on the spot, making out with you like a man starved to near death, but also a man who wants to make his lover moan brainlessly to the stars above.

“M-mmm… H-hah… Mngh-~”

He’s so good at what he does that the moans and gasps just leave your mouth with your systems not even allowing you to even think of holding them back.

Yours and his personal bubble is laden with the sound of wet and slippery smooches, his bare skin brushing up roughly against your clothes, and the deliciously contrasting duet of your two pleasured voices.

“Mmm… that’s right, babyboy…” He says as he deliciously pushes his weight against you on the door as he kisses you. Unlike with the other guy, Toji’s huge and muscular form, forcing you against a hard surface, is sinfully luxurious. “That’s my boy… that’s how we do it… so good… all for me…”

Fuck, your night has gone from one extreme situation to another, but from what was happening before… Shit, maybe your dad was right… maybe guardian angels do exist…

While devouring and exploring the inside of your mouth, his tongue, hot, squishy, wet, and big, dances across all your inner parts.

Claiming the roof of your mouth, your teeth, the inside of your cheeks, and your own tongue, Toji kisses like a predator that just caught its prey.

It’s messy, and it’s borderline animalistic, and it lacks grace and classic sensuality, but the primal and hungry nature of his kisses might drive you to blissful insanity.

It’s not like you're a virgin or anything, but your past experiences might as well have never even happened.

The way Toji grips your hair and chest as he eats you up easily overshadows the last dick you took, no contest.

And as much as you kind of hated your next-door neighbour for being responsible for so many of your sleepless nights and the dark circles around your eyes… You can’t blame his past hook-ups for moaning and screaming the way they did.

The sounds you make are unlike anything you’ve ever made before, and you don’t even have the opportunity to feel embarrassed because of how burning blue the pleasure you feel is.

But nothing perfect lasts forever because as the words he speaks get dirtier, as his kisses get messy to the point of the bottom halves of your faces getting slick and wet, as his hands were about to unzip your pants and jacket, and as your cock was about to splurt hot white cum in your boxers because of how hard and fast he was grinding your clothed dicks against each other… 

Your spectator finally reached his boiling point.

“GYAHHHHHHH!!!!! NONONONONONONOONNOONONONONONONONONONONONONO!!!! I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU BOTHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!”

And in a fit of maniacal rage, the pig throws himself at Toji and begins to slam his fists on his back like the trash he is.

“DIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIEDIE!”

He easily overexerts himself as he tries, to no avail, to beat Toji up for touching you the way he is, and it’s frankly such a pathetic sight that would make the nicest saint ever roll their eyes.

Obviously enough, Toji barely feels anything.

His blue-collar built body can handle most anything, especially the weak yet disgusting punches of a human swine, but on the inside, he is fucking enraged.

It’s one thing to hit Toji; it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with from his racist or abusive or racist and abusive bosses, coworkers, or customers.

And anyways, he’d just match their energy if he deems the paycheque isn’t worth the abuse, and then he’ll fuck the night away and move on with his life.

But to get in the way of him trying to devour this delectable piece of meat in front of him?

When he was already sleep-deprived and horned-up beyond comparison at that?

To desecrate his skin with such vile and putrid hands while he was getting his own hands travel all up on the prettiest thing he’ll ever see in this forsaken town?

To get in the way of him trying fuck some ass…

That’s grounds for execution.

And Toji revs up the chainsaw and rains hell like a madman.

With a furious and disgusted snarl, Toji pushes you into the apartment roughly, but not hard enough to actually hurt you, thankfully, considering the abuse you already went through earlier.

Next, he doesn’t even give you a reassuring look; he just swiftly turns around as he wordlessly yet violently charges towards the disgraceful monster like a bull eager to kill.

And eager to kill, he is.

Before the man can even react, Toji pulls his fist back before landing a meteor mash of a punch to the center of the man’s face.

And you don’t know what noise made you recoil more.

Maybe it was the chilling sound of the man’s nose cracking into a million shattered pieces in just a second.

Maybe it was the pained howls of a man who sounds like he’s getting tortured in the 9th circle of Hell.

… God, it was probably both.

But the man didn’t even get the chance to fall to the ground in unbearable pain.

Because Toji, when held back from what he desires most, is a ruthless man with the speed of a cold-hearted killer.

Right when the man’s nose breaks, Toji then circles the man and lands a kick that could break a building into the center of the man’s spine, making the sound of another crack, sending uncomfortable shivers all over your skin.

And the strength of Toji’s kick was so strong that it sent the man, despite his surely snapped spine, hurtling into the wall of the apartment building, making him crash face-first into the hard wall.

And you hope you’ll never have to experience crashing into a wall with a broken nose because the garbled up and tortured noises of the man are haunting.

With bones shattered, teeth falling, a brain garbled up beyond repair, and most likely newly acquired life-ruining paralysis, the man wordlessly slides face-first down the wall, leaving behind a grisly trail of red as he descends.

It wasn’t like in those action movie scenes that you saw on the TVs behind the windows in the shops downtown when you were a child.

There was no intense music, there were no over-the-top sound effects, and there weren’t any exaggerated VFX.

This was a real-life killing.

All that was heard was fist and foot meeting body, the exerted huffs and puffs of the scar-lipped man, and the bloody and bubbly gurgles of the man responsible for this whole fiasco.

It’s terrifying.

You’re shaking like a terrified child as your fists clench the material of your jacket.

It’s not like you haven’t seen people get beaten to death before when you were homeless, but the switch in Toji’s demeanour was truly something.

But beneath the terror you feel, there’s something else.

Something so rare that you genuinely have to question if you're truly feeling the emotion right now.

Relief. For once, you’ve been saved.

After your father passed away, you either had to run away or outsmart someone if you wanted to guarantee your survival.

But finally, you can feel relief as someone defends you for once.

Life in this town is fucked-up.

And that is further exemplified by how your relief feels even more euphoric when Toji forces the almost-lifeless man onto his feet, and you see the bloody and irrecoverable mess that the face of your assaulter has become.

Surely, you will never have to worry about this disgusting waste of space harassing you at work anymore, and surely, you won’t have to worry about him trying to kill and have his way with your corpse anymore.

Uncaring if the man is even conscious enough to register the words he’s about to say, Toji speaks heartlessly, cruelly, and most of all, triumphantly.

“How does it feel knowing that no one will cry when you die?” He says, with a smug lilt to his words. “How does it feel knowing that instead, people will be relieved when your body is discovered? How embarrassing does it feel knowing that you lived such a pathetic life only for it to end in such a debasing way?”

The man doesn’t respond to the heart-stabbing line of questioning.

He probably can’t, if the way his eyes roll back into his head is any indication of how conscious he is.

“Well, it’s a good thing you aren’t answering. Hearing your shrieks was more painful than the beating I gave you. Trust me on that.”

The dark chuckle Toji lets out makes you shiver in fear… but also… in awe. In reverence. In attraction.

“I guess all that’s left to do is to give you the burial you deserve, yeah?” Toji says in a mockingly sad voice. “Any last words?”

…

The man’s body goes limp. He says nothing. For he cannot.

“Good. See you in hell, pig. I’ll beat you even worse there, for all of eternity.”

And with a gleeful grin, Toji puts a good amount of strength in his arms and thighs, flexing greatly as he lifts the man up high and throws the limp body through the window of the empty apartment next to him, the sounds of glass shattering and the body landing on the carpet floor next door letting it into sink your soul that everything that just happened was in fact, very real.

You just watched a killing in real time.

And through the fear, you feel relief and gratitude for the next-door neighbour you once hated.

In this shitty backwater splotch on the planet, Toji saved you from what could have been a grisly and dehumanizing fate, a death that probably no one would have noticed.

And for that reason, your heart races and you feel light and fuzzy from the gratitude you feel for the man who walks back into his apartment and approaches you, face stoic yet breathing heavily from exertion.

A man who just killed someone walking towards you should be a terrifying thing, and it is! Yet… rather than racing from fear, your hearts from various colours of excitement.

Gratitude, relief, appreciation, and… attraction are amongst the emotions you feel in this moment.

And that’s why, when Toji’s just a footstep away from you after slamming his door shut, you finally speak words to him that don’t come from a script being written in real time.

“Toji, thank you so mu-”

But before you can even say the words you desperately wanna say…

“GUH-”

He once again roughly shoves you against one of the walls of his dark apartment and forces his weight on you once more.

“Shut up.”

He says darkly as he gets back to letting his hands pervertedly dance all over and claim your body… as if he didn’t just brutally beat someone to death.

But still, the pleasure coming to you once more doesn’t hold back your shock at him telling you to shut up when you just wanted to say thank you.

“H-hah!~ S-sorry?” You ask breathlessly after having a moan forced out of you once more.

To that, he just sighs annoyedly as he plants kisses and marks on your neck. “Whatever you wanna say, keep it. I don’t give a fuck. I’m just here to take my payment for saving your gay ass.”

You gasp harshly when he roughly shoves his hands under your pants and boxes to cup your ass, squeezing your cheeks so hard that he’ll definitely leave bruises. “Ngh! I just wanted to say thank you for saving me-”

He cuts you off once more after he takes one of his hands out from under your clothes to SMACK your ass to shut you up.

He then grabs your hair with a hand and forces the back of your head to the wall, making you look deep into his vibrantly green yet… heart-stoppingly intense gaze.

 “Save you?” He says almost incredulously. “Pfft, I guess you could say I did do that. But believe me… if you weren’t as hot as you’re lucky enough to be, then that loser wouldn’t have been the only dead body next door…”

…

And just like that, your heart stops.

But his hands do not.

Neither do his words, despite your shocked speechlessness at his unashamed disregard for others.

“I went through a bullshit week with nothing but work and no ass, and all I wanted tonight was to at least catch up on sleep. But fuck that, right? Of course, I had to be woken up. And not by some animal crashing into my door. No.” He leans even closer to you, his nose almost touching yours. “It was just a bunch of faggots taking their stupid drama to my door, of all places.”

The slur makes you flinch since he was clearly referring to you.

“T-That wasn’t drama, he-”

You tried explaining what happened. Not that you needed to. The guy literally admitted to stalking you.

But your desperate attempt to explain was cut short once again, as Toji literally covers your mouth with his big hand, one of the hands that just played a crucial role in murdering someone just a few minutes ago.

“Clearly I don’t care what actually happened, yeah?” He says with a harsh sneer. “All that matters to me is that a bunch of pansies were getting in the way of me trying to at least get one hour of rest. Believe me, you would’ve gotten the same beating that bitch got if you didn’t have a cute face and a nice ass.”

Your heart stops, and the warm and fuzzy feelings of gratitude you were feeling just a few minutes ago are gone in an instant.

The moonlight coming in from the window that once made him look like a knight in shining armour now made him look like a heartless predator.

“You wanna know why I did all of this, MC?” He says with a proud and hungry smirk. “It wasn’t because I cared for you as another human, nah. I saved you for the sole purpose of being able to fuck you myself.”

You breathe heavily through your nose, which thankfully isn’t covered by his hand.

“I was livid that there wasn’t any hot ass at the bar tonight, but thankfully a sexy piece of ass got delivered ri~ght to my doorstep.” He says, grinding his clothed erection into your clothed thigh. “Be thankful, kid. That face of yours saved you from a real bad time. And hey, you don’t have anything to be afraid of… This is me being nice.”

It’s at this moment that you learned something.

Toji might have saved you, but he’s not a good man.

He might have saved you, but he’s no different from the countless other heartless souls in this town.

He might have saved you, but not for the purpose of saving you, but rather to save your ass.

He only killed that man because he wanted to be the one to fuck you.

You thought you had finally found another maybe kind soul in this lawless land, but Toji, just like everyone else here, is just another man with ulterior motives.

He genuinely could have cared less if you died and got violated if he wasn’t attracted to you.

And for that reason, you feel tears from your eyes and glide down your cheeks and fall in between where the skin of his hand and the skin of your face meet.

But he doesn’t apologize for being honest. No. In fact, he likes seeing you cry. It makes his boner throb harder than before.

“What is it, kid?” He says almost mockingly. “You’re sad that the man who saved you isn’t the hero you thought he was? Is that it?”

He wears a gleeful grin that doesn’t suit the situation you’re in.

“You’re sad that I would’ve beaten the life out of you if I didn’t wanna shove my cock deep in your ass?”

Your heart’s pounding like a drum.

“Well, if you ask me, and as much as I just wanna lick them up, you’re wasting your tears.” He says, blowing air on your eyes. “What even is there to cry about? I saved your life, and now I wanna give you the railing of a lifetime. Sounds like a good deal to me…”

He isn’t a good man.

“Besides, I’d say you owe me this…”

He isn’t a hero.

“And hey, I know you’re a cocksucker. I mean, if your boner I felt while we were grinding up on each other earlier is anything to go off, at least.”

He would’ve left you for dead.

“You wouldn’t dream of telling me no… would you, MC?”

… No. You wouldn’t.

Honestly, despite the valiant and chivalrous image that you constructed of him just because he saved you has all been shattered and spat on… You truly cannot deny the rush that you feel in your veins alongside the painful tugs you feel in your heart.

And despite the aforementioned tugs you feel in your heart, it’s pounding like a drum for a reason.

Toji’s hungry, smug, and domineering gaze… it makes your blood rush, it makes you gulp nervously yet anticipatingly, and it makes your cock, that never lost its hardness, throb even more painfully in your pants.

While it’s true that you’re still a bit heartbroken over the fact that he unapologetically didn’t really care about you, his kisses and rough touches left searing burns on your skin that you desperately want more of.

The thought of your now-dead stalker tearing into your body made you want to vomit… but when it’s Toji, handsome, sweaty, and with a stain of blood on his sweatpants… You can feel your knees rubbing against each other, thinking of him, making you see stars.

You want him. And you want him. Bad.

Easily recognizing the look in a man’s eyes of a need to get railed, Toji moves away his hand that was covering your mouth and playfully tilts his head as he looks at you, already knowing what you wanna say, but eager to hear just how you’ll say it.

“Well, MC? What’ll it be…?” His tone is hypnotizing and chocolatey smooth.

“Please, Toji… make me forget everything that just happened to me tonight….” Your throat still hurts from the previous abuse, but that just makes your voice more breathy and soft. “Take my mind someplace else…”

Toji raises his eyebrows at that. 

Well, that’s more eloquent than the words he’s used to hearing when someone wants his dick.

He’ll have to train you into speaking like a back-alley whore it seems…

“Yeah, baby?” He says, planting a hand on the side of your face, tracing your lips with his thumb. “You want me to make sure that you can’t think of anything else? I can do that… But I want you to be more specific. How do you want me to make you forget?”

God, he’s a devilish man. He knows damn well what you want. He’s just toying with his meal before he tears it into a million sweat-drenched and cum-slick shreds.

But you’re too infatuated with the dangerous man to defy him.

“God, just… please… I want you to fuck me, Toji…” You say breathily. “Make me just another of the people you make scream all night. Make me make my own ears ring from the sounds of my own cries… You can do that, right?”

… Fucking hell, he was wrong. You are a dirty little bitch. You just have more class, and all you needed was to be pushed off the deep end.

He didn’t expect a guy in a trashed-up jacket like you to have such a sexily seductive air when pushed, but… fuck if he isn’t into it.

“Kid.” He says, once again gripping your hair and making you look deep into his gaze. “I woulda done that even if you didn’t ask.”

Five seconds of silence. Five seconds full of silent communication and transmissions of consent.

“Well then…” You say excitedly, but still with a whisper. “Take me, Toji.”

He grins ravenously.

“Hell fucking yeah.”

But before he can plant his lips on yours once more, he gets shocked into stillness, as one of your hands travels up to wipe away blood on his cheek that he didn’t even know was there.

“I know you don’t wanna hear it, but… thank you for saving me, Toji.” You say, looking into his eyes with a warmth that he has never in his life had directed at him before. “You don’t know just how much that meant to me. Thanks for being my hero for tonight…”

And just like he isn’t familiar with the warmth in your eyes… he just as much isn’t familiar with this… disgustingly warm and fuzzy feeling that is spreading all over his chest, starting from his heart.

…

He ignores it.

“Pfft. Shut up, fag.”

And just like that, he once more plants his lips on yours, this kiss serving as the opener to tonight’s impromptu film.

The journey to Toji’s bedroom is short yet deliciously chaotic.

The current soundscape playing around the two of you consists of the essential melodies of your messy and lust-driven makeout, you two moaning and groaning at different pitches, and the sound of things falling to the ground as you both clumsily and passionately crash into whatever it is you crash on as he guides you to the room where countless people see stars.

And when your eyes were forced open from pleasure when he teasingly pinched your nipples under your clothes, the ray of moonlight coming in from Toji’s open windows gave you a glimpse of what the home of the man who’s about to fuck your brains out looks like while he resumes planting kisses on your neck.

Frankly, it’s a mess.

Not pigsty, degenerate mess, but this place can have better days.

It’s really just the clothes, and mostly discarded underwear, that somehow make a trail starting from the apartment door to his bedroom door that prevents this place from looking like a homely home.

Perhaps those are what lay forgotten when he and his hook-up of the night ferociously take off each other’s clothes as they devour each other on the way to his bedroom… something you and he are currently doing right now.

You also notice posters of what seem to be rock bands and Marvel superheroes (Pfft, ironic) on the wall around his television in the living room, where a bunch of retro gaming consoles are hooked up.

Honestly, save for the dirty clothes on the floor and the two empty instant ramen bowls on the living room table, it’s not too shabby a place for a man you’re about to have sex with.

SHOVE

“Guh!-”

But your attention is brought right back to Toji when he roughly pushes you past the doorway to his bedroom, making you stumble backwards and, luckily, land unceremoniously backwards onto his bed.

What immediately hits you as soon as you fall onto his bed is the faint yet masculine, testosterone-laden scent of sweat, musk, cologne, and previous sexual encounters on his sheets.

It’s nothing glamorous, and it honestly might be a testament to how he really doesn’t use his bedroom for anything other than sleep and sex, and as such, probably doesn’t exactly clean it that much.

But honestly, it’s a heady scent that screams of the virility, long-lasting stamina, and sexual prowess of a blue-collar and lowlife bachelor like Toji, who spends his prime years fucking like the hedonistic champion you’ve heard him to be, living right next to him for quite some time.

And you’d be a liar if the scent filled with his pheromones and raw, natural musk didn’t make you leak even more inside your boxers, making a noticeable dark patch in your work pants.

And from what you can feel on your hands as you clench the bed in anticipation for just what exactly it is that he plans on ruining you beyond repair, his mattress doesn’t even have a bedsheet, just one blanket and some pillows.

God, he really is a lowlife. But why does it make your heart pound even harder?

Why does shit like this make your cock even harder and want you to scream for him to breed you like a pathetic whore?

He’s a killer who doesn’t care about people, and his place is a mess, but why do you want him so fucking bad that you want him to fuck your brains out and make you his stupid bitch for the rest of your life!?

Oh, you know why. After all, you have eyes.

That handsome face that was made for movies and porn, unbefitting of a man who lives the life he lives.

That strong, buff, and sinfully proportioned body of his that belongs in men’s magazines.

…

That huge, long, and throbbing bulge in his gray sweatpants that looks you dead in the eye as he likewise lusts at the sight of you lying on his bed, all for him to destroy forever.

This is a man.

A delectable and prime example of male excellence.

And you want nothing more than for him to rearrange your insides and coat your skin in his semen and sweat.

The silence as you both get hungrier and thirstier as you stare at each other is broken, but not by you, but by Toji.

“Fuck. You have no idea just how sexy you are.” He says lustfully, closing his eyes and looking up at the ceiling and granting you the sight of his sexy neck muscles. It’s almost like he’s thanking whatever’s above for giving him such a rare and tasty gift. “No joke, MC, I’m gonna fuck you up so bad tonight.”

God, the sight of his body, the sound of his lust-filled promise, and the way his cock is begging to be freed from his sweat actually makes you grip the blanket in your hands with your knuckles screaming in pain that you don’t even feel, for the way you yearn for him overtakes any other sensation in your body.

“Do it then, Toji.” You say with desperate eyes and an even more desperate voice. “Make me forget everything that happened tonight as I asked you to. Whatever you have planned… I want it all.”

And just like that, he brings his eyes back to you, and he wears the smirk of a man who’s won at life. 

“Your funeral.”

With that, he tilts his head seductively and grips the waistband of his old and low-hanging sweatpants.

And finally, after you two grinding on each other like beasts in rut, after feeling pulsing heat under soft fabric, and after hungrily eyeing his tent for what felt like a torturous eternity, Toji roughly pulls his pants down, kicks them away and walks in between your legs, with the moonlight shining on his body like a sinful spotlight.

And it’s in this moment that you realize that Gods do walk amongst the humans.

His cock, slick and wet from the pre-cum that oozed out as he kissed and groped you, slapped against his sharp abs and then pointed at you, lowering down because of its sheer weight, girth, and length.

Easily over 10 inches, standing straight and tall, a bit darker than the rest of his body because of the constant use it gets, and pink like a rose at his glistening tip, his cock would break records on the porn websites.

His balls, thick, plump, and perfectly proportioned to the size of his dick, bounce alongside his cock, heavy from the hot and creamy cum that churns in them at overtime.

Finally, his cock is framed perfectly by an untamed bush, black, furry, and surely potent with the musk of a man such as him, a testament to the low-effort life he lives.

And you’re not sure what’s drooling more, you or his cock as it throbs pornographically, leaking dewy drops of his pre-cum onto your clothed thighs.

Toji’s dick… fuck, you’ve said it before, and you’re sure you’ll keep thinking it throughout the night, but damn it makes sense why his nightly lovers shout at the top of their lungs in ecstasy.

The hardest battle in the world is deciding if you want to keep looking at his huge cock as it hypnotizes you with every bounce, or at his movie-star’s face, as he relishes the hungry and mesmerized look on your face that he’s seen many others wear before you.

“... Talk to me, MC.” He says, breaking the silence with an arrogant tone and a just as arrogant bounce of his cock. “You scared? In awe? Hungry? How does it feel looking at the cock that’s about to tear you a new one?”

You’re not sure how you haven’t passed out from the overwhelming rush of arousal that flows through your blood, veins, nerves, and skin, but it’s a good thing you didn’t.

You don’t ever want to look at anything else other than Toji.

“All of what you said, Toji, is perfectly accurate…” You say breathlessly in awe. “Your cock was made for sex… It’s no wonder I couldn’t sleep whenever you brought someone home…”

That gets an amused chuckle from him.

“Yeah… my bad. Honestly, you’re so quiet I always forget I have a next-door neighbour in this building.” He begins to stroke himself. “But that’s neither here nor there. This time… It’s your turn. How about you be a good boy and undress yourself for me…”

So it begins. And that’s how he wants to play.

He wants his prey to make itself vulnerable to him, to tear off its own skin so he can see the meat inside.

And who are you to deny a man like him?

With shaky hands, trembling from both nerves and anticipation, you eagerly unzip your work pants that are stained with condiments and Pepsi that a kid spilled on you earlier today.

Sadly, you couldn’t be undressing from something sexier like a date night suit, but it’s not like you’re about to have sex on an Alaskan King bed with silk sheets, so it’s all good.

You discard your pants, socks, and shoes onto the floor quickly, maintaining lustful eye contact with Toji as he strokes himself off with both of his hands to fully wrap around his fat shaft to the private show he’s earned for himself.

The sight of your thighs and throbbing bulge in your cheap Fruit of the Loom boxers makes Toji bite his lip in horny attraction, and he groans as arousal heats his body.

“You’re so fucking hot, kid. I have to keep asking myself if you’re real…” He says with a deep rasp. “But when I touch you…” He then takes one hand off his cock and rests it on your thigh, rubbing up and down and covering your skin down there with his pre-cum, marking you slick and wet as his property. “I’m reminded that I won something better than the lottery.”

“T-thanks…” You say shyly. You’ve been told you’re handsome before, but Toji’s salacious words, accompanied by claiming touches, make you feel like a goddamn deity being worshipped.

“Keep going.”

His command is your duty.

You then unzip your jacket and… well, you fold it carefully and place it gently under Toji’s bed so that it will be safe and unharmful from whatever the night has in plan for you.

Toji raises his eyebrows as you show that much care for a worn-out jacket, unlike your pants, which you discarded without a care, but whatever, he’s too horny to say anything about it. 

You then unbutton your work shirt before pulling it over your head and discarding it the same way you did your work pants.

And before you can reach for your boxers, Toji stops stroking himself and looms above you as he grabs your waistband.

“This one’s for me…” He says with a dark whisper. “I’ll do the honours of undoing the ribbon to my gift.”

And despite the flowery and suave words, his actions are anything but those of a gentleman.

He roughly, almost like he didn’t care how harsh the friction would be on your skin, pulls your boxes down your legs and throws them behind him carelessly.

And now, here you both are, naked as the days you were born, and with the moonlight highlighting the details and features of your bodies.

To Toji, you’re the best thing he’s ever seen in this town, fuck, maybe even in his almost 40 years of living.

Being on your feet and moving all day is rough on you, but it definitely gives you some good definition to your body, and Toji wants nothing more than to explore your entire body with his hands and tongue, and cover you in marks and fluids.

Your waist, your shoulders, your neck, your thighs, your cock, and your ass, he eyes it all, and actually salivates in his mouth at the sight of his fallen angel.

“God, if only I knew earlier that someone like you was living right to me… I would’ve fucked you every day, morning and nighttime…” He says, almost wanting to punch himself at all the lost time.

His reverence for your looks makes you flush bashfully… but honestly, as amazing as it is to look at him as he looms above you… You want him, now.

So, with shyness and intention, you hook a foot around his calf and pull him towards you.

“Well then… make up for all that lost time, Toji…” You whisper as you look deep into his emerald gaze, a forest you’d happily get lost in for all of eternity. “I’m all yours.”

And just like that, he breaks, and the dam collapses.

With a predator’s growl coming deep from his throat, he grins appreciatively as he descends on top of you, holding himself up with his hands planted firm on both sides of your head.

His shadow claims you with its broad wings, and his sweat that drips onto you from above brands you as his, forevermore.

“Fuck yeah, you are.” He says, revelling in his recent catch. “And don’t fret, kid. As fucked up of a man I am, I want you to have a good time as well, so just…”

Without any warning and with the expertise of a lecherous man who’s surely done it many times before, he hooks an arm around your waist…

“… let me do all the dirty work.”

…and propels the two of you forward toward the headboard, and in the process, flipping the two of you around so that you’re straddling him.

The instant and rough movement makes you see in blurry vision for a bit as your hands are planted firmly on hot, smooth, and muscular shoulders for support.

And while you may have been on top of other guys before, sitting on Toji feels like sitting on a golden throne made kings compared to your last partners, bless their souls.

Here, you feel like you belong.

“Fucking hell, you look good on top of me, kid…” He says, appreciatively and lecherously fondling your pert asscheeks, jiggling them and giving them soft spanks. “I reckon I gotta lock you up so we don’t have to deal with pigs like the one I dealt with earlier, hm?”

You don’t say anything to that, out of fear that you accidentally say yes and he’ll actually go along with it…

You’re inclined that he might just be crazy enough to follow suit with his words.

“But, that’s for later…” He says, slightly shimmying his body further back so he can lay his head on a pillow with no case. “I think it’s time I shut the fuck up…” He effortlessly hoists you further up his body, making you hold onto the headboard so you don’t crash into the wall and stand up on your knees with them planted on both sides of his handsome face. “And make you cry in the best way…”

With his face under you, he has full access to your most private areas. 

With the moonlight shining down on you both, your hard cock makes a shadow that covers his face, a pornographically obscene sight.

Toji, an animal ready to pounce, eyes his meal. 

Such a perfect cock and ass… and it’s all his to devour, savour, and claim.

Yeah, he’s a lucky man.

“MC…” He says from below. 

“Y-yeah?” You whisper shakily, entranced by the sight of him under you and antsy from your carnal need to get ruined.

He reaches his right hand towards his nightstand to grab an almost empty bottle of lube, plain and unscented.

He then flips the cap and pours a generous amount of clear slick onto his right hand. 

“For what it’s worth, at least our night is going better than we thought it would, right. You’re still alive, I’m getting some ass… this really is the best ending, huh?”

He speaks playfully as he coats his fingers with the clear substance, opening and closing them and feeling the strings of lube that stretch and break apart.

“Heh…” You scoff, irritated but amused as he teases you despite having a faceful of ass and dick above him. “I could’ve done without the strangling and being assaulted while I’m dead, but… yeah, it’s not too bad here with you.”

For a few seconds, Toji taps his fingers in a crescendo-like sequence on your ass as he absorbs your words.

“Aw… I’m glad you feel that way…” He says with a smirk. But then he lowers his voice to a bassy and lustful timbre. “But, there’s something you have to know, MC.”

Something about his tone makes you gulp nervously.

“Um, w-what is it?”

“With you in my room, on my bed, and in my hands…” He speaks, moving his face closer to your intimates, getting into position… “‘Not too bad’ is the last thing you’ll be saying when I’m done with you…”

He then moves two of his wet and thick fingers closer and closer to your asshole, you shivering from anticipation and the feeling of his skin on yours.

“… Because I…”

SHLICK

“NGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!~”

“Never play nice.”

Immediately, pleasure, pain, and white spots you’ve never seen before wreak beautiful, indescribable havoc throughout your body and soul.

With the roughness of a ravenous beast, hot and hard in pursuit of pleasure, but the precision of an experienced lover, he SHOVES his pointer and middle finger right past your ring of muscle, avoiding tearing your skin and hitting your prostate like a bullseye.

“Fuck! Fuuuuck!” You can’t even control the volume of the profanities that leave you. That first instance of pleasure hit you like a rush from bad drugs, and you immediately feel your system craving another hit.

Despite the open window next to you, with the starry skies and the moon being your spotlight for the show, the stars Toji makes you see are blinding and shine brighter than those above you.

He hasn’t even taken his fingers out yet! 

He just pushes his two fingers deeper, and deeper, and deeper into your sweet spot as if it’s a little balloon that he could pop.

“T-Toji! That’s too- wait!!! Too much!!!!” You’ve never heard your voice in this pitch before. But with how he’s swirling the tips of his fingers around the spot where your sweet spot is located, that’s for sure not the first unfamiliar sound you’re going to hear from yourself tonight. “I… I… Hah… I can’t handle it! PLEASE! Khh!- I can’t- HNGH-“

Just with his two fingers, he’s melting your brain. Just with his two fingers, he’s bringing new sounds out of you. Just with his two fingers, he’s turning you into his fucking bitchboy.

And what Toji sees and hears is easily better than whatever the Stairway to Heaven could’ve offered him if he were a good and virtuous man and not a sodomite manwhore.

Your hands long slipped off the headboard when he shoved his fingers inside of you. Now, your face is right on the wall as your brainless moans take up all the space in his room, and your sounds surround his head as if he’s wearing headphones.

Violently horny in a way he’s never been before, Toji’s thick and huge cock leaks sticky and potent pre-cum at such a factory-like rate that the slick slides down his long, pink shaft like hot candle wax.

His need to breed you, fill you up, and permanently expand your stomach with his semen makes his cock throb like a fucking metronome, the tip slapping against his stomach so many times that the precum begins to create a glazy layer on his pornstar abs.

And he hasn’t even rained hell on you yet…

Holy shit, you have no idea just how far down he’s going to take you to Hell.

“MC…” He whispers, hypnotized by the sight and sounds he’s creating with his own two fingers. “You’re beautiful…”

Such wholesome words… but don’t misunderstand. 

They are being spoken from the most hedonistic and concupiscent of minds.

Such words are typically uttered lovingly by devoted husbands who see their lovers as godsent blessings and angels, but coming from a man like Toji, the dirtier he makes you, the scratchier he makes your voice, and the more he leaves his mark on you… The more stunning you become in his eyes.

And he wants more. He wants to see more. To hear more.

And so…

schlick schlick schlick

“Mm-mngh?!” Your constant stream of moans gets cut off by an abrupt shout that comes from your throat.

“Show me more of just how fucking beautiful you can get…” He whispers, looking at you from down under with animalistic hunger and glee. “Shout for me, kid!”

SCHLICK SCHLICK SCHLICK FWOP FWOP FWOP

“GAH! FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCK, TOJI!!!~~~”

Like a machine, he begins to roughly, and with no regard for holding back his strength, fuck your hole with his thick fingers, sliding his big, long, and calloused fingers out before STABBING them right back in, the bones of his fingertips jabbing your prostate repeatedly and mercilessly.

He finger blasts your asshole so roughly, quickly, and blindingly that lube is splashing everywhere near your hole, coating and glazing your asshecks and falling onto Toji’s face like rain.

The sound of his fingers full-on assaulting your prostate and walls is nothing but full-on pornographic. It’s wet, squishy, and fleshy, in the best and raunchiest of ways, and fuck, Toji is just salivating at the idea of your wet plushiness hugging his huge cock like a glove.

“Yeahhhhhh~~~” Toji says with darkened eyes that have never been more alive, as he sees the result of his finger work. “Fucking faggot doesn’t even need me to ask if he likes my fingers… your screams tell me everything I need to know, hah!” 

“Mmm!!!~~~”

For some reason, he felt you tighten around his violating fingers when he called you that offensive slur.

Ah, seems like someone has a thing for the taboo~

“Aw…” He says with a bully’s teasing but hurtful tone. Hah, not like he wasn’t one back in his young buck high school days. “Stupid fag can’t even speak anymore. But you don’t need to, yeah? You’re right where you wanna be, right? Getting violated by a big bad boy like all faggots want… you’re where you deserve to be.”

Fuck, you shouldn’t be loving the degradation and disrespect as much as you are right now… but it hurts your heart and makes your skin crawl in the best absolute way possible!

His vile words feel like the perfect delicacy to accompany his relentless assault on your prostate, and he isn’t even wrong. You can’t say a fucking word because you have moans being forced out of you so much that your throat is starting to hurt even more than earlier because of the overuse it’s getting.

SCHLICK SCHLICK SCHLICK FWOP FWOP FWOP

“FUCK, MC!” Toji yells from underneath you, getting more and more fired and horned up as he feels your hole slightly loosen from his fingers going in and out and in and out and in and out of you at a military weapon’s fire rate. “Just what kind of sissies have you slept with? With the way you scream, I can tell you’ve never been with a real fucking man!” He SMACKS one of your cheeks so hard that it literally goes numb for a second. “What did those pansies do with you in bed? Nibble on your ears and kiss your cheek while they fuck you like a sad virgin? Hah! Fucking lame… No wonder you sound like you’re having the time of your life… You were messing around with sissies before you met me.”

Your past boyfriends were such sweethearts and kind lovers that his saying such mean words makes you want to defend them, but GOD, you can’t say a fucking word with how he’s literally attacking your prostate like it’s a gate needing to be destroyed by a battering ram.

And the pleasure you're feeling and the mind-broken state he’s forcing you into is starting to make you think that he might be right!

“Well, it’s a good thing we found each other, MC… One night with me, and no man will ever compare. You’ll never be satisfied with any other pansy out there. And besides, I’m never letting such a pretty piece of ass like you ever get away from me… I don’t even care if I have to call myself a faggot if it means keeping you forever…”

He then whispers, his breath and deep voice shaky just from how hard he’s finger-fucking you. “You like that, boy? You want me to be your faggot? I’ll do it, baby… I’ll be that for you… Just as long as I get to keep your bitchhole until we fucking die… C’mon, MC… tell me you want me to be your man…”

“Mng!! NGHHHH! ANNHHHHH!!!”

So hot. So fucking sexy.

Whatever it is he does, whatever it is he says, it just makes the already overwhelming and life-altering pleasure and pain you’re feeling get amplified even more!

Yes. Yes! Fuck yes!

He can be whatever he wants! He can say whatever he wants! He can do whatever he wants to you!

Just as long as he can keep making you feel as amazing as you do, your life is in his hands for all you care!

With all the willpower that you can pathetically muster as he shapes your body to his liking, you look down at him with your teary eyes, messed-up hair, and sweaty face, and give him the closest thing to a nod as possible.

And in giving him that, you made yourself his, just as much as he made himself yours.

Your bodies are the paper, and your sweat and pre-cum are the ink that fills in the dotted lines of this intimate contract.

And Toji, the man he is, wants to reward you for doing exactly what he wanted.

“Ha…” He scoffs affectionately. “That’s my boy…” He whispers…

Before…

SCHLICK SCHLICK SCHLICK FWOP FWOP FWOP BAM BAM BAM

“GYAHHHHHH!!!~~~~”

Somehow, impossibly so, and as a generous gift from your new man, Toji FINGER BLASTS your prostate like a goddamn assault rifle, and this time without even warning you, with a third finger added to the mix.

Your voice by this point is a goddamn wreck, and it’s a wonder how you can still even manage to let anything other than pathetic wheezes out.

“Such a good fucking boy for me… Just the wayyyyyy I like it… Mhm~...” He says, his arm sore, his skin sweaty, and his voice shaky and hot from the exertion he’s putting his arm just to make you burst. “Let me see you fall apart, MC… Let me see just how crazy my fingers can make you go, mhm?~” Despite his shaky tone, his lustful and debonair timbre makes his sound sensual as allllll fucking hell.

And despite the mindless state you’ve been in, and despite the even more mindless state you’re going to be in, your instincts that come from being in the presence and arms of a skilled pleasurer like Toji force you to at least respond to him, even if it’s difficult as all hell.

“M-mm! Ple- Gah, shit!” You sound ridiculous. He loves it. “Ple-ease! I’m clo- ANGH~ I’m so close, Toji! More, more, more!”

He brings his face closer to your intimates, the scent of your sweat and natural musk threatening to make his eyes roll back in delight. 

“You want me to make you cum, kid?” He says, his whispery timbre somehow louder than your moans and screams. “You wanna paint my face white with your jizz? Wanna dirty me like the trashy neighbour you always thought I was? You want the man who kept you up all those nights to make you scream like all my past bitches?”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yesyesyesyesyesyesyESYESYES. I wanna cum!!”

And with your pleas and wishes more than known to him, he smiles a handsome smile before…

“Alright then~.”

He closes the distance between his face and your asshole and begins to assault your hole with his hot, wet tongue alongside his three strong fingers.

“Mmmmmmmm~ Fuck~ Hahahahaha~ You feel so soft on my tongue, baby…” He says like a rich man indulging in the most luxurious of delicacies, in between flicking his tongue around your pucker, giving you another layer of pleasure to fall apart as a result of. “So good… so fucking good…”

His voice is muffled from being underneath you and getting faceful of your balls, perineum, and ass, but there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

He eats you out like a goddamn champion with years of experience under his belt, flicking the tip of his tongue on your pucker, sneaking the tip of his tongue into you with his fingers sometimes, and pushing his face up against you from underneath, the friction of his face providing just another never-ending assault of pleasure on your balls

The wet, slick, and slushy sounds of his tongue on your ass sound like something out of the spiciest porn videos as he makes it his mission to make your brain factory reset through sex.

The area where tongue and intimates meet is hot, wet, humid, sticky, slimy, and sweaty as he licks, fingerfucks, and claims you in his pheromone and testosterone-induced rut.

And not once does he slow down his warrior’s pace, despite his heavy breathing and straining muscles. He maintains his brutal and fast assault on your pleasure points; no amount of pain is great enough to stop him from making you melt.

You’re both as close as can be, so much so that you can feel the scar on his lips on your own skin, a testament to how entangled you have become despite having just formally met not even a goddamn hour ago.

And when just a few more minutes of debauchery and hot, wet, and sticky assault, you feel something treacherously amazing coming. It stems from your prostate, battered and happy, then it travels up to your stomach and down to your toes that are digging into Toji’s sweat-scented mattress. It makes your skin tingle, it makes the hairs on your arms stand, and coats around your impossibly hard and throbbing cock like a hot veil.

Never has the moment before an orgasm felt like this before Toji came into your life.

This isn’t a little campfire, it’s a goddamn inferno. This is no drizzle, it’s a goddamn torrent.

This isn’t just an orgasm, it’s the beginning of a new chapter in your once-dreary life.

“T-TOJI!!!~~~” You screaming against the wall, the surface wet from your sweat, drool, and tears. “I’m… I’M-!!”

And this is what he’s working so hard for, it’s what he’s been ignoring the flaming pain in his arm for, it’s what he’s been holding his breath until the point of passing out for, as he ate you out without pause, and it’s what he’s killed a man for tonight.

Seeing you cum.

“Do it then, MC.” He says, his voice raspy and lewd. “Cum for your man, hm!~ C’mon… c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, baby!!!!” His face is completely drenched in lube, sweat, and drool, and his hair sticks to his face as if he just went for a swim. “Cum… cum, cum, cum, CUM, CUM, CUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUMCUM, FAGGOT!!!!!!! CUM!!!!!!!!!!”

And as if his words were the key to the safe, as if your body had made itself respond to his command with absolute obedience, your body, finally, after such a horrible day and traumatizing night, let itself enjoy the greatest pleasure you have ever felt in your dreary life.

“NGH- GAHHHHHHHHHH!~~~~ M-MMMMMMMMNNNGGGG!!!!~~~~”

Upon hearing your screams, Toji grins like a madman and shuffles himself up from under you to bring his face right to your cock, opening his mouth and sticking his tongue out for the meal he worked so goddamn hard for.

Like an erupting volcano, your cock, in burning blue and white-hot pleasure, begins to spew creamy and warm cum all over Toji’s handsome face and sweaty hair, painting and glazing his skin like the world’s dirtiest and most erotic piece of art.

Everything that makes him him gets covered in your cream, claiming him despite his clear dominance over the entire night.

The scar on his lips, the dark circles under his tired eyes, his rough stubble from day unshaven, and his godly bone structure, all get covered in your essence, and Toji has nowhere he’d rather be. He’d drown in your semen if he could.

All the shit he’s gone through in life, and hell, all the people he heartlessly stepped on in life, and everything he did, mostly bad, it brought him to you.

His getting evicted and having to live in this dumpster hole because he fucked his previous landlord’s son in his office, it was worth it, because he is here on his dirty, sweaty and cum-drenched mattress getting his face jizzed on by the prettiest boy he just made his own.

The warmth of your cum feels like heaven on his tired and rough skin, the taste of your essence revitalizes his weary and bitter soul, and the grip of your hand in his drenches and now slimy hair makes him truly feel like he isn’t alone, despite his numerous nightly rendezvous on this very bed.

This moment is nothing like a picturesque love-making scene in a prime-time box office-smashing romance movie, nah, a visual like this belongs on some porn scene in the dark web, only for the dirtiest and depraved of men to jerk off to.

But for him, in his semen-glazed euphoria, maybe he finally found out what it’s like to feel… something like love, maybe.

And you, you’re not sure if you’re dead or alive.

Are you in heaven because of the sheer pleasure, euphoria, and ecstasy you’re in?

Have you been rewarded by the gods for persevering and gritting your teeth and surviving despite all the bad cards you’ve been dealt in life?

Fuck, you don’t know.

But all you do know, as you scream like a whore, shoot semen like a geyser, and shiver in delectation, jubilation, and rapture, is that you wouldn’t want to die any other way… in his hands.

In a way you never have before, and with neither you nor Toji knowing how much time has passed, you just keep on shooting and painting Toji’s already fair skin even more white and creamy, your essence marking your newfound man with your scent.

It’s beautiful, it’s filthy, it’s debaucherous, it’s amorous, and if only it could last forever…

…

But Toji is no merciful man.

And he wants to make it last forever.

So, while you’re still shooting cum and moaning up a storm, Toji, with a pearly white and cum-shiny grin, wipes his face with the hand that was fingers-deep in your ass, coating his fingers in your milk before he sneaks it back under your and towards its rightful place.

And with no warning, or even giving you the mercy of a short rest, he JAMS in four fingers this time, the addition of pinky stretching you out even more.

“!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

You’re oversensitive, you’re overwhelmed, and you’re overstimulated.

Even more so, considering you just had the orgasm of 10 lifetimes combined, so when Toji goes back to finger-fucking you despite the absolutely delicious shambles your body is in… your vision genuinely goes dark. Your head feels heavy and dizzy as you scream and cry brainlessly against the wet wall.

But in addition to the even more overwhelming fingerblasting you’re getting from your man, Toji, groaning in arousal, licks his lips appreciatively before taking your hot, wet, and slick cock into his warm mouth.

“MM-MMM-MMMHHMHMMMM!!!!~~~~~~”

In appreciation of your taste and slick heat in the mouth and in teasing of your continuous pleasured noises, Toji hums and chuckles as he plays with your cock with his big tongue.

The taste of your cum on your tip and your pre-cum on your shaft gives Toji a heady mixture of delicious flavours, and he loves to have a lollipop to suck on as he savours the world’s greatest treat.

Contrary to his amazing tongue work and ability to completely take your entirety in his mouth, Toji has never sucked cock before.

Just because he chose to only fuck men didn’t mean he was ever down to do the real faggot shit; he didn’t ever want to debase himself like that.

But for his newfound property? For his little faggot? For his new boy?

God, if it makes you feel good and makes you scream like a back-alley whore, he’ll do whatever.

Guided only by the memory of what his past encounters have done to him, he plays with your cock with expertise, a testament to his talents in the bedroom.

He swirls his tongue relentlessly, swirling it up and down your tip and shaft so quickly and lecherously that it genuinely feels like you have multiple tongues licking your cock.

He bobs his head up and down roughly and rapidly, making it feel like he’s fucking your cock with his mouth, his warm, hot flesh feeling like a dream, and the gentle grind of his teeth providing jolts of ecstasy that make you twitch as if you’re getting electrocuted.

And his deep voice as he moans, rumbles, and chuckles in arousal, appreciation, and euphoria provides a sensation that vibrates and reverberates around your entire cock like a goddamn sex toy.

For this being his first time sucking cock, he’s cemented himself as nothing but a goddamn sex god.

And it’s no surprise that once your eyes start rolling back, especially after such a life-changing orgasm earlier, you can feel that familiar rush coming back once again.

“T-TOJI- A-AGAIN!!!~ I- AH! I CAN FEEL IT AGAINNNNNN~.”

It’s just as intense as before, and you’re filled with just as much anticipation as before as that tidal wave approaches you once more.

You need it! You want it! You’ll die for it! You’ll-

“NGHH?!?!?!?”

But, to your dismayed surprise, Toji does something brand new.

As you got closer and closer to shooting your semen like a fucking firehose once more, Toji could tell.

The way your cock throbbed in his mouth even more, the way your hole tightened around his fingers oh-so-tightly, and the way your entire body began shivering and trembling… He’d be an idiot not to be able to tell you were about to erupt.

But Toji… he wants to see you in all your filthy glory.

Whatever sight is possible and within his reach, he’ll make sure he can make you do it.

So, just as you were about to shoot, he PRESSED the tip of his tongue extremely firmly against the slit of your tip, preventing you from spewing semen despite the overwhelming amount of pleasure you’re feeling.

And you just begin the tremble and shake even more above Toji, as your body is denied that rapturous release that you for sure felt approaching.

“W-w–Whyyyyyyy~~~...” You begin to sob stupidly as you feel the pleasure but are denied release on his terms. “I wanna… I wanna… I WANNNA!!!~~ NGH!!!~”

Your sad whines soon become those familiar moans as your body, as expected, becomes overtaken by pleasure, attacking you on all sides.

His fingers fucking you and opening you up beyond repair as a pace that some might deem evil, his tongue and throat that suck you off so hungrily, one might think he’s trying to suck the skin of your cock off, and his voice sending sex toy vibrations on your cock that spread throughout your body, FUCK, YOU NEED TO CUM!

But… you can’t…

Not with the tip of his tongue pressing against your slit like a fucking plug.

Why… Why is he torturing you like this? You’ve been nothing but good for him?

You listened to every word and followed every command!

So, why?

WHY?!?

And the worst thing is, you can’t even say anything about how frustrated you are.

The pleasure is so insane that you cannot speak, no matter how much you want to.

And… even if you could say something… maybe your submission towards Toji would prevent you from defying, opposing, or fighting back against whatever it is he chooses to do to you.

But, little do you know, Toji isn’t trying to torture you… mostly.

No, it’s all part of his scheme to see something even greater than your previous orgasm, which, yes, is entirely possible if his tongue and hands are involved.

He wants to see something even hotter, feel even dirtier, and get even wetter.

Oh, you aren’t ready… he’s got heaven doors ready to be opened for you.

After a few more seconds of agonizing but delightful torturous pleasure and denial… You feel something different happening in your body.

Something feels… off.

And you begin to squirm uncomfortably despite the overwhelming pleasure.

“Toji?! T-TOJI?!” You say in alarm and panic, the feeling in your lower stomach and cock getting stronger and stronger and completely unstoppable. “Something feels weird!!!!! It feels weird! FUCK! It FEELS LIKE I’M GONNA- NGHHGNGHHHHH!~ NONONO!~.”

You feel it in your shaft, something’s coming out. Something you cannot stop… not that he’d let it stop.

Is this what rocket engineers feel when they’re about to see a rocket launch up into space successfully?

Is this how one feels when he’s about to see a marvellous feat in human history?

Pfft, who knows, he doesn’t give a fuck about that shit.

But what he’s about to see is gonna be something he’ll keep in his own personal science book stored deep in his mind, for he’s pushing the limits of your body tonight.

Feeling your body shake even more, your cock throb and pulse maniacally in his mouth, and hearing your words devolve back into unintelligible nonsense… Toji deems it time.

And with the big red button right in front of him, Toji full-on roundhouse kicks it with all of his power.

All at once, he STABS your abused prostate with his fingers with all of his strength, and he finally… removes his tongue from your slit and positions his face in front of your cock once more with his mouth wide open.

And just like that, the dam shatters into dust, resulting in a tsunami.

PSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHH

You can’t even scream as your body goes completely limp against the wall.

All you can do is tremble undignifiedly as your body is pushed to the absolute extreme.

Your cock doesn’t shoot this time.

It fucking squirts.

You’re not shooting semen this time, you’re violently shooting a clear and hot liquid like you’re fucking pissing.

And your body, soul, and goddamn existence feels like it’s approaching death’s door.

The tip of your cock is so overwhelmed and overpleasured by the friction of your squirt rubbing against the slit that you can feel what feels like a micro-orgasm accompanying your current one, and it’s a WONDER that you’re still fucking conscious.

And Toji… well, he feels like he’s on Heaven’s Throne.

With eyes blissfully closed and his mouth open and receiving, he basks in all that he's forcing out of you, like he’s taking a hot shower.

His hair is wet, his skin is wet, and his fucking pillow, blanket, and mattress are SOAKED, and he’s convinced that this is better than winning the lottery.

Like a man parched, and he honestly was from the mind-breaking sex he’s been giving you, he drinks up your liquid like it’s clean water from the purest and highest of glaciers, swallowing your warmth down his throat and feeling it travel down to his stomach, before opening his mouth once more and feeling your liquid fill him up in the most filthy and sinful of ways.

You taste like a dream… a wet dream, in the most literal of ways.

And all while this happens, you actually go faint for a few seconds, your body going into emergency mode and needing just a few seconds of rest just so that you don’t actually fall apart as you’re pushed to the sexual limits, toeing the line very dangerously because of Toji.

You’re alive… in the sense that your blood is still running, still breathing, and still squirting, but your brain is fucking fried.

The moans, whines, and screams you let out are brainless and stupid, your eyes are rolled far back, and your body is limp.

But despite your state, you have never been as blissed out as you are right now.

This is heaven, despite what it may look like, and you don’t ever want to fall back to Earth.

But alas, you must come back to Earth as your blinding orgasm ends and your vision slowly becomes less cloudy, as your ferocious stream gradually turns into a sad little trickle… and as your body begins to limply fall backwards onto the bed, your back about to fall unceremoniously onto Toji’s legs.

But the attentive man he is, Toji, soaked and satisfied, quickly surges forward, catching you in his arms, and letting you collapse ungracefully on top of him and in his wet, slippery embrace.

Your naked bodies are so wet that it looks like you both went for a swim… when in reality, you’re covered in just sweat, while he’s covered in drool, cum, sweat, and squirt… It’s absolutely filthy, obscene, and surely disgusting to normal people who live in actually safe cities or towns… but for you and him, it’s pure delight.

The single pillow, single blanket, and mattress below you two are drenched completely, soaked in all the aforementioned fluids and probably needing to be burnt once this night is over, but it’s where you two are creating a memory that you both hope will never die, even when you’re in your final seconds.

This isn’t the after-events of a romantic date night, with silk sheets and rose petals scattered on the bed.

Nope. All that’s here is a drenched and further desecrated mattress, a single nightstand that Toji got from a dump, scattered clothes on the ground, and a dead body next door… but it honestly, it suits two men like you who already live in a shithole.

It’s nothing romantic… but it’s yours and his.

…

But here’s the crazy thing.

Toji isn’t done.

Of course, he isn’t.

Because while you saw stars, galaxies, and universes that no one else has seen in your euphoric and orgasmic flow state, Toji’s painfully hard and virile cock remains blissfully tortured.

It was beautiful to turn you into his own personal fountain, the epitome of how sex can be artistic and filthy.

But as he feels you pant like a bitch on top of him, as he feels your face bury itself into the crook of his neck in search of comfort, and as he feels your slippery and wet cock rub against his abs, almost like you’re begging him for more, he decides that it’s finally time to put himself first and chase his own euphoria.

And by this point, he’s done with words.

Just as brainless as he made you, the sight of you, the feel of you, and the taste of you just as well devolved him into a beast, one who feels no need to warn or ease you into anything.

And so, with nothing being said, just his hands gripping your ass and his huge cock pressing its tip into your loosened hole… all he can do is pat your ass cheekily and… affectionately before he…

FWOP

“Mmmmmmmm!!!!!!!~”

“Fu~ccckkkkkk, yeah!”

… shoves the entirety of his thick, long, meaty, and more than 10-inch cock balls-deep right up into your asshole.

And terrifyingly yet blissfully so, it fills you up WAY more than his four fingers did.

You can feel your hole stretching even more to accommodate his huge and actually invasive size, but fuck, it feels even better than his fingers did, and he hasn’t even started fucking you yet!

His huge cock is hot, wet, and it fills you up perfectly as it pulses and throbs so violently inside of you that it’s almost like his dick is a fucking vibrator, and that’s just a testament to how horny he is and how badly he needs to breed you, ruin you, and abuse your prostate for his own pleasure.

“Fucking hell, baby… you’re so tight for me… so wet for me… so hot for me…” Toji is holding one of your asscheeks hard with one hand as he pushes his sweaty and squirt-wet hair back as if he just came back from a swim with the other. “... So good for me… You’re all mine, yeah, MC? This hole belongs to your next-door neighbour, mhm?”

Toji doesn’t realize the colour his voice is speaking in as he whispers roughly and possessively next to your ear.

In the bed, he’s always been mean, merciless, ruthless, and rough, even if he had pleasuring others in mind.

And he certainly has been all of those things with you.

But with you in his arms, and him covered in all of you, he can feel that familiar feeling he felt earlier when you thanked him with such… warm eyes.

And it’s weird.

And he doesn’t want to acknowledge it.

But… It’s not like he’s been given the opportunity to.

Because, unexpectedly to him, you move your face out from the crook of his neck to look at him in the face, and this time, he’s the one being worshipped.

Even with your hazy vision and with just some moonlight shining down on your filthy show, he looks just as handsome as he did when he saved you from a horrible fate.

He’s a vulgar mess, no doubt about it… But wow, is he as handsome as ever.

As he stares at you with wondering and expectant green eyes, you’re in awe at how he somehow looks even sexier in his messy state.

He shines from how drenched he is, his skin glossy and glistening with saliva, lube, jizz, and squirt, a beautiful sight painted with the most salacious of paints.

Clear liquid and cum glides down his face and drops from his chin like honey and milk, a mask he’s proud to wear.

His once soft black hair that previously fell to give him a charming, low-effort look is now soaking wet and pushed back, giving him a surfer’s look in the filthiest of ways.

It isn’t wholesome in any way, shape, or form… but somehow, for you, the sight of him made your heart sing and feel all fuzzy inside.

It’s one that you made together.

And despite the answer to his words being the most obvious thing in the world and truly not needing to be said… You press his forehead to yours in tired affection and whisper as you look into his bewitching green stare.

“I’m yours, Toji…” You say with warm eyes and a tired but adoring voice. “Forever as I wish and for as long as you command, I’m yours.” And perhaps in a quick moment of cheekiness, you say one more thing. “And again… thank you for saving me. I’ve never felt luckier.”

And with that, you plant your lips on his, kissing the neighbour that you used to vehemently resent, kissing the man who saved your life from a grim fate…, giving yourself to the man who made you his own.

And despite Toji exactly what he wanted to hear from you, he doesn’t kiss you back immediately, for your words, once again, made that unfamiliar and annoyingly uncomfortable warm and fuzzy feeling come back to his stomach and heart.

He doesn’t do feelings.

He won’t.

He can’t.

He never wanted to!

So why?

Why do you, the little runt who lives next door, who happens to have the prettiest face and cutest ass in this entire town, make him feel such fucking disgusting things whenever you thank him?

…

And despite how disgusting and wrong such warm feelings feel to him… why… why doesn’t he hate it?

He can’t say it’s love.

A selfish, vile, hateful, and harmful man like that cannot love after all the shit he’s said and done throughout his life.

But as you kiss him like a boy devoted to his saviour, and as he feels you all over him in body and substance… maybe he can admit that… he doesn’t want to say goodbye to you.

For the first time in his life, he found someone he wanted to hold when the dirty dance is all said and done.

And that is something he cannot deny that he loves.

And with that discovery made deep inside as you kiss him like a lover, Toji grips your hair with one hand tightly and shoves his finger back inside you and…

“I’ll never let you go, MC…”

PLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAP

“AAANHHHHHHHHHH~!!!!!”

“MMMMMMMHMMMMMM!!!~”

… begins to JACKHAMMER your asshole and prostate with his huge cock at a blindingly fast pace with the most merciless amount of strength possible.

As expected, despite the warm feelings in the air, soft and sweet was never Toji’s style in bed.

No, he doesn’t make love, he destroys and ruins.

He fucks you so hard and quickly from below that every time he pulls out and fucks back up into you like a machine set at maximum power, all that can be heard in his small and almost empty room is the deafening BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM of his hips slamming into yours like a freight train.

He’s so ballistically rough that when he fucks up into you, you legitimately fly up in the air just a little bit high enough to slam down onto his cock and meet him on the way down when he thrusts back up.

And as you two make out with each other like ravenous and insatiable lovers, as your hips continuously slam into each other, you both moan like absolute, brainless whores as you savour each other’s presence and bodies in the best of ways.

The pheromone-infused and musky haze that floats around you two as you fuck each other’s brains out ferociously and passionately is hot, the scent of your beastly sex floating around you two like a heady and musky cologne that’s warm, cloudy, and so rawly man and primal. 

Neither of you can talk anymore, but you don’t need to, for your bodies and actions convey any possible message either of you wants to say to each other.

The way you hug Toji as you make out with him, getting your fluids all over your skin, speaks of your newfound adoration for this bad man.

And the way Toji grips your hair, brutalizes your prostate with his cock, fingerfucks you along with his cock… well, that’s just him being him, but he isn’t just being fuelled by the insatiable beast that is his libido. His newfound feelings also serve as gasoline to his engine, making him fuck you as hard and fast as humanly possible for a strong man like him.

And somewhere in this drenched, debauched, musky, hot, humid, and testosterone-ladened bedroom in a shitty apartment building in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, the tiniest spark of romance was born most unconventionally.

…

And, Toji can’t say that he hates it.

He’s not sure he can say who’s luckier.

Him for finding such a prize despite being a horrible man?

Or you for managing to snag his worship and devotion with just some sweet words and a nice smile?

Maybe both of you, actually.

Who knows.

He can’t believe that with just a little bit of time, he went from telling you that he wouldn’t have saved your life if you were ugly to wanting to, at the very least, sleep in the same bed with you tonight after all this is over.

He’ll probably, and deservedly in his opinion, be in the ground six feet under or bleeding to death in some alley from gunshots or stab wounds before he could ever utter such honest words to you… But for now, he grips your hair less tightly, a small step but one that he easily notices himself taking.

But regardless of his slow acceptance of his feelings, if he can even call them that, he’s still at his core, a hedonistic, pleasure-chasing deviant, and something like feelings won’t slow him down or soften his assault on your prostate.

Hell, his newfound appreciation not just for your body, but also for you as a person, makes his pleasure feel even more vivid and real.

Your slick, wet walls, despite the constant loosening they were subjected to, still hug, cling, and rub the entirety of his huge dick like a wet dream. Your slippery, hot, and fleshy softness makes his eyes roll back as he makes out with you and makes his tongue dance in messy circles with yours.

In this moment, you’re not both just on cloud nine.

You’re soaring high in the cosmos together.

And with the stars, moon, and dark sky being your backdrop on this passionate dance… your mutual pleasure begins to ascend higher than the stars that watch you.

Toji’s thrusts grow shaky, clumsy, and stiff, although he still maintains his power, and you can’t even ride him anymore, letting yourself be carried by his cataclysmic force… an indicator that in just a few seconds… you’re both about to explode like dynamite.

“Baby… BABY- GAH…! SHITSHITSHIIIIII~TTTTTT!” He, unfortunately, forced his lips away from yours ever since you started kissing him. The feeling of his impending orgasm made him bury his face in the crook of your neck in overexerted desperation this time. “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum, ho~~~~ly SHIT, I’m gonna cum!”

His words and thrusts turn you on like nothing before, and you cling to him like a lifeline as you feel your third orgasm of the night threatening to tip you over the edge once more.

“MMMM! Me too!” You cry into the pillow, your voice muffled by the wet thing but still audible to Toji. “Fill me up, PLEASE! Cum in me, Toji!~ Please? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease, I’ll be your good boy forever if you fill me up, fuck, I just want you so bad, I never want to be anywhere else if it isn’t with you, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!!~~~~~”

“FUCK, BABY!!!” He shouts in the crook of your neck in ecstasy, the volume of his voice so loud that it vibrates on the skin of your neck. “Anything you want, kid, it’s yours. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it… You want me to fill you up and paint your slutty little insides white the same way you painted my face? GOD, I’ll do it!!!! WHATEVER YOU WANT, MC!!!!~” 

Flesh slams into flesh, getting louder and louder and louder as your orgasm approaches.

Voices become scratchier and raspier as you both shout, moan, scream, and groan like madmen possessed by lustful demons.

It’s hot, it’s sosososososososo fucking hot, it feels like a goddamn sauna in here despite Toji’s window being open.

And though it’s been a long time coming, that oh-so amazing but torturous begins to bloom deep in your lower stomachs and cocks.

PLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMFWOPFWOPOFWPOFWPOFWPOBOOMBOOMBOOMBOOM

The combined volume of Toji’s violent thrusts sounding like thunderclaps in his room, your wet and lustful acapella duet, and his bed creaking for dear life actually begins to make both of your eardrums hurt, but neither of you cares.

For as you both come closer…

“MC!!!!!!!!! AW, FUCK, I CAN’T- FUCK! TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKE IT TAKEITTAKEITTAKEIT, FUCKING TAKE ITTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

… and closer…

“TOJI, AGAIN!!!! I’M GONNA CUM AGAIN!!!!~”

… and closer to the end of the night…

All that you can hear is both of you nearing the edge of glory.

And neither of you wants anything else.

For when you finally approach the edge, and jump off with your hands held tight and your bodies pressed against each other like lifelines…

SPLURTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

“GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK, UNGH, MC!!!!!!!”

“MNGGGGG-AHHHHHHHHHHHH~~~~!!!!!!!!!”

Your voices that reach their breaking points as you desecrate each other’s bodies with hot semen are what you keep present in the moment and remind you that you’re in this beautiful and vivacious moment as your bodies ascend in orgasmic glee.

His voice, dark, devilish, and uncaring when you first met him, is now a beastly and desperate roar as he shoots generations of his seed into your asshole, his load thick, heavy, hot, and dense, from all the build-up, foreplay, sex, and realizations that transpired before this life-altering moment.

Your voice, terrified, scared, and scratchy from almost being strangled to death, is now utterly blissed out and jovial as you cum for a third time tonight, and though it shouldn’t be possible, the load that shoots out of your over-worked cock is just as thick and voluminous as your first, a testament to just how good Toji railed you.

Toji might as well consider himself a new man with how right cumming inside of you and painting your insides white with his male essence felt. You’re farrrr from the first guy he busted a nut into, but he has, never, not once in his life, felt this connected to someone in bed before.

Is kindness or, hell, even just hearing a thank you, really that rare in this town?

Has his life been so shit that he immediately became infatuated with the one person who ever showed kindness?

… Yes, yes, it has been, and it made him just as shit of a person.

But that’s in the past. He’ll probably be just a trash of a human as he always has been, but maybe for you… He’ll tone it down ju~sssstttt a smidge.

As soon as your orgasm started, you once again went limp, but lying on top of Toji as you began to splash your cum felt both wholesome and dirty like a filthily perfect combination.

The grip on your hair that comfortingly scratches your scalp, the other hand that’s now gripping your waist and holding you impossibly close to him, and the endless amounts of prime jizz that fills you up and brands you forevermore, it shouldn’t feeling loving… but a part of you can’t help but feel like the way he touches you now is, and it’s so barely noticeable that you’re convinced you might be delusional, is softer, more tender.

This moment in your always painful, tragic, and fucked-up life joins the little cardboard box in your head containing the few moments that made you smile and hold close to your heart.

Being in each other’s arms, covered in each other’s essences, and shivering in ecstasy and catharsis as your orgasms die down… it evokes such a warm and happy feeling in your heart, that despite the events that transpired leading up to this moment… you’re grateful that those horrors led you here, to him.

As you lie on top of Toji, hot, panting, and surely not the image of elegance, you know you’re happy where you are.

Yes, the man whom you’ve given yourself to is definitely no prince, and he probably will never be considered the way he talked to you earlier, and the man he killed earlier might not have even been his first, with how swiftly he did it.

But as he wordlessly yet gently grabs you by the hair, pushes you back, and makes you fall onto the foot of the bed and gets on top of you, and gets ready to fuck you missionary, making it clear that he isn’t going to give you a break, you realize that…

PLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPLAPALPLAP

… You don’t need a prince.

You just need him.

4:42 AM

On the floor and sitting by the side of his bed, Toji rests his head back in relaxed yet feral on his drenched mattress as he grips your asscheeks hard and manually SLAMS you up and down and up and down and up and down on his cock that’s still just as hard as it was when the night first started.

5:06 AM

You both got so insanely dehydrated and drained that you had to beg Toji, while he made you fuck your cock against his abs as he jerked off like a fucking pervert, for a glass of water.

And what did he do?

He picked you up, stood up from his bed, IMPALED you on his cock, and began slamming you up and down his shaft once more while he walked out of his bedroom and to the fridge in the kitchen to fetch plastic water bottles for both of you.

He then drank some water for himself, and rather than letting you drink from the bottle as well, he, with his mouth still full, forced your lips open with his mouth and kissed you.

Immediately, your mouth was filled with water, saliva, and whatever human essence Toji still had in his mouth, but your parched self was desperate, so you drank the filthy mixture.

And Toji repeated the dirty yet affectionate act again and again and again, until you weren’t thirty anymore…

Only to drain you once more as he violently palmed the tip of your cock as he fucked you and made you squirt once more all over him and yourself with your back against his fridge.

5:47 AM

As the sun slowly came up while Toji was skull-fucking you and making you cry in pain and pleasure, a nasty idea came into his head.

And as a result, he’s now blowing your brains out with your body resting on his windowsill.

As you're getting your insides rearranged irreversibly, the lower half of your body is still inside and getting violated beyond repair, and your upper half?

Well, all you see as you get fucked with your head hanging outside Toji’s window are the green trees that surround your apartment building.

Thank God, you both live in the middle of nowhere, because someone definitely would’ve been able to hear your pleasured and brain-dead moans and screams as Toji rails you into a new life.

6:30 AM

With the sun rising and the sky turning blue, that’s when the rest of the world comes alive and gets ready to tackle the day.

But alas, even primal beasts like Toji, and yourself, as you have discovered, are still just human, even if it sure hasn’t felt like it for the past few hours.

Endless exertion later, non-stop rounds of hard sex later, and gallons of semen, spit, and sweat later, all you two can manage together as you tiredly chase your final orgasms of the morning is a soft and intimate frot.

Once again, as you two have made it your signature position, you're on top of Toji as he holds you tight with one hand in your hair and the other on your waist.

Your cocks are tired, not as hard as they were when the night was dark, and your balls barely have anything left in their reserves, but that final, trickling amount of arousal you still feel in your exerted bodies drove you to chase just one shot of ecstasy.

“Toji… are you okay?” You ask, not strong enough to still rub your against Toji’s as hard as he does.

In response to that, Toji kisses your drenched neck that’s covered in who knows what at this point. “Shut up, kid…” He says roughly. “I should be the one asking that… but yeah, I’m good. Uh… you good, then?” He says, quietly, not at all used to ever asking someone that.

“Mmm… good.” You say tiredly, his muscular body feels like a bed of its own. “M-mm!~ I think, fuck, I think I’m gonna cum soon…”

It’s faint, but it’s there, that very little jolt indicating your final leap into the depths.

And he feels it too, fuck, it might even hurt a little bit with just long and hard, how hard he fucked you non-stop for a few hours and until the sun came up.

Compared to when it was still nighttime and pitch-black outside, the morning sun coming into his room and shining down on you makes you look angelic, and the sight softens his rocky heart just a little.

“Mine.” He thinks to himself. “And if any fag ever tries to touch him again, I’ll shoot the bitch in public if I have to…”

And that little rush of possession drives him to push himself to the absolute limit to make you cum just one more time. 

His powerful body is screaming and yelling in pain, but he doesn’t care. If he can just hear you cry in pleasure in his arms one more time today, it’ll all be worth it.

And so fucks, and fucks, and fucks his cock against yours, roughly as always but unfortunately much slower despite his best efforts.

But for you, it’s just enough.

The hot, slimy, and wet friction of his huge shaft grinding against yours feels divine, the scratch of his bush provokes jolts of pleasure on your shaft, and the way his skin rubs against yours makes you feel like the center of his world, and all this combines to create one final rush of heaven.

“Hnggggg!~”

“Aahh……… Haha… fuck, yeah…”

Neither of you can scream in delight as you splurt only two to three shots of cum on each other’s cocks, only able to groan hoarsely, but honestly, the warmth you feel in your heart for Toji overshadows the orgasm this time, his arms wrapping around your tired body as the sunlight keeps you warm as well, feeling like happiness, something you rarely ever feel.

And just like that, here you two are after everything was said and done.

The scene is filthy and pornographic yet serene.

Both you and Toji, after hours of endless sex, are drenched and shiny in sweat and cum and whatnot, and your bodies are just we all decorated from head to hip in scratches, bite marks, hickies, and bruises, and the bed is beyond saving, soaked, squishy, and stained from the dance that ensued and the fluids that came out like fountains.

Your hole leaks Toji’s cum nonstop, and Toji is probably gonna have to use up a whole bottle of Pantene shampoo to clean his hair. All in all, you’re both an absolute and fucked up mess.

But despite the disgusting result, the heavenly and indiscriminate morning sun shines down on both of you, keeping you warm and making you both look serene and like a dream in each other’s eyes.

And the unexpected connection you two have found and solidified after such a chaotic night, it feels like one that will last, because neither of you refuses to ever let the other go.

You have finally, despite the terrifyingly rocky start, found someone who cares, because of certain qualifications, but whatever, that you stay alive.

Toji has finally, after almost 40 years of living recklessly, selfishly, and cruelly, found someone who just knows how to show a smile because they were grateful.

God, this town has ruined both of you so badly that such minute things have made you immediately latch onto each other so separately.

Kindness is so rare that when it’s shown, even with ulterior motives, it feels like meeting a hero.

But Toji… he isn’t your classic hero with a cape.

You’re about to fall asleep when you feel Toji shuffle from under you.

You open your eyes slightly, it being very hard to do so, considering how tired you are. You can barely see Toji reaching to his nightstand to grab a jar of… something.

“Toji…?” You whisper quietly, that being all you can muster. “What… what are you doing?”

“Shut up. Just be quiet, yeah? You sound horrible.” 

Those words translated into normal human talk would be “Shh, don’t speak. Your throat must be in a lot of pain, so rest your voice.” But he can’t say that, not in a few years, surely.

You obey and watch him open the jar before he dips his finger in and begins to rub… something on your neck.

Immediately, you feel a cooling and calming sensation, and you remember that before your body was thriving in pleasure and divinity, your neck was in agonizing pain from the strangling you got earlier.

…

Your heart beats quickly.

You won’t say anything, for he told you not to, but it could make you cry.

With a soothing balm that he stole from the local drug mart to use for himself when manual labour whooped his ass, he rubs your neck gently, and then moves onto your red, fucked-out hole.

“Mmm….~”

“Heh, fuckin’ fag sounds all blissed out now~ Good boy… you took my cock so fucking well…”

His tired voice sends delighted shivers throughout your skin, and your hole feels immediate relief as he swirls his balm-covered finger around your rim.

You didn’t see this ever happening from him, and honestly, he didn’t either.

But when he opened his eyes as he held you and saw the red and irritated skin around your neck, his body moved before he even realized.

And yeah, he doesn’t give a shit.

He’ll treat you well.

He’ll surely still hurt others and probably kill someone if he looks at you the wrong way.

He’ll never be a good man, but for you, he’ll try to be cordial

He’ll never be a hero.

He isn’t your classic hero with a cape.

But…

He doesn’t need to be.

All he needs to be is yours.

And all you need to be is his.

The silence that rang loudest, however? Their sovereignty. Unlike the other clans—the ones who flaunted their power in an effort to gain others’ favor, such as the Zen’in Clan—, the Gojo Clan ruled over the Jujutsu world with quiet control, holding everyone by a leash.

It was uncommon for Gojo Clan’s leaders to lose their tempers. They wouldn’t engage in extreme political battles until they deemed the situation necessary, which was very unlikely. They had a habit of letting a situation simmer until they could swoop in and take what they wanted; they’d release curses and their strongest sorcerers—their strongest. No one wanted to waste their time for a futile thing. No one wanted to waste their time trying to rebel against them. Why would they? Even the most vile of humanity valued their lives far too much for any brutal death the clan could offer.

It was concerning, to say the least. The idea that a single clan could hold so much authority over those who considered themselves on the same level wasn’t one people could easily wrap their heads around. Being treated like animals wasn’t something those fools could comprehend.

You were only a kid when you entered the clan; to them, you had the potential to be a lovely, devoteful servant. To be led along like a lamb to the slaughter and serve.

Maybe that’s what made you easy. You were a child: naive and ignorant. You didn’t know what it meant when they dragged you by a chain into the melancholy clan. You just obeyed, and the clan liked that. If only…

Oh, well. Your compliance is what led you here—a simple servant among the Gojo family—, and you’d rather have a purpose here than none. The Gojo Clan didn’t take lightly to slackers working for them. You carried your weight and then some.

You were a servant. A lesser-being in the presence of deities.

And you were content with that.

It was monotonous, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You woke up, got dressed, groomed yourself (and bathed yourself, if you were lucky), and went along with your daily chores. You’d occasionally chat with your colleagues about mundane things such as the weather before the conversation slowly fizzled out. But this life was better than nothing. They told you that. You believed it. They gave you no reason to believe otherwise.

As much as you’d hate to admit it, the clan probably saved you from a mundane, agonizing life filled with sorrow. At least here, you were worth something.

You are worth something.

Years went by. You weren’t the same naive seven-year-old boy who never questioned why all the ‘games’ you played with the adults were bowing to the elders and sweeping floors. Now, you are aware of your purpose. You are okay with it.

You are.

“Servant.”

You perked up at the call. No one knows the names of the servants, so why would they know yours? It was always the people beckoning ‘servant’, and the nearest one would respond.

You’re alone here.

Politely, oh-so-politely, you bowed in the direction of the voice, your hands tucked down. Looking up isn’t allowed, as it’s disrespectful. “Yes?” You question, your voice laced with an exhaustion that was noticed in every servant.

“The audience hall needs attending,” they respond. The voice was stern and gravelly, yet weary and stoic. It’s definitely Nakano. Only his voice is so distinct and defined. “Second floor.”

“Right away.” You don’t lift your body from the bow until you hear him walk past you, his footsteps thudding against the wooden floorboards until you can’t distinguish them with the occasional creaks of the walls.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted yourself with a straight back.

Your steps were even and measured as you walked to the audience hall. This hall was a small one, though you heard from murmurs that there was a gathering occurring in that room. You weren’t too concerned, however. If you blend into the background, then no one would care for your presence.

Your hands adjusted the mask on your head, ensuring it wouldn’t slip off as you went through with your duties. All servants adorned them on their faces to keep anonymity. You never questioned why the servants would need to retain their anonymous personas as servants. It’s not like they were ever needed. Still, you wore it without complaints. It was a standard protocol, you told yourself. Part of the uniform.

The masks of all the servants were wooden and painted white. From a distance, one could mistake a servant for a cryptid under the guise of a human. You couldn’t blame them. You thought so, too. When you were younger, the other servants who took care of you also wore them. Their masks made them appear sickly and pale. You imagined their faces underneath to be the same: hollowed cheeks with drooping eyes and no emotion. With the masks, you could never read how they were feeling. Their body language was limited except for the stiff bow and polite nod given to authority figures as they passed through the halls.

How ironic that you do the same. Maybe that’s why they wore them.

So no one would know what they were thinking. Why would they need to know?

You reached the audience hall.

With tentative hands, you opened the doors with intricate designs, slipping inside and closing it behind you. You took in your surroundings immediately. It’s a habit you’ve gained over the years. You wouldn’t want to interrupt something important, would you? That’s not befitting of a servant. Especially one of your status amongst them.

A few important figures of the clan’s leadership were standing in an organized manner around the elevated portion of the stage. A figure was on the elevated floor, speaking while sitting languidly on a pillow. You didn’t spare him a second glance, but his voice was loud and clear. He sounds arrogant, you thought, though you quickly pushed the thought away. You can’t think of such things towards people above you. It’s rude and, frankly, out of character for you.

Still, you couldn’t deny how… demeaning he was. You were barely listening, as you didn’t have any right to, but occasional words and phrases slipped through your wooden mask. Trashy, he said. Stupid, old, idiots, selfish, weak…

He was right, of course. Most of the people here are manipulative for their own personal gain, but why would everyone bother listening to someone like him? He’s just insulting everyone.

You decided you didn’t care enough to think about it any longer.

‘Attending,’ Nakano said. Honestly, you didn’t know what that entailed. But by the looks of the few other servants offering snacks to the crowd, you had a feeling ‘attending’ was synonymous with ‘serve’.

Or ‘deal with’.

Being as calm as you could be, you walked to the back of the room. The sound of the man talking was muffled. Your mask blocked out a majority of the noise around you except for the sound of your soft breathing hitting the wood. You were calm. There were trays of food in the back, each placed with intent. Too perfect and symmetrical. Mimicking a few of the other servants, you gathered a tray with a few appetizers.

Your footsteps felt heavy. You were unsure as to why you felt so nervous. You’ve done this before. But the atmosphere was too tense and heavy for a regular meeting. The way the figure on the stage was talking, the way the nobles in the crowd looked angry yet refused to do anything, simply clutching their fists…

You were calm.

You maneuvered through different people in the crowd, arms stretched out to offer with your head bowed to display your humility. You’d occasionally stop by a person. Either they’d pluck a morsel from the tray and eat it without sparing a glance, or they’d pretend like they didn’t see you, focusing on the figure on stage, leaving you to wait like a dog for their attention before walking away when realizing it was futile, your tail tucked between your legs.

How embarrassing.

You continued this until the man on the stage stopped talking. When he sighed dramatically, everyone took it as a sign to leave. Some muttered curses under their breath, others blatantly insulted the speaker’s crass language. Maybe they didn’t want to be here.

The moment the last person left, the servants—you included—relaxed their arms, letting the trays drop to their waist-level. Everyone felt limp and dead.

The other servants walked back to set the trays down and clear everything out. It was time to clear the room for its next use. The tablecloths needed to be folded, the tables needed to be moved and rearranged to their proper spots. Some were already clearing off empty trays with only crumbles.

You took a step, ready to do the same. After all, you’ve spent years climbing the ranks to become head servant. It’s best to set a good example for the new people who only joined—

“Hey, servant.”

The voice was casual. Teasing, almost, if you really strained your ear.

A few of the other servants turned to the call. You did, too. Instinct. Like dogs trained for years. How pathetic.

Through the holes of your white mask, you could see him: the speaker.

White hair was the first thing you noticed. It was stark against the rich brown takamakura he rested his head on—white hair was an unnatural color, even in a place as marvelous as the Gojo Clan. He was sprawled flat on his back, one leg propped up.

His teeth were bared in a smile. Lazy and sly like a fox.

“Yeah, you. C’mere.” He barely lifted his hand from the ground to beckon you forward.

Oh, he was referring to you specifically. How interesting.

You were nothing but obedient. Rearranging the tray on your body, you stepped closer. Your shadow cast against his pale, smooth skin. He had no blemishes, which wasn’t entirely uncommon among people the Gojo Clan considered worth protecting more than others. While some of the sorcerers had prominent scarring on their bodies, a testament to their power, others looked like porcelain dolls without a crack. Shielded more than others, you supposed. Important.

“Feed me,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing. His smile never wavered. “I want those sweet tarts on your tray.”

He was just as impolite as before.

But oh, his eyes.

They held the ocean inside of them. You were grateful for the mask resting upon your face. You looked foolish, with your own eyes wide in awe, your lips pulled apart in a quiet gasp that was a disgrace to your station.

They were vibrant and full of a life you wish you could’ve had. The waves of the East Sea crashed against his pupils like the tide giving the shore a fleeting kiss before receding with haunting memories of something far too important. The clouds swirled like watercolor’s white; an angel’s wings glowing uncomfortably bright, overwhelming yet not nearly enough.

He was beautiful.

And you just openly stared.

Foolish.

“I ain’t got all day. I get it, I’m pretty, but multitask.”

You blinked and shook your head slightly. Ah, he was still waiting. Right. You need to do your job. As intended. As your purpose. Despite how weird the request was. Especially despite how weird his request was.

He was definitely around your age, perhaps a bit older. You’ve only fed children, not arrogant brats like him.

You sighed internally. You really needed to get yourself together.

Gently, you set the tray down next to his head and crouched down, your knees popping. Your body ached, and your muscles were sore, but you’d be able to rest soon. Or so you’ve been told many times before. You let yourself believe it like an idiot every time.

Your legs relaxed against the wooden floor when they finally had support. You don’t sit on the elevated part of the floor; that’s forbidden for servants. You’re beneath him, and you should show it in every way possible, when possible. (Not if possible, because it’s always possible.)

You plucked a tart from the tray and held it out, letting it hover over his mouth. He didn’t open it at first, just stared at the sweet treat above him, observing it. Then he opened his mouth wide.

You placed the tart into his mouth and pulled it away.

He closed. Chewed deliberately. Paused, as if contemplating whether or not the tarts were worth his time. Then opened his mouth again. I want another one, he seemed to say silently, looking at you expectantly. Like hesitating for a second was outrageous behavior when it came to feeding him like a cat.

How rude.

Both of you continued this for a while. It was a peculiar scene. You’d grab a treat, hold it above his mouth, and he’d eventually open his mouth and let you plop it in. He’d chew—this time with more haste, as now he knew they were to his liking—and open his mouth wide again.

His eyes were always on you. It was unnerving to say the least, but you did your job nonetheless until the tray was empty.

He didn’t notice at first, just staring at you without blinking. Then he processed that you weren’t feeding him and glanced at the now-empty tray, his head lifting barely.

“Get more,” he ordered, his neck relaxing again.

You looked around. The other servants from earlier were still there, cleaning the room. They hadn’t glanced towards the two of you: the head servant feeding an important figure of the Gojo Clan. But the tension felt high for some reason. It always was in the clan.

Some more platters were still on the table, but there weren’t any of the same sweets you fed him earlier. They were already cleared out by the other servants, and this was the last tray you grabbed.

You turned back to the figure and shook your head.

He huffed. “Hah?” His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and you could tell he was starting to get annoyed. “I said get more, or are ya’ pretending to be deaf?” His lips jutted out slightly in a pout, and you couldn’t keep a grin from creeping onto your face. You caught yourself and pursed them. What are you doing, smiling at his reaction?

You weren’t permitted to speak. You haven’t spoken more than a few words in three days. So you just shook your head again, pointed to the tray, pointed to the table at the far end of the room, and shook your head again.

He still didn’t get it. You could tell with the way his head angled more towards you, the way he squinted as if that’d help him figure out your signals. He muttered, “god, do I still have to do this?” under his breath, agitated. He cleared his throat too loudly. “Speak,” he commanded, but it sounded more like a request. Like you were given a choice. But you know better.

“There aren’t any of the same sweets you wanted at the table,” you answered immediately, clearing your throat as well. You needed water. Your voice was hoarse. “Would you like me to request the kitchen to make you more?” you offered. It was a common rule in the daimyo castle: don’t refuse without offering an alternative solution.

He stuck his tongue out childishly and made a “blah” sound as he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. ‘S too much effort.” You already felt like you had an idea on what this guy was like. Lazy, arrogant, cocky, and got everything in life on a platter. Sweets included.

Just like everyone else here.

You nodded. You were finished talking.

Now you just need him to dismiss—

“You a guy?”

You focused on him again. Huh?

“Most of the servants here are girls,” he commented casually, his eyes still on you. How long has he been staring? Has he even blinked? “Not many guys, considering the patriarchy.”

“Oh.” You hummed. He was making conversation? “Yes, I’m a guy.”

“Weird.”

No shame.

“You’re pretty lame,” he observed, his eyes travelling up and down your body with a calculating gaze, yet his mouth kept that lazy grin. “And quiet.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t allowed to. You were earlier, but not now.

He waited a few seconds, the quiet enveloping the two of you before he groaned, lifting his arms to rub his face. “You can talk, geez. I don’t want to keep repeating that command over and over again like some record.”

This was… new.

“Forgive me.” You bowed your head.

He groaned again. “Stop apologizing. It’s making you more lame.”

You opened your mouth to apologize. Then closed it. Hm.

Sighing dramatically, he used his arms to push himself upright. Your gaze followed his face, which was contorted into what can only be described as boredom. “How boring…” he mumbled, proving your earlier thought. His slender hands reached and rubbed his eyes. He looked agitated.

You were still sitting on the floor, your knees aching against the wood, waiting for him to dismiss you.

“Massage my head.”

You didn’t sigh. You wished you could. But you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t.

Instead of pondering on what you would do later, your thoughts traveled to how to approach the command given to you. You’re not permitted on the elevated portion of the room, yet that’s where he is.

Perhaps you were thinking too long, because he groaned, albeit this time louder in a way meant to grab attention. He liked attention, you assumed, even if you knew you weren’t supposed to assume. “Are you slow? What’s the holdup?”

“I’m not allowed on that portion of the room—“

“I don’t care. Get up here and massage my head.”

You did as you were told. You always do.

As you crawled onto the higher floor, he sat up and swatted the takamakura away, letting it slide and clatter before bumping into a wall. It was expensive; he doesn’t have to worry about money, you concluded.

You sat behind him, your legs pressed together neatly. He was tall, even when he leaned back with his arms propping himself upright. Just massage him even if it’s weird, you told yourself. Just massage—

He pulled his arms back and plopped his head into your lap.

Well.

“Mm…” he whined and nuzzled into your thigh, and for the second time, your breathing hitched, and you let yourself freeze instead of listening to the commands given to you. “You’re oddly warm. It’s usually freezing here.”

“U-Uhm…” you stammered. Actually stammered instead of giving a straight answer. You hesitated. You’re not supposed to hesitate.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the mask’s old wood. “I have been told I have a naturally warm body temperature.” You spoke without adding anything meaningful to the exchange. It’s unlike you. It’s strange. It’s not normal. Why are you talking?

But he just laughed and sighed with content. Too comfortable, resting his head on a servant’s lap in the Gojo Clan—a man, no less. “Massage, please,” he asked again, but he didn’t sound upset with having to repeat himself. “Scalp,” he clarified.

Your hands, rough with calluses—all from chores and housework—began to work themselves through his hair, scratching the crown before working downwards. His hair felt like the silk many adorned themselves with. The position was awkward for your hands, but you could work with it. You always do.

He sighed, a faint smile slowly growing on his face. It was a bit embarrassing, actually. A few of the remaining servants barely glanced at the scene; the masks made it hard to tell, thank goodness. But if they were looking, you know they’d be uncomfortable with the situation. Not that they’d voice it out loud.

“Your hands’re… good at this,” he slurred. His eyes that held the sky closed. He was relaxed. His speech was still informal, you noticed. It’s been like that throughout the entire interaction, but you found yourself focusing on it more than you should’ve. More than what was appropriate.

“More,” he begged. Begged. Maybe he was begging. But why would anyone beg for something from you? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe his words were just getting to you.

The heat underneath the mask was unbearable. Were you seriously this flushed over a man finding your massage good?

You’ve massaged others before when you were still training under the other servants. They were considered lower-class assignments, often given to the inexperienced ones; seniority still applied among servants (because the irony was bitter, how unimportant figures could continue to divide themselves). You shouldn’t be this affected by someone saying your massage was good, not mentioning the fact that he shouldn’t be complimenting you in the first place.

Maybe he wanted you to be offended because this task was supposed to be given to new servants. Maybe that’s why.

But god, you really didn’t feel offended. That’s probably worse.

His eyes snapped open, yanking you out of your curiosity regarding his demeanor, and he seemed to stare through your mask. He grinned, like he could see how flustered you were through the pale wood that concealed everything it was meant to conceal. “Why don’t you do this more often?” He questioned. “Your hands are great for this.”

You didn’t respond. Not because you weren’t told to. He said you could talk whenever.

No, you just didn’t know how.

At your prolonged silence—that was entirely out of character, considering all servants should respond when spoken to—, he laughed again. It was unguarded and unfiltered: just a light chuckle that sounded like the clouds. “So good… perfect.” The way he purred the last word was filthy.

Your hands never stopped moving. You wouldn’t let them. Because you were ordered to, you told yourself. No ulterior motive. Not because the praise made you feel something you haven’t felt in years.

It was strange how the world seemed to have come to this. First, Nakano ordered you to serve small platters to a few people. Now you were massaging a man’s head while he whined and furrowed his head into your lap. He was definitely messing with you.

“You can stop now.”

You pulled away like his snow-white hair burned you.

He didn’t get off your lap, though. Just stared at your mask. He was observing you. “You should take it off,” he said, a slender finger pointing to your mask, and you could’ve sworn his fingertips brushed the grainy texture. “I don’t like it.”

You faltered. “That’s not allowed,” you said calmly. Your heart rang like a caged dove. “I would be punished.” You instinctively reached and adjusted your mask against your face.

“Are you ugly?” Too blunt.

“That’s an opinion; I don’t know.”

“That is—“ he finally poked the mask, right where your forehead would be— “what an ugly person would say.” No one’s ever touched you so brazenly before, even if it was just your mask.

Then again, this guy is resting his head on your lap.

“I suppose so,” you replied. What else was there to say?

The man pouted, and suddenly his beauty evaporated once more into a sort of cute childishness. Cute. Him. Man, you must’ve been losing your mind. But his lips looked so… soft. Fragile.

But he didn’t get the chance to respond, as the doors to the audience hall opened abruptly.

Speak of the devil, it’s Nakano.

“Satoru,” he snapped, walking over to the stage with a presence that every servant in the vicinity noticed. They bowed.

You couldn’t stand up and do the same. You felt ashamed.

The man on your lap huffed, rolling his eyes with disrespect staining his skin. Nakano pretended not to notice, but his eyes twitched with irritation. “The elders have been looking for you. They wanted to… discuss the attitude you gave during your meeting.”

“More like scold me for being honest,” the man complained. Or Satoru, apparently. “I already know what they’ll say, so can I skip it?”

Nanako didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze traveled to you. You immediately bowed your head to ensure your eyes didn’t meet his. In an instant, you were aware of everything: the way Satoru’s head rested upon your lap—to intimately—, the way you were on the stage reserved for those of higher status, the way—

“And you, servant,” Nanako announced, his gaze pinning you to the wall like knives, “are bold to be sitting there, touching him so intimately.” It’s as if he knew what you were thinking. “Know your place, and get the hell—“

“Leave him,” Satoru said leisurely, his voice too calm for the tension. “I asked him to be here.”

“The servants shouldn’t touch you unless they’re bathing or grooming you.”

“He was massaging my hair,” Satoru argued, though the smile on his face showed that he didn’t really care about defending your actions. “That’s grooming, right?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Nanako continued, ignoring Satoru’s refute. “Especially in public where anyone could enter and see. The elders are already irritated with your behavior today; they’ll be furious.” For a second, you could’ve sworn Nanako’s voice softened at the end.

“Cease this immediately,” Nanako finished. “You’re already on thin ice.”

“Whatever,” Satoru grumbled, though he didn’t get off of you. It’s surprising to you that this Satoru hasn’t lost his head with his attitude.

“Get off.” Nanako’s definitely referring to you. “Leave to your quarters.”

You scrambled back to your feet, wincing when Satoru’s head hit the floor suddenly. He sat up and rubbed his head, but you were already scurrying out of the room in a hurry; an apology was the last thing you had in mind. The other servants could manage clearing the room. You just needed to leave.

You felt hot.

And all you could’ve focused on was the way he shifted on your lap.

God, you were fucked.

You pushed the memory out.

It was the safer option. You didn’t want to think about it.

Praise was a luxury. You don’t need it. You didn’t need it right now.

You want it, but you don’t need it.

It doesn’t mean much to you, anyways. Satoru probably forgot about you at this point. There’s no point in dwelling on the subject.

…How pitiful.

But despite what you told yourself, you put it upon yourself to do research. Not because you cared, heavens no—why would you care? The praise was nothing to you—, but because the whole interaction was too strange to ignore, even if you were above such things: a man so cocky and arrogant being allowed to give a speech saying how worthless everyone was? And they were forced to listen without complaining midway? Not only that, but he was clearly important. With the way he spoke to Nakano as if he were beneath him. And you weren’t punished on a whim when you got on the elevated floor and touched Satoru. If it were a regular day, you would’ve been struck immediately and left with bruises for days. Such instances have happened before when you were still learning. Yet Nakano left you unharmed. You had a feeling it was because of him, but you didn’t have proof.

You’d find proof.

Because you were curious. Nothing else at all. It was not because of the way he talked to you, his voice grating, yet the way he spoke—his praise—was like water against the shore. It wasn’t because his eyes were warm yet mirrored the ice that froze on rooftops during winter, a living paradox of the soul.

Of course not.

Curiosity. That’s it.

Being the head servant, you had a few privileges. That included cleaning places others can’t. ‘An honor,’ they said, but you knew what it was. Just another way to make you quiet while cleaning. Still, you never complained. You never complained when they showed you the vast library in the daimyo castle, ordering you to clean ‘every last bookshelf until this place is brand new’. Or when they led you to the basement full of rotting bodies and mold to polish up, as the smell was starting to become unbearable above.

You never complained. Not once.

In fact, right now? You were grateful.

The Archives were a series of rooms that were interconnected between themselves. Each section contained varying information, whether it be mundane objects or cursed artifacts, whether it be figures from previous bloodlines that have then since vanished, including those who have served and those who have killed. It even contained those from the Heian Era, which most considered overkill. Why would a clan as powerful as the Gojo Clan need records on members from eons ago? It was simple, really.

This is why the Gojo Clan was so powerful: one could compare different bloodlines and branches of the clan and trace lineages back before their time. It was for tactics, for strategy, for safety.

But it was restricted to everyone except for the elders of the clan.

And except you.

Lucky boy.

You waited patiently over the next few weeks. You did your duties as you were told, you bowed for three seconds before standing up when elders and nobility passed you, you washed your hands every other hour, so no one would have the right to say you were too disgusting to touch them. You did your job as you were always expected to. From the moment you were brought into the clan. You’re nothing but obedient.

Then someone asked you to clean.

You’re nothing but obedient.

Your hands trailed along the dusty paper, feeling the edges graze the pad of your fingers, as if teasing you with the mockery of a paper cut against your skin. The shelves towered over you, casting blocky shadows against the wooden floorboards. You took it all in.

The earth outside was raging in agony. The clouds’ tears plummeted down against the daimyo castle’s roofs, each echoing in the large room. Your breath was hot as it hit your face—a courtesy of the mask—, making the already stuffy room a bit hotter than before. But you’d have to bear with it.

Despite being in use for generations, they were arranged methodically to this day. The elders refused to let anything out of order, including files from before their great-grandparents were born. The top of the shelves held names lost to the passage of time from previous eras, and the names near the bottom were more recent. Left to right they were arranged alphabetically, down to the last letter.

Judging how Satoru’s name was constantly said with irritation, it was safe to assume his name wasn’t lost to the passage of time.

Walking along the edges of the shelves, you occasionally checked the first file in the row, peeling back the stained paper until you reached the ‘S’ section.

You were lucky his name started with ‘Sa’: those were in the front few, so it was an easy search from there.

You plucked his pages out. There were a lot more than you’d think. By the time you fished them all out, there were a good twenty pages. They seemed quite recent in updates compared to the others, whose papers were already starting to gain foxing stains from their old age. No doubt the elders kept track of his whereabouts more methodically, as the paper was organized with dates and notes scrawled in the margins.

You merely skimmed the pages, really, confirming that this was, in fact, Satoru Gojo.

You didn’t think he’d be much.

But, oh, he was so much more.

Full Name: Satoru Gojo

Title: Heir to Gojo Clan

Cursed Technique[s]: Six Eyes, Limitless, Lapse—

You dropped the pages, letting them scatter across the floorboards in a terrible mess like waves over the ocean’s surface; order had been broken.

First, your brain was silent, processing everything. Slowly and carefully, not missing a single detail. Letting them sink into your veins.

Then it hit you.

Oh, dear. You thought the heir to the Gojo Clan was a brat. Multiple times.

It made a lot more sense now, annoyingly so. The way everyone bowed to him out of obligation rather than respect? The way they sat through meetings and took every insult?

He was the first Six Eyes user in centuries. His presence demanded respect. He was glory sculpted from flesh and marble.

He was god.

Swallowing back your fear (and saliva), you gained enough courage to crouch—your legs were shaky, and you almost collapsed right there in the middle of the Archives—and picked the first page you could see in your view. With your trembling hands, you grasped it and held it to the dim candlelight on the walls. The light made everything clear. You needed to know.

Unable to find suitable maiden, seems uninterested

Has voiced recent intrigue in servant #19—

“Hah? Isn’t this place restricted?”

You swiveled around.

Hair as white as snow.

You stood up and bowed.

“Forgive me,” you said, feeling out of breath. The adrenaline was getting to you. He was getting to you. “I was ordered to clean this area.” He was getting into your head.

“More like snoop,” he retorted, chuckling. You could picture his irritating smile. Though, he didn’t sound upset despite you obviously looking through things you shouldn’t have been. “Those’re my files,” he commented, and you knew his gaze was taking in the scattered papers across the wooden floorboards.

Your grip on the single paper tightened. The crinkles from its weariness drowned out the patter of rain outside, awfully loud in the claustrophobic atmosphere. “Yes,” you muttered. Your mask was suffocating. “I was curious of who you were.” You cleared your throat. “Forgive me,” you begged again.

“Could’ve asked me ‘bout who I am.” Satoru smiled. You could hear it in his voice. “Instead, you’re sneaking around like a mouse.”

You didn’t argue and say you were told to clean, which was the truth, albeit stretched. You didn’t let an easy lie slip from between your cracked lips, saying the papers fell onto the floor, and you were picking them up. You’ve spoken too much. You’ve done too much.

He walked closer. His footsteps were soft against the wood. Only their creaking signaled his movement towards you. Towards you.

“I don’t know much about you, though,” he mused. “Seems unfair, huh, stalker?”

Stalker?

You broke your bow and stood up straight again. He loomed over you, just as the shelves that beckoned you closer with every wisp of paper. “I’m not a stalker,” you whispered. Trying to convince yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he purred. “Especially with how you're looking at me right now.” And now you knew he could see you. All of you.

“It’s polite to make eye contact while talking to someone.” The excuse falls flat to even your ears. Because you both know servants aren’t supposed to stare, they aren’t supposed to look, they aren’t supposed to think. But here you are, staring at the sky in his eyes, looking at all of him, thinking about him.

He could’ve called out your deflection right then and there, could’ve punished you severely.

But he just smiled his aggravating smile. “Maybe.” He leaned down close. Closer than what should’ve been. His eyes glowed in the dim light of the room, grabbing everything’s attention. Your attention. “But maybe not.”

The mask was suffocating. Your breath was too hot. Too hot for comfort in this stuffy, stupid—

“Concentrate on me.”

Satoru was a bold, bold man.

He took another step closer, pushing you farther and farther backwards until—

Thud!

Your back was up against the shelf. The wood groaned in protest, threatening to fall onto you. You wish it would. The shelves pushed back at you.

The devil danced in his gorgeous eyes. “For a fan, you’re a bit too scared.”

You didn’t trust yourself to say anything. You’re definitely scared.

“I-I’m not a fan—“

“Wanna massage my hair again?” He asked abruptly, changing the subject just like that. Because he controlled this conversation. He leaned down closer. Closer, closer, and closer. “I’m afraid my hair’s a bit greasy, and it could use some help.” He paused for a second. “Maybe you could bathe me?” Closer. Like he wanted to see your eyes through the holes of your mask. “Dry my hair?”

“I-I don’t—“

It’s too hot down here in the Archives.

“Your fingers were just so good on me,” he drawled. Then he laughed. Mischievous. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

You swallowed. Your face is hot.

“Oh, you like it when I say that?”

Damn him and his Six Eyes. Damn every Six Eyes user there was.

His arms were pinning you against the shelf. When did they get there?

“This is…” you trailed off. You didn’t know what else to say. “…wrong,” you finally finished. You didn't know what was wrong. Only that this was wrong. It was wrong, and you told him that. Even if you were just a servant to him.

His eyes narrowed. Not angrily, like you were something he needed to break. With something else in his eyes, like you were something he wanted to break up and observe. You tilted your head down to stare at the ground rather than his illuminating irises, noting the color of his kimono in the poor lighting: a color that reminded you of the moon.

His arms enclosed around you before gently resting his elbows on your shoulders, wrapped loosely around your neck. Forcing you closer to him.

Closer, closer, closer.

It was lazy, almost. The way his fingers played with your hair, mock-twirling it around his finger before grasping onto a lock and tugging it. You squeaked—embarrassingly so—before he tugged harder and forced you to look at him.

Bright eyes, you thought. That was always your first thought, even through the mask’s limited gaze. The next was beautiful.

“Do you like it when I tug here?” He questioned, his breath hitting the top of your head. He tugged again.

You whined. It was breathy against your mask.

“Good.”

THUD!

The shelves screamed again, full of torment.

You pried your eyes away from his eyes and looked up. Through the holes on your mask, you could see boxes and boxes of files tumbling down. They descended closer and closer and——

You closed your eyes and looked down, your arms—which were earlier stagnant—wrapping around your head as if to protect yourself. Satoru’s file, earlier gripped in your hand, glided across the floor to reunite with the others.

The boxes clattered around aimlessly, the sound echoing through the room.

They never hit you.

The warmth of arms was around you. It enveloped you. You felt lighter, even. Like you could feel everything and nothing at the same time. Like you were being pulled apart yet pushed together.

Satoru’s arms were warm. They enveloped you.

He snickered. “Wow, things just fall around you, huh?” His arms fell away from you, and the pulled-pushed feeling drifted with him. “You cursed or something?”

Oh god, you messed up badly. This was a violation in every sense, every rule book, every statement.

The patter of footsteps finally hit you, and barged in a few servants, no doubt drawn in by the noise. “What happened?!” one screamed, seemingly out of breath. They ran, you concluded, though you did notice their lack of respect.

You couldn’t be talking.

Satoru smiled so charmingly, you could’ve sworn they almost ignored the state of the Archives. “Just a small accident,” he declared. “We’re okay.”

You were breathing heavily, and the awful dread was slowly settling on your shoulders, just like his arms earlier. You didn’t have words that could describe all you’ve done. You lied, you snooped, and you’ve made a total mess of the—

“What happened to the Archives?!”

—the Archives.

Satoru chuckled, his teeth bared out in a way that felt comforting yet threatening. Like he was taking up too much space with his charisma. “I just said what it was: an accident.” He didn’t even bother facing the servants; that’s beneath him. However, he faced you the entire time, his eyes narrowing in your direction—a silent ‘shut up’ left unspoken between you two. His hand reached and grasped your shoulder, making you flinch, standing straighter despite the pain in your back. “He was just cleaning, and a bunch of boxes fell.” The lie was easy from his lips. You wished you did that earlier. “I came and checked if he was okay.” If you lied, you wouldn’t be here right now.

But you were here. So you nodded. You didn’t speak.

Satoru’s hand stayed on your shoulder.

The servants surveyed the damage to its full extent: there were boxes everywhere, papers everywhere, and both you and Satoru were in the center of it all like a symbolic ritual. It was hard to believe Satoru, really.

“Well…” the servant trailed off. But could they really afford to not believe him?

“Clean it up,” Satoru ordered, cutting off any chance the servants had of disobeying. The servants didn’t hesitate. Their doubt wouldn’t lead to their demise, they wouldn’t allow it.

It was pure instinct that you went to do the same—that you pulled away from Satoru with the intent of crouching to pick up the papers, to organize them in the fallen boxes, to fix your mistake from your insolence—, as that’s how you were raised since the beginning of your pitiful life, but the Six Eyes user tightened his grasp on your shoulder, his fingers wrinkling your smoothed kimono.

“Not you,” he drawled out, grinning. Sharp teeth, you noticed. “No, you still seem a bit… shaken.”

You swallowed. “Forgive me for—“

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted, though adjustment danced in his gaze. “What’d I say about the apologizing?” His tone was mocking, yet playful. Too informal. You’re not used to this.

And God, you hated how he mentioned that apologizing. You wished he would never mention that day. That’s why you’re in this situation.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” Satoru suggested, his hand falling from your shoulder for his finger to trail down your arm, tracing the faint patterns in the fabric. When his hand reached your wrist, his fingers encircled it. Not harshly like the other members of the Gojo clan when you disobeyed as a child. No, this was a loose grasp of only two fingers, the kind that lovers used when begging the other to stay. The kind that was clearly not intended to make you stay, but to make you want to stay.

But you felt more trapped than you’ve ever been in your entire life.

“You still look so stressed,” he noted. He leaned down, his face too close to yours. “That must’ve been scary, right?” Great, now he was baby-talking to you.

“I-I’m fine, sir,” you choked out. The mask was still too hot, too suffocating. “I’d like to help after my mistakes.” You bow stiffly; your hand is raised because he’s still holding it. You shouldn’t move your hand away because that’s not what servants do. Servants take it.

There’s the crinkle and rustle of paper that echoed in the room. The servants were cleaning up. You should’ve been cleaning up. But you weren’t.

Because Satoru wouldn’t let you leave. He just smiled at you while you remained bowing, waiting for a dismissal that would never arrive.

“I said let’s go,” he repeated, and you had a feeling he hated saying something twice. You weren’t even looking at him through your mask’s holes, but you felt afraid. Fear was a normal emotion in the Gojo Clan, but this time felt different. Like your stomach was being ripped out and torn to bits, leaving a vacant hole filled with dread.

You’re a servant; you obey.

“Of course.”

“You can rise.”

You looked up. He was still smiling. Satoru’s one hand still kept a grip on your wrist. His other hand traced along your jaw before grabbing your chin.

“My hair’s greasy. Let’s go wash it.” It was strange for him to say, as he looked at you with such endearing eyes—there was no way he meant it. You weren’t that naive.

“Let’s go.” He tugged you along, and you didn’t resist. When you and him exited the Archives, Satoru closed the doors behind him, leaving the other servants in the dark.

The bathing chambers weren’t rooms you entered often.

On the rare occasions that you were assigned to the bathing chambers, it was always for mundane things: gather items for those that refused to leave the calming water, cater to their very needs and desires before they had to ask you twice, ensure that the area was clean afterwards when everyone retired for the day.

Not to mention you’ve never even entered private bathing chambers, as they were reserved for those of the highest levels in the hierarchy and, therefore, not seen as often in the daimyo castle. Not only that, but many who did have private bath chambers in the first place had their own bathing attendants to take care of their every need. The attendants would wash their skin with the utmost care, would ensure the water was just right, and would ensure everything was perfect for someone of their status.

Head servants such as yourself did more of the organizing, the ordering, the catering and fulfilling of less personal tasks. You ensured that the servants under your section were where they were meant to be, when they were meant to be there. You took attendance of everyone, you reported servants who disobeyed and didn’t flinch when they were punished in front of you—how ironic, considering your current situation, entangled with a Six Eyes user.

You weren’t a bathing attendant. You did not wash anyone’s skin.

You weren’t Satoru’s bathing attendant. You did not wash Satoru’s skin.

You shouldn’t even be in his presence.

Yet…

After the episode in the Archives, he led you to his private bathing chamber as requested, his hand still grasping your wrist lightly like it was a leash—which it practically was, as he’d tug on it every once in a while as you both wandered the hallways, like urging you to focus on him silently. He told you to sit near the door and wait patiently. “Like a good boy,” he said before he changed into his robe and gathered his favorite oils for his bath that you would be attending. Because you had to wash his hair specifically. According to who, exactly? To him. And you were okay with it you’re nothing but obedient.

You complained internally that he was always in your head before the Archives. Now? You preferred it when he was just in your head. He was making things too complicated, making you feel things you never thought you’d be able to feel before. He was making you feel too much. That was a problem

That was a problem.

And when he called for you to enter—there was a cheerful glint to his voice, almost like he won something—, he was already seated in the tub, his body on display and surrounded by steam and water: something meant to be worshipped.

You cursed yourself for the thought. But you let it linger like a parasite.

Your footsteps were soft against the cedar floors as you made your way to the table residing beside the tub, which was already filled with varying bottles that many would kill to have a waft of.

You’ve massaged people in the past, yes, but you’ve never bathed anyone; this was unfamiliar territory for you. Your eyes moved between different vials and containers with a sense of urgency, as Satoru was waiting for you, trying to analyze each shape and color, trying to figure out which was which and what was what. Some had labels that did little to help—they had extravagant names, like “sweet sunshine” and whatnot, making you question where they were from—, others had none at all, and some that did were engraved in its glass (and only visible when the light hit just right).

“Use that purple one for my hair,” Satoru said, noting how long your hand would hover over each vial with indecision. “The others are for the water to smell nice. There are some soaps there, too: bars and liquid.”

You looked at him. Nervous. You never had anyone correct you without there being a physical punishment. Or at the very least, a scolding. Your hands shook, as if preparing to cover your face from a slap. “I—”

“Apo—logizing,” he drawled, looking at you intently. The grin wasn’t there. That scared you. You wouldn’t tell him that because your emotions were none of his concern.

You cleared your throat before turning back to the vials. You grabbed a pink vial and a purple bottle. “Thank you,” you settled on.

He chuckled. His eyes crinkled at the corners. You looked away. Why were you noticing such simple characteristics? Since when did you?

When has anyone looked at you like that?

You stood behind him, his fluffy hair facing you. You set the vials down carefully on a small stool at your feet before untying your kimono to let it pool onto the floor, leaving you in your cream hadajuban. You spent so much money to get a good kimono, and you wouldn’t want any residue on it, would you? That would be a shame.

Satoru turned his head back to look at you once more, his gaze running up and down your body. You felt exposed. “What’re you doing? This is my bath.”

You squeaked and adjusted your mask. It was a simple habit you’ve gained over the years: adjusting your mask under the scrutiny of others. You did your best to refrain from doing so, but old habits die harder than others. “I, um… didn’t want to get my kimono wet.” You spoke informally. What’s wrong with you?

But he smiled. “It was a joke.” He shouldn’t be joking with you.

You didn’t respond.

He faced in front of him once more, and you let yourself listen to the noises around you, as many as you could focus on: servants moving outside of the doors, the sloshing of water against his skin and tub, and wood against wood as you moved a chair behind him.

It was always too quiet, eerily so.

You grabbed a bucket from the floor and filled it halfway with water from the constant stream leading into the tub. Were you doing this right? You didn’t know. But Satoru leaned forward with his eyes closed as you gently poured the water to drench his hair, so you must be doing something right.

The water cascaded down his body, contouring his skin with the rain’s gentle kiss. Why did you notice such a thing? You were losing your mind.

You were losing your fucking mind.

After setting the bucket down, you perched onto the chair and reached down to grasp the purple vial. You opened and poured it onto your hand, watching intensely as it slathered over your palm. You set the glass bottle onto the stool with a clink! before rubbing your hands together, letting it spread evenly across your skin. You hesitated—you shouldn’t make this a habit, seriously—before reaching to touch his hair.

Tentatively, you began to work through the locks. His hair was a shock against your skin, making the world around you seem suddenly colorful when put against the colorless-color of Satoru’s hair.

His shoulders, defined with muscles that spoke of intense training as a weapon, relaxed under your touch. He let out a breathy sigh before chuckling, the sound sweet and smooth.

“Your fingers are so good.” He sighed again. He paused. Then turned his head slightly; it wasn’t enough to face you, but it was enough to show he was talking to you directly. “Why aren’t you anyone’s personal attendant, huh? Surely they’d want you, right?”

You swallowed. Why did he always say that about your fingers?

“I am the head servant of the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.” Satoru leaned back. You never stopped moving your fingers.

Fingers.

For some reason that you’d rather not know, Satoru loved your fingers.

You didn’t wonder why. It’s safer.

“It was a rhetorical question.”

The water sloshed onto the floor as he stretched his legs out in front of him, propping them up on the wooden edges of the tub. “Do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

“Yes,” you responded. “I did have a basic education. I understand concepts.”

“Wow.” Satoru hummed. “I didn’t know they gave servants an education.”

“They don’t,” you replied.

Satoru was quiet. Then he hummed. “Alright,” he said, and the conversation was finished, you assumed. And servants never start conversations.

The bathing chamber grew quiet, filled only with the sound of you scrubbing down Satoru’s hair. Your mind eventually tuned out everything, your hands moving on autopilot as your mind wandered.

It shouldn’t have wandered in the first place. You were meant to be focused on the current situation. You were meant to give your master all of your attention to ensure they were cared for with the utmost detail. Being distracted wasn’t something you could afford to do, not when you’ve spent so long climbing the ranks. Not when it cost you years of your life to get where you were today.

Everything went haywire the moment Nanako ordered you to attend that damned audience hall. If you were anywhere else in the building, you never would’ve met Satoru Gojo. You would’ve been doing your duties with no hesitation. There would’ve been no confusion.

But his praise.

Your saliva felt too thick to swallow.

When your fingers started to prune, it was only then, with the uncomfortable texture of your fingertips, that you realized how long you’ve been sitting, doing nothing but massaging Satoru’s hair like before.

Right. You were washing Satoru’s hair.

“May you lift your head? I need to wash the soap out of your hair.”

“Why can’t you massage it more?”

Your hands left his hair. His head leaned back to chase them, and you indulged. Your hands went back to his hair, not massaging, but present. “I am… done. Your hair is washed.” Water slid down your wrists and down your forearms.

“But why can’t you massage it more?”

“It isn’t good to overwash hair. I don’t want to damage it.”

“I work out a lot.” He leaned forward, slightly hunched, and turned his head to the side to look at you. Your hands hovered where he used to be before you let them rest against the edge of the tub. “I’m sure you could wash it more.” He was adamant.

“I still need to—”

“I don’t care.” He didn’t look angry at you per se, rather annoyed at your attempted refusals.

Refusals.

Refusals? Since when did you start refusing?

You didn’t respond immediately. “I still need to bathe the rest of you.”

He paused. His eyes flicked down at the tub, then to you. Then he grinned. That seemed to do the trick, as he didn’t argue any longer.

“Right,” he acknowledged. “I almost forgot about that.”

He turned back around. He leaned back. His hair almost grazed your mask. But you didn’t lean away from him; he didn’t permit it.

You grabbed the pink vial from the stool and popped it open. You let it pour out into the water before it disappeared with the steam.

“Please lean forward slightly,” you said, and he listened like it mattered. You grabbed the same bucket from before and filled it with water. You stood up and let it pour out, watching—with a rapt attention that you’d rather die than admit—how the water cascaded down his back.

The droplets slid down his fair skin like sweat, clinging onto him as they glided down to the water drowning the bottom portion of his body.

You tensed and set the bucket down with more force than necessary, the noise too loud to be comfortable. Get it together.

“Please wait here,” you said, as if he’d stand up and leave because he felt like it, dripping with water and not properly bathed. You were stupid, but you couldn’t shove words back into your mouth.

Along the walls were long tables, each with drawers and cabinets containing everything an attendant would require to bathe a member of the clan. There were more oils (with oddly specific names), tools for scrubbing dead skin and making it smooth, stones meant to be heated for the water, pastes and rice to whiten the skin. You didn’t know what the rest of the tools were meant for, but at least you weren’t entirely clueless.

Still, you weren’t aware of Satoru’s preferences when it came to bathing. You didn’t have the chance to ask his real attendants for advice, as Satoru made a beeline when dragging you here after the two of you left the Archives in the care of the other servants. Like he wanted you for himself only.

You hated that thought. You hated that you didn’t mind the thought.

You reached under your mask to rub your face, trying to wipe off steam and sweat that caught itself underneath. The hot water basins littered around were getting to you. That must’ve been the reason.

Your nimble fingers grasped and pulled open a drawer, revealing itself to your limited gaze. They landed on a tenugui: a flat cloth of cotton, good for absorbing water, perfect for drying up. You swung it over your shoulder; you’d use this when drying Satoru’s hair after the bath.

You closed the drawer, letting the echo fill the room. It was awfully loud. It filled the space between you and Satoru like a barrier he was desperate to claw at, to tease you with the thought of letting him close to you.

You walked along the edge, and you had a sense of deja vu—this was just like when you were walking along the shelves of the Archives. Both times you were doing it for Satoru. You walked into the Archives and risked everything you worked for out of curiosity regarding him. You were walking along the edges of a private bathing hall to find the appropriate tools for Satoru, to serve him.

Satoru.

Satoru Satoru Satoru.

He was already in your head. It was too late to debate it. You needed to get him out.

You didn’t want his praise. You didn’t want his sultry words. You didn’t want them. You swore under your breath. Nauseous.

You grabbed the nearest clean tawashi that lingered on the edges of the table. You returned to Satoru’s side.

“You took forever,” he groaned, slumping back in the water so he was almost submerged. Not that it would work, considering he was huge and barely fit in the tub while sitting upright, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You bit your tongue. He didn’t want you apologizing. He reiterated that many times, and you’d rather stay on his good side.

“Which soap would you prefer?” you asked, your fingers grazing over the many assorted bottles on the cart. You tried and kept your language formal, even if his was… less than formal.

“Whichever smells the best.”

You hated it when people did this.

“I trust your judgement, stalker.”

You didn’t make decisions for others. You executed their orders with precision. You listened and obeyed.

You didn’t think. You’re a servant.

“Forgive me, but I cannot smell these without taking off my mask.” You grabbed a few bottles and shook them, gauging how much product was really inside. “I could hold them out to you, perhaps, and you could tell me which you prefer.” You always provided and offered alternative options.

“Take off your mask, then.” Satoru turned to you. Lazily, with his arms slung off the wooden tub. “I don’t want to smell them.”

Your grip tightened. You needed to control yourself. You couldn’t be having this conversation again. It was inappropriate between a servant and their ward. “I am not permitted—”

“You said the same thing ‘bout being on the stage,” he reminded. “When I asked you to feed me.” He laughed heartily at the memory, then he looked up at you for once. Like the hierarchy of the Gojo Clan was beneath him, like looking up at a servant wasn’t an issue. “But you did it when I asked.” Amusement was the ocean-blue of his eyes, and you were drowning. “I think you enjoyed it, too.”

You quickly averted your gaze, ashamed of yourself. Just like you were when you scurried out of the audience hall, your breath warm and wet against your mask.

Just like you were after you ran to your quarters and took off your clothes because of the heat his words ignited inside of you. Just like you were when your hand drifted lower, even if you didn’t know what you were doing.

Just like you were when you were murmuring praises out loud against your arm.

You were only human when you touched yourself. Now you felt like something less than man because you couldn’t control yourself.

His praise.

“And—” he continued— “you know you’re not allowed in here. But here you are.”

“You ordered me to do both.” I’m not arguing, you told yourself. I’m above that. “I’m meant to serve.”

“I’m giving you the chance to refuse. I’m not forcing you to do anything.” He was lying. He had to have been. Because if you could refuse, then you would—you were. “I’m offering you a solution. Unless you WANT me to order you: take off your mask. Would that be better?” He pouted like this conversation was hurting him more than it was making you uncomfortable. “Don’t make me the bad guy.”

Vulnerable.

That’s what you felt.

Exposed.

In a way you haven’t felt until he rested his head on your lap with no such innocence.

And Satoru? He was not vulnerable. He wasn’t exposed in a way that made him feel anything but pleasure from your torment.

“I would be punished.”

“I won’t let them.”

“I don’t trust that.” You were disobeying. Refusing. Trying to find a flaw in his logic.

“I’m Satoru Gojo.” He announced his name like it held meaning—it did. “I can do whatever the hell I want.” He tilted his head like a puppy, but you felt like the inferior mutt under his penetrating gaze. “Even protect cute servants like you.”

“You don’t know what I look like,” you whispered. Since when have you talked so informally? No, you shouldn’t have. You should’ve been referring to him as ‘sir’. As ‘Gojo-Sama’ or not using his name at all, as his title shouldn’t bless your lips. You shouldn’t have been arguing with his very demands. He was above you.

“Then show me by taking off your mask.”

Your fingers twitched. What if you did want to show him your face?

The tawashi dropped to the floor a long time ago, and it barely made a sound through the tense air.

You didn’t respond, even when you lifted your gaze to meet his own once more through the holes of your mask. You didn’t respond, even when he looked at you with his piercing gaze that consumed you from the inside.

“I think you’re confused,” he commented. He thought you were stupid, no doubt about it. “I have the Six Eyes. I already know what you look like.” He leaned against the tub, his arms hanging out carelessly. Water was dripping off of him and onto the floorboards, but all of his attention was on you.

You weren’t used to this feeling. You weren’t sure if you hated it. You should’ve hated it.

“I just want to know what you look like without a piece of wood between us.” His teeth were bared out in a smirk. It was hideously-beautiful. “Skin looks different to me with materials between. There’s nothing for you to hide at this point, servant.”

You didn’t respond.

He raised his hand. His fingers were long and slender, foul and gorgeous. Pale as the rest of him with faint red.

He beckoned you towards him with a single finger.

Your feet moved on their own. There was no point in him using his cursed technique. Your feet moved on their own.

Your legs—shaky, weak, unsure, and hesitant—collapsed onto the floor. You caught yourself in such an unrefined position and mentally cursed yourself out; your discomfort shouldn’t cause your standards for yourself to lower. You pushed your knees together in a proper seiza with your hands in your lap. You were numb, but you were a servant.

His face was right in front of you, yet you couldn’t see him at all. He could see all of you.

The water from his hands dripped onto your hadajuban, darkening the cloth. Thank goodness you removed your kimono earlier.

His finger, earlier alluring as they pulled you towards him, reached to touch your mask. He didn’t remove it from your face, not yet.

Not yet.

No, his finger hooked underneath the mask before tracing its edges, contouring your face in the process. His skin brushed yours ever so slightly—a fleeting kiss of the body’s barrier—, and you gasped lightly. He was touching you. Not the other way around, where you’d massage him or wash him. He was touching you.

His infinity was off. And he knew you wouldn’t dare try anything.

The look in his eyes made it seem like he wanted you to try something, but that would be absurd.

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmured, his gaze remaining on you. You squeezed your legs tighter together; you felt hot. “I can see your eyes from here. It’s good, right?” You’re hot. You could see his sharp teeth. “Not being at a distance.”

You should’ve remained at a distance.

“I’m asking you to speak.”

He was asking you. He wasn’t demanding you. He was asking you. He was making you feel safe. Safer than you should’ve felt.

He didn’t bother waiting for you to answer. “You’re so soft.” Yet he was barely touching you. Just tracing your mask as if it were your face. As if he could pretend and imagine what your face felt like. As if he could dig his fingers in and feel your flesh before he tore it out. “So utterly beautiful.”

“Th—thank you,” you stammered, feeling compelled to respond after your prolonged silence. And he gave you permission earlier.

“You’re so much prettier on your knees.”

Your throat dried up.

“I was tempted to shove you down there in the Archives when I saw you.” He snickered. “Would’ve been funny, huh? Especially when the servants ran in.”

“I—“

“Would you like that? Or are you not into that type of stuff?”

“No.” You were too direct. Everything was wrong.

His finger trailed down the mask, his nail tracing the grooves of wood before he grasped your chin. “Good boy, answering me properly.” He wasn’t upset with your answer. You didn’t know someone like him could be so… okay with someone like you. Someone just like everyone else.

He hummed. “You like being called that, huh? Stop trying to hide it.”

You tensed.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

“Go—Gojo-Sama—“

“You got something to hide?” His grip on you tightened as he looked shamelessly at your legs. “You’re this turned on?”

Your hands didn’t move to cover yourself. The stayed rested against your thighs, even if your fingers were itching to claw at the thin fabric of your hadajuban.

You cleared your throat. “I…” you trailed off immediately, your mouth zipping shut. It was pointless to respond, as your arousal was clearly noticeable.

Damn it.

“No, no.” His fingers—once around your chin—slipped under the mask. You didn’t dare to move a muscle under his touch, to flinch from the smooth skin that dared to defy the hierarchy and kiss your face. “I wanted you to answer me.”

His fingertips grazed your lips, and you grew subconscious about their current state: chapped and cracked with a lack of moisture. Water was a luxury for servants, even those with a high sub-status among their class.

He didn’t say anything, though. He just leaned over the tub, water dripping down his body and onto the floor—as if mocking you with moisture—as his fingers slowly wiggled into the expanse of your mouth.

At first, you resisted, pressing your lips together tightly, but then he laughed.

“Don’t be shy, baby. Open wide.” His voice.

You obeyed.

His fingers shoved forward, and you choked. Coughed as his fingers coated themselves in your saliva.

“Daw, don’t choke,” he cooed. You were clearly an adorable sight to him, and that confused you.

What confused you more is that you were liking this; you wouldn’t say it out loud. He already knew.

“Suck,” he commanded.

You obeyed.

Best you could; you were too eager.

You whined against his fingers. When you heard yourself—your voice echoed against the mask and vibrated around his fingers—, you jerked back out of sheer mortification. But his fingers followed you back, never letting you retreat from your service. “Don’t back out now,” he said. “You can moan. I won’t judge.” He paused, his lips pursed while thinking. Then he smiled again. “I like hearing you.”

You were wary, but you continued to suck his fingers, your whimpers slowly growing louder each time. You were getting bolder. You let your eyes droop. Why did you enjoy this? You have no idea.

But throughout everything, you didn’t dare touch yourself.

Satoru, however, had no problems with that.

First you heard the muffled moans. They were drowned out by the squelching of your saliva coating his digits, the way you slobbered like a dog just because he ordered you to. But then your eyes snapped open when a surge of water cascaded out of the wooden tub: an immediate reaction to the jerk of his hips.

You saw the crease of his eyebrows, the way his dazed, cloudy eyes were focused on you—even with the mask concealing you, his Six Eyes was ignorant to the idea of privacy.

“Fuck—“ he muttered.

His other hand was below the water. He was fucking into his fist.

Because of you.

That made you feel good.

Freak.

Your nails dug into your skin through the fabric. You needed to touch yourself, you needed to be good. He didn’t give you permission yet. Squeezing your thighs together did nothing. You needed friction.

“So good—“ he whispered, breathy and broken with grunts, his eyes half-lidded and focused on you. Water sloshed out of the tub, dampening the wooden floors, but no one could pay attention. He certainly couldn’t, and your mouth was too busy.

“Good boy, such a good boy,” he praised, and you moaned again, your eyes rolling back. “So pretty sucking on these. You wanna suck on something else, huh?”

Tears pricked in the corner of your eyes; you felt disgusting, getting off on from a superior’s words. It’s all because of the praise, you told yourself. The praise—

“If you stay this good, I’ll give you such a good treat,” he offered, panting with a lazy grin on his face. “Because your mouth is just as good as your fingers. Need it on s’mthin’ else.”

You needed to please him. You were pleasing him. It felt great—amazing.

“Such a pretty mouth. You need to talk more.”

His fingers pulled out, saliva coating them in a thin layer, a string connecting them and your mouth before it broke.

Your hands moved up to wipe your mouth. He felt good.

“P-please—“

“Shit, just keep talking—“ he was getting off on your voice.”

You stared at your thighs. “I-I want to please you,” you choked out. “Please, let me serve you—” you let out a sob. Disgusting. But you loved it so much, it was killing you. You’ve never wanted something this much before; you felt loved.

And painfully horny.

“I—I’ll be a good boy, Gojo-Sama,” you whispered, the nickname unfamiliar on your hung tongue. “I’ll be good, I swear—”

Satoru let out a drawled moan, and you looked up: the most beautiful noise you’ve ever heard, the way he looked picturesque when he reached his climax, his eyes closed in bliss with his back arched.

Silence except for the water.

He panted, his tongue sticking out as he caught his breath. He slumped over the tub’s side, hair still damp from the water.

His gaze trailed up your knees to your… noticeable problem.

He smirked. But other than that, he didn’t acknowledge it. But he acknowledged it nonetheless.

“You were so cute,” he said, slowly recovering his breath. He reached out—the same hand that touched his cock—and poked your mask. Then gently traced the contour of your face with the back of his hand. So gently that you almost didn’t notice or care for his fingers grasping the edge of your mask and slowly peeling it off—

You snatched it and held it in place despite knowing his strength was superior. “Sir—“

“I jerked off to you,” he recalled bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You got off to this. My fingers were in your mouth.”

Your hands shook. He was right, of course. The whole time you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you were still the ‘good servant’ who obeyed and never questioned. That ‘one head servant’ who executed his tasks with precision and never faltered.

Yet here you were. In a bathroom with Satoru. And the dread—the realization that you were in an intimate situation with the heir of the clan—began to settle in your chest.

“I think I’ve earned the right to see you WITHOUT the whole…” he gestured to his face, referring to the mask with a hint of disgust. “…mask.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

“Again. I jerked off to you.” You flinched at his crass wording despite his honesty.

You could feel the judgement radiating off of his wet skin. He was dissecting every part of you, every layer of flesh until he reached your core.

He sighed wearily. It was tired. Exasperated, even.

Dramatic.

“Listen, baby boy,” he started. Good, that nickname itself was making you so—

“You don’t like this whole… intimate thing because you like the idea of yourself being good.” He looked you over once before glancing up to your eyes through the mask—the thing he wanted to rip off.

“But I don’t care, and really, you shouldn’t either. You already fucked up so many times: you snuck into the Archives, you’re bathing me, you’re…” he trailed off, pondering for a moment. Then he smiled. “Well, you essentially helped me jerk off.”

You squeaked. God, could he be any more shameless?

You started to stammer a protest—to deny, deny, deny—, but he kept talking. “Truth is, you’re a pretty shitty person who gets off on this praise.”

Your mouth slammed shut.

“That’s the only reason you haven’t left yet: you like this. You like being what I’m thinking about when I’m fisting my cock, right?” His laugh echoed in your mask.

“Do you really care if I see what you look like?” he wondered out loud. “Or are you just scared to reveal how much you want this, too?”

Your ragged breathing slowly drowned out his words. Tears were spilling from your face; you liked this too much. You freak.

You loved this too much.

You freak.

You were hard. You were untouched. You wanted to be touched.

But he didn’t give you permission yet.

You were listening to him. Even after anything. Why were you doing that?

“Such a pretty boy,” he whispered adoringly.

You freak.

You finished bathing him in silence.

You finished drying him in silence.

Both times, you focused on your breathing. On the smell of the mask pressed against your face. On the singular grooves carved into the wooden planks by nature herself.

Not on your bare skin on his wet body. Not on the dips of his body, on the muscles of his defined back, on the strength in his legs.

Not at all. You were right in the head.

Painfully hard while caressing his hands, scrubbing off dirt, wondering what he would feel like on you.

As if he read your mind—after he was dressed in robes and you dried his hair (which is softer than you thought)—, he offered to take you somewhere.

Stupidly, you didn’t think much of it. If anything, you thought this was your punishment. Maybe he’d report you for sexual harassment, and he’d get away with it despite initiating it—though, you should’ve refused him harder, yet it’s not in your nature. The situation was a living paradox. Were you meant to refuse him and go against the unspoken motto of servants, or were you to obey him and fracture every code of conduct in the Gojo Clan? Hard to say at this point, but the damage has already been done.

Maybe you’d be demoted for good, and all those years you spent training would be futile. Maybe they’d execute you. Or worse, banish you without a name for yourself, leaving you to rot until the maggots had their way with you.

He saw right through you. He saw how you reacted to his praise with that look in his eyes. He saw how you reacted to anything positive, every degrading nickname that made you feel too much.

But no, there was no meeting with the elders. There wasn’t a chamber full of decaying bodies waiting for you. There weren’t clan members restraining you before they killed you in front of everyone as a lesson.

He led you to his private chambers.

Out of the hundred head servants. Out of the thousands of servants as a whole.

He led you to his private chambers.

He led you to his private chambers.

The doors were irritatingly extravagant. Dyed colors, soft and muted, bleeding on the door’s material as they slid open at Satoru’s push.

His hand was on your kimono. He tugged, and you followed his lead.

He shoved you inside and closed the doors behind him, letting you scramble to recompose yourself. Your hands, pruned from the water in the bathing chambers, shakily smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in your kimono—Satoru insisted on helping you put on because you seemed “too out of it” to dress yourself. Whatever that meant, though you believed him anyway. It didn’t matter how you shivered from his cold touch.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he reassured, though his gaze on you was anything but. “It’ll be torn off, anyways.”

You gasped. Huh?

He took a step closer to you before his hands grazed your waist, encircling around your body. You tensed when he pulled you close.

You were still… awfully hard.

The bastard knew it, too. The way he was rolling his hips against yours, watching with a lidded gaze as you arched your back. Watching the way you threw your head back with a slight hitch in your breathing, revealing a sliver of your real face and a tantalizing view of your throat.

“G-Gojo—“

“It’s Satoru, baby boy.” Satoru fell into temptation, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the column of your throat. You choked and tried to pull away, your hands pushing at his chest, but he kissed again… and again…

It felt good. Better than that. You’ve never been kissed before.

When did you stop resisting?

More importantly, when did the hands pushing him away slowly grip onto his hair? Almost like you wanted to keep him close. How absurd.

His lips were cold and delicate, but warmth blossomed against your neck. It was a God’s kiss; there was nothing human in the way the opposing temperatures clashed.

The sheer wrongness of it—the difference in status, the intimacy shared before and in the present—melted away, embarrassingly easy. Like it never mattered in the first place.

He never stopped grinding against you, and you never stopped whining.

You’ve only touched yourself a few times before; you never had time to indulge in such pleasures, doing so when the emotions clouding your head were too strong and bothersome. And, well, including the time after you massaged Satoru. It was simply a lapse in judgment.

You’ve never had someone to do it with. Was Satoru… going to be your first?

You couldn’t think of anything else, because Satoru nibbled on your throat, moaning against the skin—the vibrations were, strangely enough, soft and gentle—as he sucked on it, cherishing your skin as he slowly worked his way down. The movement of his hips slowed, his attention strictly on your body underneath his lips. His hair teased your neck, caressing while his fingers trailed up the side of your body to your kimono. He peeled it back, then your hadajuban, and your bare skin met the room’s soft light.

A startled gasp strangled past your lips when Satoru’s teeth clamped down on your shoulder. Pearly white and sharp as bones.

His hands grasped your waist again, tighter as his teeth stayed on that spot. You winced and tried to pull him off, but his hands remained.

He slowly started to grind his clothed cock against yours once more, drawing the moment out.

“Agh—.. fuck—“ you mumbled before letting out an embarrassing, cracked moan. Why was he going faster?

Satoru didn’t care when your hands started to tighten their grasp on his hair; he seemed to enjoy it, letting his eyes roll back as his jaw released its hold on your skin. He licked it with care before sealing it with a kiss: a bow to a gift.

His head furrowed in your shoulder as he just rutted into you, letting your voice ring out in the room while he let his own vibrate against your body, quiet prayers of lust. His arms hugged you close, pulling you deeper into the abyss of desire.

“God,” he mumbled, “you’re perfect.”

You didn’t respond; you were too busy trying to grind against him in time with his own.

“You like that?” He nuzzled against your cheek before letting go of your waist and grabbing your hair. “I think you liked this last time, too.” He tugged lightly, smiling against your shoulder when your movements faltered. “I got permission, baby?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“It’ll be like a fucking leash, huh?” He chuckled.

When he yanked your head back, your mouth slipped out a strangle moan of pain. Satoru—he wasn’t just in your head; he was in front of you, teasing you—laughed with a glint of adoration in his eyes.

Adoration? Couldn’t be.

“Get on your knees, pretty?”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

It was stupid, how fast you fell to your knees with your kimono mostly undone. A servant shouldn’t have been doing this with someone like him, shouldn’t have been so messy and unrefined in the presence of a superior, but you were so eager. And duty was thrown out the window the moment you touched yourself with his image in mind.

Clearly, Satoru enjoyed this just as much as you did.

His hands cupped your face best he could with the mask, slipping underneath it. “You’ll pleasure me.” He didn’t ask you, yet the command was sweet. You nodded dumbly. “Good boy.”

You need to cum. You need to cum so bad.

Satoru’s fingers were slender and long, teasing your covered face with another glimpse of his body. You needed to worship him like a statue.

You let yourself think something sacrilegious: you hated the mask right now, and you wanted to see Satoru without it. You wanted to see his true beauty despite everything.

His body, now dry and clean, was revealed to be more on display until it slipped down entirely. His undergarments were peeled off with little haste, but you pushed back the impatience. Your eyes were blown wide with curiosity and arousal as he teased you with unhurried motions. Until his slender hands pulled everything down, and…

He was… big.

You didn’t know what defined a big cock. You’ve only ever seen yours.

But he was big.

God… were you drooling? So stupid.

“Ever jerked off?” Satoru asked, tilting his head down at you. You looked up, and felt like he enjoyed the view of looking down on you. He was before, considering his status was much higher than yours, but something about the look in his eyes said he preferred this much more.

You nodded despite your embarrassment concealed by the mask, and he laughed. It was dangerous and low. “I doubt you’ve done it with anyone else.” You shook your head. “Ever had sex at all?” You paused, hesitant. You shook your head.

He hummed and pondered, though you doubted he was thinking anything meaningful. “Well, virgins are always cuter,” he commented; you were right. It wasn’t anything meaningful.

You were still turned on nonetheless.

It was a bit lithe with a few veins. It was a bit hard, but not too much considering that he jerked off not too long ago. It was hardening—because of you? Ha, you love that thought. The color: a bit pink, a bit pale. Pretty with a bit of cum spilling out.

“You’ve jerked yourself off,” he said. “Just do the same with me.”

It sounded simple enough, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a daunting task you didn’t know how to approach.

You’d do it the same way you did with yourself. And you’d pray it was good enough to please him, because that’s your job as his personal…

…servant?

Your hands raised until they brushed against his cock. You could feel Satoru shiver from your feathery touch, and the idea that you were pleasuring him made you feel accomplished. You were being good. Good for him.

You took a deep breath before wrapping your hands around it entirely. He shuddered and let his back arch slightly, his hips pushing towards your touch. If his body wanted more, then at least you were doing something right at least.

It felt cold from the shower, uncomfortable. But you didn’t mind; you wouldn’t mind.

“Ha…” you breathed out softly, in awe of how he was reacting to you. You leaned closer, your hands tightening before sliding down to his base. He grunted, and his hips thrusted in your hands. This was dirty of you.

Doesn’t mean you would stop. You would serve him.

Without really noticing, as all your attention was on worshiping his body and cock like he wanted you to, you started rolling your hips on the ground. You were chasing the same pleasure you were giving him—how scandalous! As you’re a servant, and servants aren’t meant to get the same treatment they give their superiors. Then again, you’re currently—

Let’s not think about it.

Satoru’s moans didn’t echo in the room, yet the undeniable pleasure and lust coming from his mouth was trapped in your mask. Your hands never stopped moving against the skin; when they did, Satoru’s hands would cover your own and force them to move.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice cracked. You obeyed, your hands resuming their movements eagerly.

You let him thrust into your hands, and you let yourself grope and worship his cock with your hands. You let yourself forget about your status just for a moment.

“A—Am I doing this right, Gojo-Sama?” You asked tentatively, barely raising your voice above the squelching noise of Satoru’s cock and his cum slowly coating it.

“Fu—uck,” he drawled out, his head tossed back just like earlier. “You’re being so good,” he muttered. “Just like that…” he trailed off, then laughed lightly. “You’re such a fast learner.”

You whined and stroked harder. You were being good for him. You were being so good.

One hand of yours let go of him, letting you put it on your own torturously clothed cock. Your hips stuttered their own movement at your sudden contact; even you were surprised at your own motion. Especially since Satoru didn’t give you permission. But he was right. You’ve already broken so many rules, there was no harm in pleasuring yourself when you were doing so for Satoru! Right?

But you were meant to put all of your attention on him, and him alone.

But you needed to cum so badly.

Maybe Satoru noticed and pretended not to care. Maybe that’s why you could’ve sworn he laughed lightly under his moans and grunts. But you didn’t bother trying to distinguish between what was your fault and what was his. You were just palming yourself through your kimono while the hand around Satoru’s cock stuttered. Your servant-mind wanted to do two things at once: pleasure yourself and pleasure Satoru.

You could feel his hand on your wrist, guiding your motions along his length. It was a calming presence, the firm grasp he held on you. “Don’t falter,” he murmured between his delicious moans. You didn’t listen, your movements stiff when your other hand squeezed at your erection. You needed to cum; you would die if you waited a second longer. You threw your head back when you felt you were close.

He groaned before his hands trailed up your arms. Then your shoulders…

You squeaked when his fingers tousled your hair.

The gesture was out of character, even more so for the intimate situation you found yourself in with him. Still, regardless of what was going on in his head, you leaned into his touch. It reminded you of when the elder servants would praise you for your accomplishments when you were younger, their touch cold. Satoru was warm with heat.

“So cute,” he cooed. “Baby.”

Your hands slowly stroked his cock, caught up in the sensation of his touch and your own pleasure. Too slow for him, apparently, because—

YANK!

You let out a strangled moan of pleasure swirled with pain. “I never said stop, did I?” He asked sweetly, pulling your hair back, forcing you to confront his gaze. It was cold; it was attention.

You stammered. “I-I’m so sorry—“

“We need to get rid of that habit of yours, baby.”

Fuck. You apologized.

He sighed before his hands came to the one on his cock and pulled them off. You whined, letting both of your hands meet at your own hard length. It felt so good; his gaze made you feel terrible.

“You’re so disappointing,” he said, and you let out a choked sob. Your hands never stopped moving against yourself. Maybe it was because you were so painfully hard that you needed to release yourself. Maybe it was because Satoru looked at you with a hunger that made you feel seen and a distaste that you needed to fix. That was your job. You needed to please him, you needed to please yourself.

He crouched down, and the rest of his undone kimono fell to the ground around him like a shadow. His irritation faded into a soft look of—you don’t know. His hand, still in your hair, slithered down to cup your chin underneath your mask. “Here’s a deal. Make me cum, then we can deal with that…” he trailed off, his eyes darting down to your own hands before darting back to the holes of your mask, seeing right through it and into your eyes. “...problem of yours.”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

I am so sorry if the smut wasn't to your standard! this is my first time writing content like that, and I had nowhere to start except for looking at other writers (ᵕ—ᴗ—). i'm also sorry it took me so long to update this! I had a really busy month- nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed!

I will probably make this a series thing. i'm not too sure about how that will go, but I will definitely try! and I will DEFINITELY make a better smut scene! if you... have any tips on how to write smut scenes, it will be greatly appreciated-

The guilt gnaws at you enough that you play dumb for your own sanity, pretending the whole thing never happened.

And somehow, that works.

For a week.

Despite how the memory lingers in your dreams in the best possible way, you make it through without issue.

No Leon.

No fights with Zeno.

No problems.

You’re in the clear. Mostly.

A stack of books tumbles from your cart after a freshman clips the corner without looking. The sharp clatter echoes through the library, just loud enough for the librarian to appear from seemingly nowhere and shush you like it was your fault.

You apologize anyway, crouching to gather the scattered books.

Working part-time at the campus library isn’t glamorous, but it passes the time and puts extra money in your pocket for relatively little effort.

Collect books. Reshelve them. Help students find things they could’ve searched online themselves.

Easy.

More importantly, it’s quiet — a welcome escape from the exhausting chaos that comes with dating Zeno.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out and check the message.

Speak of the devil.

going out with the boys. don’t wait up tonight.

You stare at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.

Finals week is creeping closer, which means the library stays open later and fills with students desperately trying to absorb entire semesters overnight.

You’ve gotten good at noticing who comes and goes.

Mostly because you’re usually the one stuck fixing whatever mess they leave behind.

So naturally, your irritation deepens as you push your cart toward the study rooms and glance through the windows.

And immediately stop.

Zeno’s lying.

His boys are here.

Albert stands at the chalkboard, aggressively working through an equation while Ethan looks seconds away from throwing himself through the glass. Carlos laughs loudly at something Ethan says, and you glance back down at the text on your phone.

Something sour twists in your chest.

Maybe you stop being the one who puts up with everything. 

You hate that thought. Leon’s words an echo of doubt ever since you heard them.

Your eyes flick back toward the room just as Albert notices you. He smiles faintly and gives a small wave. The others quickly follow.

You force yourself to smile back, lifting your fingers in greeting.

Ethan mouths help me dramatically before Carlos yanks him into a headlock.

A laugh slips out before you can stop it.

No wonder the librarian hates them.

Your gaze drifts across the room again before catching on the far corner.

And freezing.

Leon sits near the back with a clipboard balanced against his knee, half-covered in equations and messy doodles.

He’s already looking at you.

That same look from the party.

Surprised. Focused. Like he hadn’t expected to see you either.

The eye contact lasts too long.

You break first.

Quickly pushing your cart forward, you turn on your heel and disappear down the nearest aisle before the old wheels can squeak loud enough to betray you. Not running but something close.

A second later, you hear the study room door open.

Shit. Maybe a bit of running.

You abandon the cart entirely and weave through the shelves, ducking deeper into the archive section.

Left. Right. Another right.

You know this place better than anyone besides the librarian himself, and even he rarely ventures this far back.

Your footsteps stay light and quick, almost feline — not at all like a grown man sprinting through a college library.

It’s ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

But you can’t seem to stop running.

Eventually, you slow to a halt and listen.

This deep in the archives, all you can hear is the low hum of the overhead lights.

You sigh in relief.

Maybe you lost him.

You wait another minute crouched low between the shelves before finally standing again.

You turn —

And immediately collide with someone solid.

You nearly yelp, but a hand clamps over your mouth before the sound can escape.

Wide-eyed, you look up.

Leon.

His other hand rises, finger pressed to his lips.

You nod quickly.

Leon slowly removes his hand from your mouth. Neither of you speaks.

The silence stretches unbearably thin.

“Excuse me,” you whisper finally, trying to sidestep him.

Leon moves faster.

Before you can react, you’re lifted clean off the ground.

“Leon—!”

The protest barely escapes above a whisper before he’s already carrying you deeper into the archives.

He shoulders open the supply closet door, slips inside with you still in his arms, then kicks it shut behind him.

Your back on the floor as soon as you were off it. He turns away from you.

The lock clicks.

“Leon, you can’t be—”

The rest of your sentence disappears the moment he turns around.

He looks furious.

Not cold furious.

Wounded furious.

His brows are drawn tight, lips pulled into a sharp frown, blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.

“…serious,” you finish weakly.

The closet is cramped, not nearly as small as the last one, but still close enough that one step backward has your shoulders brushing cleaning supplies.

Leon closes the distance instantly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for anything to—”

He kisses you before you can finish.

Hard.

Desperate.

Your brain short-circuits for exactly one second before your body reacts on instinct.

Your hands grab his face immediately, and Leon lets out a rough sound against your mouth as he pulls you closer.

Cold fingers slide beneath your shirt, gripping bare skin.

You shiver.

Leon doesn’t let you pull away for even a second.

His teeth catch your lower lip before he finally breaks the kiss long enough to mutter:

“Jump.”

That’s all the warning you get.

He’s already lifting you again before you can process it, hands firmly under your thighs as your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.

Your back hits the wall.

You gasp softly as Leon kisses you again, even hungrier this time.

Your arms slide around his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only to press heated kisses along your neck.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

His voice comes out lower than you’ve ever heard it before.

You shake your head automatically.

Leon pinches your side lightly in response.

A punishment for lying.

“I don’t like that,” he murmurs against your collarbone before sucking a mark into the skin there.

You should care.

You really should stop him.

Instead, your head tips back against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Leon,” you breathe.

The sound seems to affect him instantly because he groans against your throat before kissing you again.

Slower this time.

“Don’t apologize, baby,” he says softly against your lips. “Just make it better.”

And honestly?

You try.

By the time the tension finally settles, you’re both breathless and trying to straighten your clothes like two guilty teenagers.

Leon stands in front of the tiny mirror attempting to fix his hair while redoing the buttons on his jacket.

You smooth down your sweater, still catching your breath.

Leon breaks the silence first.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… been a while since I’ve seen you.”

For the first time since dragging you in here, he can’t look you in the eye.

You laugh quietly.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I’m sorry too.”

Leon finally glances your way.

The look lasts all of two seconds before he suddenly grabs your face and kisses you again.

This one is different.

Gentler.

Almost embarrassingly affectionate.

You laugh against his mouth and shove lightly at his chest.

“Okay, down boy,” you tease. “I’m still on the clock.”

Leon opens his mouth to respond before his eyes drift downward.

To the marks blooming beneath your collar.

His entire face immediately turns pink.

“Oh my God,” he groans, pressing his forehead against the wall.

You snort, covering the exposed area by linking another button.

“Sorry.” He mumbles into the wall.

“It’s kind of cute,” you admit.

“That’s not helping.”

You laugh again while fixing yourself enough to look vaguely presentable before moving toward the door.

Leon, meanwhile, remains firmly planted in what has now become his shame corner.

You unlock the door before pausing.

He isn’t following.

“Leon?”

He groans dramatically without turning around.

“What’s wrong,” you step closer and he immediately angles his lower half away from you. “Oh.”

Right.

That’s wrong.

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing.

Leon’s ears burn crimson.

“What?” he mutters defensively. “You look hot all disheveled. You can’t expect me not to get hard after all that.”

Your laugh escapes anyway.

“Just give me a minute to calm down,” he grumbles.

Shaking your head, you move closer and press a quick kiss to his cheek before slipping out the door.

Behind you, Leon makes a wounded noise.

“That didn’t help!”

You leave him there anyway.

It doesn’t take long to relocate your abandoned cart and slip back into your routine.

Eventually, the boys pass through the library on their way out.

Leon lingers just long enough to throw you a wink.

Your stomach flips all over again.

You don’t have to be the one getting walked over.

His words echo in your head the rest of the night.

Zeno may have started this mess first, but that doesn’t make what you’re doing any better.

You pull out your phone, teeth worrying your bottom lip as your fingers move across the screen.

Then you hit send.

You’ll make this right.

Zeeeee

going out with the boys. don’t wait up tonight.

you

So you didn't tell him.

"You're evil," Tony said, not looking up from his tablet. You were both in the common room kitchen. You making coffee, him pretending to work while actually watching the security feed of the east hallway on a secondary screen. "You're both evil and I'm entertained."

"Don't know what you're talking about." you said, pouring creamer.

"Camera twelve, thirty seconds ago. Bucky just pulled you into the supply closet by your belt loops. You were in there for four minutes and came out with your shirt buttoned wrong."

You looked down. Damn. "We're organizing supplies."

"Uh-huh. And I'm organizing Pepper's schedule. Which I actually am, because I'm a functional adult who doesn't need to hide in closets—"

The door burst open. Steve strode in, fresh from the gym, towel around his neck, looking unfairly wholesome. "Hey! Have you guys seen Bucky? I wanted to go over some mission parameters, but he's not answering his comm."

Tony's eyes flicked to you. You took a long sip of coffee.

"Last I saw, he was heading toward the east wing." you said, which was technically true. Four minutes ago. Before the supply closet.

"Thanks, Y/N," Steve clapped your shoulder with that heavy, well meaning hand. "You're the best."

He left. Tony stared at you.

"East wing," Tony repeated. "You sent Captain America on a scavenger hunt while your boyfriend hides his...supplies."

"He'll find him eventually. Probably in the armory. Bucky's probably cleaning his guns."

"Is that what we're calling it now?"

You flipped him off.

The problem with living in a building full of super spies and geniuses was that privacy was theoretical. The problem with dating Bucky Barnes was that he had seventy years of repressed libido and absolutely no chill.

"Steve's in the gym," Bucky breathed against your neck, walking you backward into your bedroom. "Forty five minute routine. I timed it."

"You timed my brother's workout?"

"For us," Bucky said, like this was romantic. And honestly? It kind of was. His hands were already under your shirt, warm and calloused, the metal one trailing cool against your spine. "Forty minutes. I can make you come twice. Three times if you're loud."

"I'm never loud." you lied.

Bucky grinned, wicked and sharp. "Challenge accepted."

You were forty minutes into proving exactly how loud you could be—Bucky's mouth on your throat, your legs wrapped around his waist, the bed hitting the wall in a rhythm that was definitely going to leave marks—when the knock came.

"Hey! You in there?" Steve's voice, muffled but present.

You both froze. Bucky was still inside you, breathing hard, eyes wide.

"Shit." you mouthed.

"Didn't know he finished early." Bucky mouthed back.

The knock came again. "I wanted to see if you wanted to get dinner! Just us, like old times. I feel like I haven't seen you all week."

Because you'd been avoiding him. Because every time you sat down for a meal, Bucky would look at you across the table with that look, and you'd have to excuse yourself to jerk off in the bathroom like a teenager.

"Yeah!" you called out, your voice cracking only slightly. "Just—just a minute! I'm changing!"

"Okay! I'll wait!"

Bucky's forehead dropped to your shoulder. He was shaking, you realized, with laughter or desperation. You couldn't tell.

"We have to be quiet." you whispered.

"He's right outside the door."

"I know."

Bucky pulled back slightly, just enough to roll his hips. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. "Don't." He did it again. The metal hand clamped over your mouth, stifling the moan you couldn't hold back.

"Everything okay in there?" Steve called.

"Fine!" you managed, voice muffled by Bucky's palm. "Just stubbed my toe!"

"Oh! You want me to get you some ice?"

"No!" you yelped as Bucky thrust again, watching your face with dark amusement. "I'm good! Just give me five minutes!"

"Okay! Take your time!"

You heard him settle against the door. Actually settle. Like he was going to stand guard.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. Still?

You nodded frantically. Still.

What followed was the most intense, silent sex of your life. Bucky's hand still covered your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. Every time you made a noise, he'd pause, shake his head minutely, and wait for Steve to shift his weight outside before moving again.

It was torture. It was exquisite.

When you came, it was with Bucky's name silent on your lips, your back arching off the bed, his hand keeping you quiet as your body shook. He followed a moment later, burying his face in your neck, his own release silent and shuddering.

You lay there, panting, listening to your brother hum the Star-Spangled Banner on the other side of the door.

"I hate you." you whispered to Bucky.

"I know," he whispered back, kissing your jaw. "Worth it?"

You couldn't even answer. You were too busy trying to remember how to walk.

Five minutes later, you opened the door. Steve beamed at you, then looked past you to where Bucky was sitting on your bed, fully clothed, cleaning his knife.

"Oh! Hey, Buck! Didn't know you were here."

"Just stopped by to borrow a book." Bucky said smoothly, not looking up.

"What book?"

Bucky paused. Looked at you. You looked at the ceiling.

"...The Great Gatsby." Bucky said.

"You hate The Great Gatsby," Steve said. "You said it was 'a book about a stalker with money.'"

"Trying to broaden my horizons."

Steve studied him for a long moment. You held your breath. Then he smiled, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "That's great, pal. Self-improvement. I like it. You guys ready for dinner?"

"Starving." you said, and Bucky coughed into his fist.

The Avengers knew.

Of course they knew.

Natasha had figured it out in week one, because she was Natasha. She'd found you in the gym at 3 AM, Bucky's jacket around your shoulders, his hickey on your collarbone, and she'd just nodded once and said, "About time. He's less murder-y when he's getting laid."

She'd kept the secret without being asked. Natasha understood secrets. She understood that some things needed to stay small and safe before they were ready for the light.

Clint knew because he'd walked in on you in the vents. You'd been hiding from Steve, Bucky had been hiding with you, and things had gotten handsy. Clint had backed out slowly, given you a thumbs up, and later left a box of condoms on your pillow with a note: 

For the greater good. Also, vents have cameras. You're welcome.

Tony knew because Tony knew everything, and he was enjoying the show too much to spoil it.

Thor knew because he was Thor, and while he didn't fully understand Midgardian courtship rituals, he understood that "secret love is the most passionate love" and had taken to giving you knowing winks that made you want to die.

Bruce knew because he had excellent hearing and the Hulk had apparently developed opinions about your relationship that he communicated through meaningful grunts.

And Steve—Steve knew that you and Bucky were close. Closer than close. Best friends, he'd say proudly, watching you two train together, watching Bucky teach you knife throws, watching you bring Bucky coffee exactly how he liked it (black, two sugars, in the red mug because the blue one had a chip).

"He's going to kill us when he finds out." Bucky said one day while holding you in your bed.

"He's not going to find out."

"He's Captain America, doll. He's going to walk in on us eventually, or Tony's going to get drunk and spill it, or—"

"Or," you said, looking up at him, "we keep being careful. We keep it ours. Just a little longer."

Bucky looked tired, but he was smiling. "You really want to keep sneaking around? The supply closets? The quickies in the armory? That time in the quinjet while he was flying it?"

"That was risky," you admitted. "But also hot."

The fluorescents in the B.S.A.A. Eastern European outposts hummed at a frequency just shy of headache-inducing and you'd been listening to that hum for six hours straight. The analog clock on the wall of your dad's base read 16:47.

Outside the reinforced window of the records annex, snow was starting to come down in lazy flakes over the training yard and somewhere out there guys doing live-fire exercises on simulated mannequins.

Here you were instead, constantly clicking on a not-working computer.

"Come on, you piece of—"

The screen flickered, a little spinning circle of doom that kept spinning as you’d been trying to upload the same goddamn incident report — Sector 4, redacted, redacted, three confirmed B.O.W. specimens neutralized, blah blah — for the better part of an hour and the legacy database your dad's IT department refused to update and kept eating it.

Every single time you hit submit, the connection timed out and the form reset you had to retype everything because of course autosave wasn't a feature in this fossil.

Shoving back from the desk and dragging both hands down your face, trying to remember the breathing exercises one of the medics had taught you.

In through the nose for four, out through the mouth for eight.

Meant to lower your heart rate, mostly it just made you light-headed enough to want to throw the monitor through the window because you were in perfect shape and passed every physical exam they'd thrown at you, could even handle a sidearm and a long gun while running the obstacle course faster than half the new recruits.

And your father, Captain Christopher Redfield, assigned you in a beige room filing reports.

He'd never said it out loud but you knew he'd lost too much and want to lose you to the same nightmare that had eaten chunks out of him… but some trust in you would have been much appreciated on your part.

The doors at the end of the corridor banged open and your father's voice rolled in ahead of him.

You didn't turn around but instead jabbed at the keyboard.

ERROR 0x80070643. Encryption certificate not found. Reauthenticate.

"Oh you have got to be kidding me," you hissed at the screen.

"Hey."

You didn't even look up, knowing that voice along the Heavy boots, heavier shoulders and a permanent frown.

"Before you say anything, I swear to God this thing hates me personally."

A hand landed on the back of the chair next to you, tall shadow casted on the monitor and your dad was standing slightly behind the new figure, palm flat against the other man's shoulder blade in that ‘this is one of mine, be nice’ way he had.

You finally turned in a half-snarl because you were pissed but not a fool.

Broad as a barn, beard a little more salt than pepper these days while his big and glowed hand was resting on the back of another man who was—

Oh.

Blond, not as tall as your father but he'd still loom over you.

Stubble along a sharp jaw, eyes a sort of tired blue.

He was wearing a white button-down with the sleeves shoved unevenly to his elbows and a pair of cargo pants that were definitely military-issue and he had an exhausted-handsome quality that made men in their late thirties.

"Ethan," your father said, in his rumble, "this is Ethan Winters. You'll have heard the name."

Of course you had, everyone in any orbit of the B.S.A.A. had heard the name associated with the Louisiana incident and Eastern European mountain village all along the absolute meat-grinder of supernatural horseshit he'd come out of, twice, somehow alive.

He stuck his right hand out and gave you a small but friendly smile. "Hey. Nice to meet you."

You took his big and calloused hand along the heel of the palm and on the pads of his fingers, all felt as he shook with a firm grip and let go without dragging it out, which you appreciated because your face was already going hot for reasons you were going to refuse to examine.

Exchanging your name, Chris almost immediately spoke back.

"He’s processing all AAR submissions," your dad said to Ethan. "Anything someone file, it goes through him first. So play nice."

"Always," Ethan said, with that same tired smile.

Your father's hand was still on his back between the shoulder blades before he leaned in and said something low into Ethan's ear that you didn't catch, gave him two solid pats and turned to go.

At the door, he paused.

"Try not to break the monitor, kid."

"No promises," you muttered.

He was gone and then it was just you and Ethan Winters standing in the middle of your records annex looking around like he wasn't entirely sure why he was still there.

The little circle of doom on your monitor kept spinning.

Connection timed out.

You let your head fall forward and thunk gently against the desk.

"Bad day?" Ethan asked.

"Bad century. I think this computer was assembled by hand by a man who hated me personally."

There was a quiet huff of laughter as you lifted your head. He'd taken a step closer, hands in his pockets, head tilted at the screen the way a dog tilts its head in curiosity.

"What're you trying to do?"

"Upload an AAR. The form keeps timing out and I've retyped this thing four times."

"Mm." He was looking at the screen now, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "May I?"

You scooted your chair back and he came around behind you, leaning over your shoulder and his shirt sleeve brushed the back of your neck as he reached past you for the mouse and the combination of smell between clean laundry, gun oil and, faintly, coffee reached your senses.

"This is the Falcon-3 backend, right?" he said, mostly to himself, clicking through. "Yeah, okay. So they never patched the session timeout on legacy forms. Stupid, but yeah, hold on."

"You know this system?"

"I'm a systems engineer," he said absently. "Or I was. Before, you know." A small wave of his hand with an ugly scar wrist-level. "Crazy infected family, village full of lycans… ‘Super sized bitch’ countess." He said it deadpan and the corner of his lips lifted when he heard you chuckle at his words. "Not my words. Anyway, watch."

He hit a key combination you didn't see in a quick flicker of his fingers and a developer console popped open at the corner of the screen.

He started typing fast, lines of code scrolling as he made a small thoughtful sound in his throat.

"Yeah, okay. They've got the session token expiring at six hundred seconds and they never refresh it. So if you sit on the page longer than ten minutes, the form's already dead by the time you hit submit, the server just doesn't tell you until it tries to write." He glanced down at you over his shoulder. "We can either bump the timeout client-side, which is technically against IT policy, or we can stage the form data locally and post it via direct API once we— yeah, we'll just bump the timeout. Don't tell your boss."

"He'd kill you," you said, dryly.

A flicker of amusement in his face like he could tell there was a private joke there but couldn't pin it down. "Probably. Okay. Type your report into a text file first this time, just in case."

You opened a notepad obediently and started copy-pasting from your scattered notes while stood close behind you, one hand braced on the edge of the desk by your elbow, the other working the keyboard.

His forearm was right next to your face, sleeve of his shirt shoved up unevenly, cuff bunching around his elbow and you could see the flex of tendons when he typed.

You tried, very hard, to keep your eyes on your own screen.

"There," he said, after a few minutes. "Try it now."

You hit submit and the little circle spun as you braced for failure.

Submission successful.

A green checkmark, the first one you'd seen in eight hours.

"Oh my God."

"Told you," he said and it was so smug you were surprised in the first place it came from him.

He straightened up off your shoulder and stretched, one arm overhead, line of his torso pulling tight under that white shirt. "Easy fix once you know where to look."

"You're a wizard, Mr. Winters."

"Ethan. Just Ethan." He scratched the back of his neck. "I'm just a guy who used to fix computer networks for a living."

You looked up at him properly for the first time. Up close, the tiredness in his eyes was still there, but there was a careful gentleness in him still.

"Thanks," you said, real this time and not snippy.

He smiled, small and genuine. "Anytime."

It became a thing.

He had no reason to keep showing up at your annex considering the military training he had to do as your father was running him through the same rigorous program he ran the rookies through, even though Ethan was thirty-something and had survived more in a week than most of those rookies would in a career.

Three days after you met him, he showed up at your door with two coffees from the commissary, black for him, with one sugars and a splash of cream for you, because he'd asked the second time you'd seen him and apparently he remembered.

"How's the Falcon-3 treating you?"

"Like an enemy combatant."

"Mind if I look?"

He was always very careful, you noticed, about that little bit of distance. He'd lean over your shoulder to look at the screen but he kept his weight on his own feet, never on you.

Laughing at your bad jokes like the dry pissy ones you made about the fluorescent lights and the analog clock.

A week in, you caught yourself looking forward to him.

A week and a half in, you caught yourself dressing better for work, tucking your shirt in, wearing the henley that fit a little snug across the shoulders.

He had this thing he did when he was thinking where he'd run his thumb along his bottom lip.

A nervous tell is hideously unfair.

And he was kind, that was the thing that got you.

After all the things he'd seen and read in the classified files between his daughter, ex-wife and what had happened in Romania, he was just kind.

He noticed when you were stressed and made dumb little comments to defuse it.

It gave you enough confidence to start flirting with him, cautious at first.

You'd hand him a folder and let your fingers brush his, hold the contact a half-second too long… lean over his shoulder when he was at the desk and pretend to look at the screen while breathing him in.

Even catch his eye across a room and hold it ‘fore smiling at him and spotting a red take on his cheeks.

He noticed.

There was a little flicker in his face and at the corners of his mouth, but he didn't take the bait, just kept being kind and calling you by your first name in that slightly rough voice that did embarrassing things to your spine.

Two weeks in, you were genuinely losing your mind.

Three weeks in, the computer started acting up again.

It was a Thursday late night and the records annex was empty except for you and the buzz of the fluorescents.

The computer froze, then unfroze and repeated this procedure constantly.

You'd been at it since seven in the morning and it was almost ten at night and you were going to start crying or screaming.

"Hey."

You looked up and Ethan was in the doorway in workout clothes, heather-grey t-shirt that fit him nicely along dark sweatpants and his hair was damp like he'd just come from the showers after a late training session.

He had a bottle of water in his hand and an apologetic look on his face.

"Had to look after Rose for the whole day and Chris wouldn’t let me skip training today… so here I am." he did a little with his hands in the air to joke and the awkward grin on his face grew more genuine when he saw you smile back. "Saw the light on, thought you might've been the cleaning crew."

"Nope. Just me and this junk slowly killing each other."

He came in like usual and set his water on a nearby filing cabinet before crossing to your desk and looking over your shoulder except this time he was barely a foot away from you and he smelled like soap and clean sweat.

His arm was bare and right next to your face, bicep of a good size from said military training showing its results as it flexed.

"What's it doing?"

"Freezing, then unfreezing… then freezing. I think the whole disk is dying."

"Mm." He pulled a chair over from the next desk and dragged it close to sit down beside you so that your knees were almost touching. He didn't seem to notice but you definitely did. "Let me look."

He took the keyboard and started running diagnostics.

"Yeah, okay, the swap file's huge, that'll do it, this thing has like four gigs of RAM and they're trying to run a database client on it, we can clear the cache and see if that helps, but honestly the long-term solution is they need to give you a new machine, the disk's reads are awful, look at this…"

His forearms were on full display, strong veined muscles flexing under the skin every time he moved his fingers.

You were not listening to a word he said as you leaned closer and pretended to look at the screen.

"Mm-hm," you said, like you were following along.

"…so the kernel's basically choking itself trying to allocate enough memory to—" He paused when noticing your shoulder. "Are you following any of this?"

"Not even a little."

He laughed under his breath. "Okay, fair."

"Keep talking, though. I like it when you do the nerd voice. It's hot.”

He looked at you sideways and didn't move away from your shoulder, kept looking at the screen but he wasn't really seeing it, thumb coming up to his bottom lip and rubbing along it.

The reattached hand on the keyboard stilled, cursor stopping and blinking.

"Thanks…" A breath of a laugh. Almost pained. "No one said it to me."

“It’s a shame, I could hear you for hours…”

A long quiet interrupted barely by a hum of the fluorescents.

He opened his eyes and looked at you, his eyes were so blue and serious.

"I haven't done this in a long time," he said.

"What?"

"Anything." A small, helpless sort of shrug. "With anybody. Since… you know."

"I’m aware… can I kiss you?"

He swallowed and you watched his Adam apple work.

"That's a slippery slope, kid."

"Don't call me kid."

"…sorry."

You leaned in slowly and you gave him every chance to pull back but he didn't, eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there, thumb dropping from his lip as you kissed him.

He made the smallest sound before his hand came up and cupped your jaw, tilting you a little to kiss back.

There was a slight off-rhythm at the start but he caught it within seconds, thumb stroking your jaw. His mouth opened against yours and you opened to him just as his tongue brushed yours and you made a noise you weren't proud of before grabbing the front of his t-shirt with both hands.

He pulled back an inch, forehead pressed to yours.

"This is a bad idea," he murmured.

"Yeah."

"…okay," he said. "Tell me to stop and I'll stop."

"Don't you dare."

He kissed you harder before standing up out of his chair, pulling you up with him and walking you backward until your hips hit the desk.

Keyboard skittered and papers fluttered but didn't seem to care as both of his big hands settled at your waist and he kissed you the way you'd been wanting him to kiss you for three weeks, bending down to do it and you had to tilt your chin up, something hot coiling low in your stomach.

Once he pulled back, panting hard against your mouth, you could see how red he had gotten.

"Door," he said.

"What?"

"The door. Lock it."

Stumbling past him you almost tripped on your own chair to get to the door and lock it and pulling the little blind down over the window for good measure until you turned around he was right there and he caught you by the back of the neck to walk you backward to the desk and lifting you up onto it.

He swallowed every noise you poured in his mouth.

"Quiet," he said into the kiss. "There's people."

"I— yeah. Yeah, sorry."

"You’re cute." His hands were under your shirt, warm palm skimming up your sides and ribs to reach your nipples with his thumbs and brushing them and you bit down hard on your lower lip to keep from making noise.

When he pulled your shirt up and over your head, he tossed it quickly on the desk before leaning down and kissing every inch of skin exposed, light stubble scraping faintly every place his mouth went.

He bit, gently, at the soft place just under your ribcage and you arched against him, grabbing his soft dirty-blonde hair, fisting them in your hand and he made a low, hot sound against your skin that went straight to your cock.

"Ethan~”

"Mm."

"Ethan, please—"

"What do you want, hm?" He'd straightened up, mouth at your ear while his hand had slid down between your bodies and was working open the button of your slacks. "Tell me. Use your words."

"I want you."

"Yeah? How long?"

"Since the first fucking time I saw you."

He laughed, sounding deeply pleased. "Good. That's good."

He had you out of your slacks on the same desk you spent every day at and he was standing between your knees in his stupid heather-grey t-shirt and sweatpants that weren't hiding anything, a big and hard tent against your thigh.

"You got anything?"

"What?" You blanked before remembering, in the drawer, you kept a thing of lube there because you'd been using it on yourself in the bathroom most days at lunch because this current thing you were imposed to do was boring.

"Of course you have lube in your work desk," he said.

"Don't judge me."

"I'm not. I'm thanking you."

He slicked his fingers and you spread your legs wider on the desk, cool of the laminate against the back of your thighs.

His fingers found your rim and rubbed slowly in little circles until you were squirming and biting your lip again, until you made a noise of pure frustration through your nose.

"Ethan."

"Patience."

"I'm gonna die." He laughed softly and pushed one big and long finger in.

You'd done this to yourself thinking he might be tentative and hesitant given how he kissed.

Nope, he was sure of everything as he pushed in to the second knuckle and curled causing your head to fall back and he caught the back of your neck with his hand to offer support.

"Easy," he murmured. "Easy, I got you." He worked you open with patience.

One finger, two and by the time he had all three you were panting, hips rolling against his hand, your cock leaking against your stomach.

He kept watching your face and making little soft sounds when you tightened around his digits.

"God, you’re so good for me." He grunts now, voice wrecked, the Texan lilt he mostly flattened out years ago creeping back.

"Ethan, please!”

"You sure?"

"Yes, oh my god, yes—"

"Quiet, baby." He pulled his fingers out and shoved both his sweatpants and briefs down enough to let his cock sprang free and you got a good look at it.

Yeah, okay. You'd been right to flirt with this man while looking at the thick length with the head of it heavy and shiny.

He slicked himself and stepped between your knees, hooking one arm under your right knee and lifting to open you and line himself up with his other hand.

"Tell me if it's too much." He said before pushing in.

It was so much to the point you couldn't breathe from how he was stretching you and he kept going to the point you were grabbing his t-shirt with both hands and biting your lip to keep from making noise.

His forehead was pressed to yours and he was breathing through his teeth.

"Fuck," he hissed. "Fuck, you're tight, baby,"

"Ethan—"

"I know. Almost there." He bottomed out and you felt his hips against the soft flesh of your ass along with the heat of him deep in your gut. Your eyes were watering a little, from the sensation of being so full.

You could feel him trembling the tiniest amount from holding still.

"You okay?" he whispered.

"Yeah."

"Need a second?"

"…yeah. One second."

He kissed your lips while you adjusted around him.

A sweet gesture given the fact he was balls-deep in you on a government desk.

He kissed your top lip, then your bottom lip, sliding to the corner of your mouth while one of his big hands stroked your hair back from your forehead.

It made you absolutely melt.

"Okay," you whispered. "Okay. Move."

He moved slowly at first, long drag of him out, then back in and the slide of it was almost too slow to bear, gasping.

"Quiet, baby."

"I'm trying!” You hissed at him through clenched teeth before he set a slow and deep rhythm.

He'd pull almost all the way out before pushing back in until his hips were flush against you again and letting you feel the thick stretch every time while he’d murmur something low and soothing against your mouth.

The desk creaked quietly while, somewhere in the periphery, a notification of probably the connection finally timing out came from the computer and he huffed once against your throat.

"Sorry about your file," he murmured.

"I really don't care right now."

"Mm." A grin against your skin. "Good."

Every thrust was hitting your prostate and made your spine try to leave your body. You bit down and whined on the heel of his palm when he put it over your mouth and he hissed, but it wasn't a complaint.

"Harder." Something stupid that you muttered when letting go of his hand and tilting your face away to whisper said thing.

He paused, mid-thrust. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Please."

Something in his eyes like a leash he'd been holding carefully went slack.

"Okay," he said quietly.

He hooked your other knee up over his arm, lifting and opening you wider, almost folding you in half as he braced his hand flat on the desk by your head the large fingers of his palm spread wide as he started fucking you in earnest.

God. You couldn't make a sound even if you'd tried, breath getting punched out of you with every thrust.

The desk was creaking constantly now and you couldn't care of anything beside holding on to his shirt and stare up at him.

He was looking down at you, jaw clenched and eyes almost completely dark as his hand came down to your cock previously bouncing against your abdomens painfully hard and now he wrapped that big warm hand around it and stroked in time with his thrusts as your whole body locked up.

"Ethan! I'm gonna—"

"Yeah. Come for me… please."

You bit your lip as you came so hard your vision went white at the edges, painted his hand and your abdomen as a moan broke out of you helplessly before he clamped his hand over your mouth and fucked you through it.

He didn't stop like you thought he might, kept going while you were still pulsing around him, oversensitive and trembling as he was getting close.

"Ethan—"

"Almost…"

"Inside."

"What?"

"Inside, please, inside." And he made a low broken thing he didn't manage to muffle before he was burying his face in your neck and thrusting, hard and deep as you felt the heat of him growing in volume, pulse of it deep in your gut while his teeth were on your shoulder, breathing your name constantly.

Your fingers were in his hair while his hips stuttered to a stop and he sagged against you, panting.

The computer went a loud ‘bing!’ again, plaintively.

"…your file definitely didn't upload," he said into your shoulder.

"I really, really don't care." You laughed and it came out as a wheeze.

He huffed a laugh and kissed your shoulder where he'd bitten, half-collapsed against you, his weight warm and yet he was being careful before he eventually pulled back, flushed all the way down his neck.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"…you want to come back to my quarters?"

"To do this again?"

"Eventually." A small, self-conscious smile. "Mostly because I'd like to take you on a date now. Retroactively. I feel weird about how this went."

He had just fucked you on a desk and now he was being flustered about not having taken you to dinner first.

Couldn't help the laugh that came after and he joined too, kissing your forehead and helping you off the desk as he found your shirt and handed it over.

"Walk me through what counts as a date in your book, Mr. Winters."

"Ethan."

"Ethan."

"…the commissary's still open till midnight."

He was smiling in a way you suspected he hadn't smiled in a long time.

"…can I hold your hand?"

You took his hand and he laced his fingers through yours without letting go ad you closed the door where the malfunctioning computer was still going bing! in the empty annex behind you closed the door on it.

It had become a pattern that went like this: you stayed late in the records annex and he would happen to wander by. The lights turned low because the overhead fluorescents were giving you a headache and those blinds got drawn due to sunlight being ‘in your eyes’ (it was night).

Tonight was a Tuesday and the base had emptied out hours ago. You'd parked yourself at your desk with a mug of coffee gone cold and a stack of intake forms you had every intention of filing eventually because Ethan had shown up in a golden hooded zip-up jacket, layered over a dark sweater and paired with rugged blue jeans button-down and that had been the end of any productivity in your immediate future.

Currently sitting in his lap while he was on your own chair with his rather muscular legs splayed out and his big hands settling at your waist, head tipped back so you could kiss him properly with both your arms looped around his broad shoulders and your knees on either side of his hips on the seat.

His mouth was warm as he kissed you enjoyably slow, which was funny because the man had survived two separate hells and you'd think he'd have learned to do everything fast.

Tongue brushing the seam of your lips as you opened for him and he licked into your mouth as you made a quiet noise against him and pulled at his hair.

"Mm," he hummed against your mouth, vibration more than sound.

You could taste the coffee on him since he'd brought you both fresh ones when he came in, his black he always took and never sweetened even though you'd seen him grimace at the first sip every time.

His tongue stroked yours lazily, sucking gently on your bottom lip when he pulled back and your whole spine went liquid.

He was totally here helping with your computer like you’ve agreed on as he kissed the corner of your mouth, trailing down your jaw where he knew you were ticklish and you squirmed against him, feeling that he was hard underneath against the inside of your thigh, warm thick weight of him through his jeans and you'd been ignoring it because you were enjoying the kissing too much and didn't want to break the rhythm.

So much to the point you haven’t noticed his hands at your waist had gone almost possessive as he parted your lips more to let his tongue go further in your mouth.

The thumbs of his palms were rubbing little circles into your hip bones.

"Ethan."

"Mm."

"The computer's broken again."

"Is it?"

"It's making this throbbing sound from the under-desk area."

"Mm. Yeah." Deadpan. "Real concerning. I'd better look into that."

"You should, I'm worried about it."

"I bet you are."

He kissed you again and one of his hands slid down off your waist to your ass, squeezing, making you gasp into his mouth and rolling your hips down without meaning to.

"Hey," he murmured. "Hey."

"What?"

"Lube?"

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Drawer."

"…same drawer as before?"

"Same one."

"You restocked."

"I'm a professional."

He laughed again and buried his face in your neck, warmth of his breath fanning your skin along the scrape of his stubble and the firm press of his hands on you.

Completely in love with this man.

"Okay," you said. "Okay, hold on, I gotta grab that stuff."

"Stuff."

"Yeah."

Climbing off his lap your legs were wobbly as you crossed to the filing cabinet by the door, where you'd taken to keeping a small zipper pouch in the back of the third drawer, behind a stack of triplicate forms that no one had ever looked at and never would.

Yanking it out, inside there was a fresh bottle of lube silicone-water hybrid along a small remote-controlled thing you'd been wanting to try with him for weeks and hadn't worked up the nerve to bring out yet.

The handle of the door turned, which you had not yet locked because Ethan had walked in five minutes ago and you'd jumped him before getting to the lock.

Whipping the pouch behind your back and jamming it against the small of your back so hard you were probably going to bruise, your face went the temperature of the sun.

Across the room, Ethan, who had been mid-rise out of his chair to come help you root through the drawer, sat back down fast and slammed himself against the desk so that his hips disappeared under the lip of it, hands going flat to the surface in a posture of casual professional industry.

Your father walked in.

"Hey, kid. Saw the light on."

He paused and he looked at you, then Ethan.

You made the most innocent face you had ever made in your life, feeling the muscles of your face strain with the effort.

"Dad."

"…what're you still doing here?"

"Computer. It's been giving me hell. Won't push the AAR backlog. Etha— Mr. Winters was just helping me with it."

Across the room, Ethan's face moved when he heard something concerning just like his eyebrows that did a little thing, eyes flicking to your father than to you and the little furrow deepened.

The wires connected, synapses firing, file cabinet after file cabinet of memory getting yanked open and re-sorted.

BOYFRIEND'S — SLEEPING-PARTNER-WHOSE-RELATIONSHIP-STATUS-WE-HAVEN'T-DEFINED'S — DAD IS CHRIS REDFIELD.

His face went, briefly, the color of skim milk before it went a more diplomatic color due to your dad looking at him.

"Yeah, just running some diagnostics. The Falcon-3 backend is a mess, Chris. They really need to swap out these machines."

"Mm." Your dad scratched his beard before looking between the two of you again. You held your breath.

"Winters."

"Chris?"

"Don't know how the hell you did it, but you got him interested in this stuff." A grunt, almost a laugh. "Couldn't get him to look at a computer screen for more than five seconds, now he's pulling all-nighters with you."

"He's a quick learner," Ethan said. His voice did a thing at the end.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted iron, looking at the mountain of a man with your most earnest look.

"Yeah," you said. "He's been really patient with me."

Ethan made a very small noise that might have been the one of a soul leaving a body.

Your dad huffed. "All right. Don't keep him here too late Ethan. He's got the morning brief at oh-eight-hundred."

"Sure Chris."

Your dad was looking at him, hand on the doorframe while giving Ethan a look you had only ever seen him give to subordinates who had failed their missions.

"Get some sleep tonight."

"…yes, Chris."

The door closed behind him and the silence that followed had lots of weight while you stood frozen in your earnest little pose and across the room Ethan sat at the desk with his hands flat against the laminate, entire upper body very still.

You waited until you heard the outer door of the records wing slam before exhaling.

"Wow," you said and climbed back into his lap, hands coning back up to your waist on autopilot, kissing his forehead.

"You still in the mood?" you said. "Or did my dad scare your dick down?"

His eyes refocused slowly.

"You could have told me," he said, "that your dad is Chris Redfield."

"I figured you'd notice eventually." You grinned without helping it since the look he gave you was the funniest thing in the world. "You never asked."

"You think I wouldn't have wanted to know that information before—"

"Before what?"

"Before anything! Your dad punched a boulder."

"I know. You're cute when you panic."

"He's going to drag me out into the training yard and shoot me himself." He said deadpan.

"Probably." You started kissing his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose while he made a noise of protest in his throat that was not, you noticed, accompanied by any actual physical attempt to stop you. "Or he might just put you on a really bad rotation for a year."

"Don't kiss me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm trying to have a crisis and you're being adorable—"

You kissed his mouth and he shut up as you felt his hands settle back on your waist, defeated.

"He doesn't have to find out right away." Pulling away barely to whisper those words. "Might as well enjoy your last days alive, no?"

You said it light with a grin in your voice and, to demonstrate the sentiment, you rolled your hips down slowly against the lap you were sitting on, finding that, interestingly, Ethan was still hard.

A little muffled, valiantly attempting to recover from the shock, but very much there, thick line of him pressed against the seam of his jeans and when you ground down on him slowly his breath hitched and his hands tightened on your hips.

"That's not fair," he said quietly. "You're going to be the death of me… literally."

"Yeah, yeah. Famous last words. C'mon, old man, focus."

"Old man—"

You laughed as he scowled before grabbing your jaw with his big warm hand and tilting it up to kiss you.

Laughing into it, his teeth caught your bottom lip and your laugh turned into something quieter.

"There we go," you murmured when he let your mouth go.

"Brat."

"DILF."

He flipped you over off his lap and onto the desk in one motion and your back hit the laminate with a thud that knocked the air out of your lungs and he was on his feet between your knees, chair rolling away behind him and bumping the wall.

"Lock the door."

"I locked it the second your dad walked out."

"…you did?" He cracked a grin too before he was leaning down over you with both arms braced on the desk where you were and his weight settled between your spread knees.

"Your dad said to not keep you up too late." He murmured against your mouth. "He thinks you're working."

He had a hand at the hem of your shirt, sliding it up your stomach while the vowels had gone slow and rough. "When really, you're just up here being a slut for me. Aren't you?”

He grinned against your jaw despite sounding a little uncertain at the edges, like someone trying out a new language with a decent accent but still hunting for vocabulary.

He was trying, though, because he'd figured out that you liked it and provided it.

"Yeah," he said, kissing under your jaw. "Yeah. Captain wants his—" He paused, mouth at your throat. He had clearly just remembered, in the middle of this, who the Captain was.

"…you know what, on second thought—"

"No, no, no, keep going.”

He laughed helplessly against your throat as you felt the warm puff of his breath and the scrape of his stubble before he was biting gently and pulling your shirt up over your head.

"Pouch," you said.

"What?"

"Pouch on the desk."

He found and unzipped it.

"…what is this."

"It's a thing for, you know… plug it in. I was gonna bring it up."

"Okay. Okay. Maybe… maybe later. For now—" He set it aside on the desk and took out the lube. His ears, you noticed, were pink. They went pink whenever he was a little flustered, a little out of his depth, and it was the most unfair thing in the world that a man who'd survived two bioterror events still went pink in the ears at the mention of a sex toy.

He kissed you and worked your slacks and your boxers off in two motions, smooth, practiced now, broad warm hand wrapping around the base of his cock and pulling him free of his briefs right before grabbing for the lube.

"Easy," he murmured. "We've got time."

"Do we?"

"…yeah. Yeah, we've got time."

"My dad—"

"Your dad is the worst topic of conversation right now, can we please…"

You laughed and he poured lube into his palm, warming it between his fingers ever since you'd told him once, weeks ago, that it had been cold and he'd never make the mistake again.

The thoughtfulness of it broke your heart a little.

His finger pressed at your hole before into the first knuckle, out and back into the second.

"Good?"

"Yes."

"More?"

"Please." He added a second finger and scissored them to work you open as you arched on the desk and bit your lip while trying to be quiet.

There was a wall between this room and the corridor and that wall was not, fundamentally, sound-proof.

"Quiet, baby." A third finger found its place inside your tight walls, a place he'd mapped out methodically over a month of practice as he stroked it once and your hips jumped clean off the desk.

You bit your fist and tasted blood as he kept working until you were boneless and panting and almost crying with how badly you wanted him to fuck you already.

Right away he pulled his fingers out and you whined at the loss but he hushed you again while lining himself up.

"Want it?"

"Yes."

"Beg."

"…what?"

"Beg, baby. C'mon."

"Ethan, please."

"Yeah?"

"Please fuck me. Please. Please, please—"

"Good boy."

He pushed in and you couldn't have made noise if you'd wanted to, breath punched out of you in a voiceless rush while he pushed in slow, long thick stretch of him sliding in and splitting you open in the way you'd come to crave.

Once he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, you could feel him so deep to the point he reached your gut. He was breathing through his teeth, gripping the edge of the desk with his reattached hand, another warm hand on your hip stroking little soothing strokes with his thumb.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, move." He did, the first few thrusts were long and deep, dragging him out almost all the way before he pushed back into the hilt and your eyes rolled back, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk as you tried to remember to breathe.

He bent down over to kiss while fucking you, cupping your jaw with his big warm hand and licking into your mouth while rolling his hips into you with that same patient deep rhythm.

"You're so good for me," he whispered. "Chris'd be so proud, hm? His son is working so hard."

He clamped his hand over your mouth while he kept going and you were going out of your mind as he twisted his hips. He hit that spot. Your back arched.

"Really you're just up here taking it so good and letting me fuck you on your own desk."

Sobbing into his hand, muffled against his palm until took his hand off your mouth, brushed his thumb across your bottom lip and you sucked it into your mouth without thinking.

His hips stuttered in their rhythm at witnessing that right before speeding up due to his self-control being a thin and beautiful thing, desk creaking and keyboard rattling the second he started fucking you in earnest.

You bit your lip and you whined into your own throat as you held onto the front of his jacket with both fists.

"Yeah," he was breathing. "Fuck, you're so tight."

There was a strand of damp blond hair stuck to his forehead and he looked beautiful having the best night of his life.

Fat head of his dick began hammering your prostate and your eyes were watering.

"Hands off.” The hand with all fingers still attached and previously on your hip wrapped around the one you had on your own cock and it got slammed upward where your head was. “Don't touch yourself. Come just from this. Show me."

He kept going hard and deep in that same place until your whole body went tight and you came untouched, all over your abdomen and his shirt, a thin broken whine in the back of your throat that he caught with his mouth as he fucked you through and past it while mouthing repeatedly ‘yes’ against his jaw because no sound was making it out anymore.

"Where?" he panted. "Where do you want it?"

"In.”

"Yeah?"

"Inside, please, Ethan, please."

"Christ." He buried his face in your neck and came, constant pulses of him panting your insides white as he groaned against your skin and sagged against you.

His heart was pounding through his dark sweater while you ran your fingers through his damp hair.

"You okay?"

"…your dad is going to kill me."

"You just said no more dad—"

"I know. I'm sorry… give me a minute. I'm having a moment."

You laughed quietly and his shoulders shook with the laughter he rumbled out as well.

Eventually he pulled back carefully, pulling out of you as you felt the trickle that followed and he made a small possessive sound at the sight that made your spent cock twitch valiantly.

"Stay there," he murmured before grabbing the towel from the pouch and cleaning you up gently, wiping himself and tossing the towel aside.

He helped you sit up and helped you back into your clothes as you let him because you were too tired to do anything else and because you liked it.

He sat down in the chair and you pulled yourself into his lap, curled against his chest.

"…we're not telling him," he said.

"Mm."

"He's going to find out at our wedding and shoot me at the altar."

"At our wedding, huh?"

He went pink in the ears.

"…I— I didn't— I meant— it was a hypothetical.”

"It's okay. I liked the wedding part."

He buried his face in your hair and you felt him smile against your scalp.

Both of his arms tightened around you as you stayed there in his lap for a long time until the computer, abandoned on the desk, finally went ’bing’ with the failed connection notification.

"Want me to fix it?"

"…if you wanna."

He kept you tugged against his chest as the chair you were both on rolled forward until your back made contact with the desk and you heard from behind your ears quick clicking noises from the keyboard.

"I'm really glad I helped you with this junk that first night."

You smiled into his neck, debating keeping the awful device just for what it brought you.

"Me too, old man."

"Stop calling me old man."

"Make me."

He huffed a laugh and kissed you again.

You sat alone on the low stone ledge that ringed the courtyard, the late-autumn sun doing little to chase the chill from your bones. Across the cracked pavement, a young couple stood wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed so close it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Their laughter floated on the wind, soft and intimate, the kind of sound that belonged solely to those who have never once doubted their ability to touch and be touched in return.

They moved together like reeds in the wind, foreheads resting against one another, fingers curled into the fabric at the small of each other’s backs as though letting go might spell the end of their world. When they finally parted, it was only far enough to breathe; their hands found each other instantly, fingers knitting together with ease, knuckles brushing, thumbs tracing idle circles over warm skin. They walked away like that, tethered together in a way they have probably never thought about twice.

You can’t look away.

Only when the courtyard empties and the wind carries the last echo of their footsteps do you finally drop your gaze to your own hands. They rest palm-up on your thighs, unmarred, but useless. Slowly, deliberately, you lace your fingers together the way you had just watched them do, tight, then tighter still, trying to mimic the pressure, the heat, the simple comfort of another person’s living skin against your own.

It felt cold, hollow. A cruel pantomime of everything you can never have.

Because you had never, not once in centuries of borrowed lifetimes, been touched the way ordinary people touch one another. Every accidental brush in a crowd, every desperate grab during combat, every hesitant handshake offered by someone who didn’t know any better yet, had all ended the same. The moment bare skin met bare skin, you stole from them. A heartbeat, a month, a year; whatever fragment of life you unwillingly siphoned before they jerked away in horror or crumpled, suddenly older, suddenly closer to death because you had dared to brush too close to them.

Decades had passed since anyone had risked it.  

Decades since you had felt the deliberate weight of another person’s hand on your skin, the slide of fingers through your hair, the press of a palm against your back in comfort or desire or simple friendship. You couldn’t even remember what temperature human skin was supposed to be. You had forgotten the difference between the slickness of sweat and the softness of someone else’s breath against your neck.

Even your own hands are foreign to you now, like they belong to someone else entirely.

“Come on, let’s get going.”

Nanami’s low voice cuts through the haze. You startle, yanking your fingers apart quickly. Heat floods your face, you shove both hands deep into the pockets of your uniform jacket as though hiding evidence, then rise too quickly, knees stiff from sitting too long in the cold.

“There’s a situation in Shinagawa” he continues, already turning toward the gates. “They want us on site.”

You falls into step beside him, the familiar rhythm of boots on stone grounding you as you fished your phone from your coat. The report loaded, erratic cursed-energy spikes, civilians transfigured into unrecognisable shapes, no clear grade on the special-grade suspect yet. You grunt in acknowledgment, scrolling.

Nanami glances sideways. “They haven’t classified it. We go in assuming the worst.” His jaw is a hard line, brows drawn low, the small tells of a man who hates unknowns. “Itadori, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki are shadowing us for field experience. Their safety is our priority. Understood?”

You manage a faint smile at the thought of the first-years. Yuji’s ridiculous pink hair that always looked impossibly soft; Nobara’s bright eyes and even brighter personality; and Megumi’s perpetual stormy scowl that you secretly wanted to smooth away with a thumb the way a parent might.

You wanted to ruffle that fluffy hair until Yuji laughed and ducked.  

You wanted to tap the tip of Nobara’s nose just to watch her swat at you and threaten violence.  

You wanted to rest a hand on Megumi’s head and tell him, without words, that the weight of the world didn’t have to be his to shoulder alone.

But you never would.

Your hands stay buried in your pockets, curled into fists so tight the knuckles ached, as you follow Nanami toward the gate and whatever waited in Shinagawa, toward the one place where your touch was nothing more than another weapon. 

… 

The sky over Shinagawa had turned the colour of dried blood, thick with drifting ash and the copper reek of transfigured corpses. What had started as a containment mission had, in the space of a single heartbeat, become the single worst day of your long, cursed life.

Ryomen Sukuna stood in the centre of the ruined intersection like a god who had grown bored with this game, four arms flexing lazily, laughing in four different registers. Every step he took cracked the asphalt. Every breath he took felt like annihilation.

You and Nanami had never been meant for this. No one was.

“Nanami!”

Your voice cracks as you hurl yourself backward, boots skidding across broken glass. A wave of cursed energy carved the air where your head had been a half-second earlier. Sukuna’s face split into that wide, maniacal grin that meant someone was about to stop existing.

Nanami slides in behind you, tie already knotted tight around his knuckles, sleeves rolled high, sweat cutting tracks through the grime on his temples. Three hours of nonstop fighting had left him hollow-eyed, but his stance still never wavers.

“We need to fall back” he barks, Ratio Technique flaring as he drives a precise, brutal strike toward Sukuna’s ribs. “Regroup with—”

Sukuna twists away from the blow as though it were a breeze, laughing loud enough to rattle windows three blocks away.

“He’s not letting us leave!” you shout, voice raw. You slam your palms together, dragging a brutal fistful of years from your own lifespan, twenty… thirty, you stop counting, and turn the stolen time into a searing lance of cursed energy. The beam hits Sukuna square in the chest, forcing him back two whole steps. It was the first time anything had moved him all day.

Nanami’s eyes flick to you, wide with refusal. “Y/N—”

“Take the kids and go!” You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t afford to. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara were crouched behind an overturned bus, pale and shaking. “I’ll buy you the minutes you need.”

“You’ll die.”

“No” you said, sharp enough to cut metal. “I won’t, I never do”

Something in your tone made Nanami go still. His eyes search your face for one heartbeat longer, then he gives you a single, curt nod and vanishes toward the first-years.

You turn back to the King of Curses.

He was already strolling forward again, unhurried, delighted.

“Alright” you mutter, rolling your shoulders. “Let’s do this.”

Your reserves are like a dying candle. Distance attacks are finished. There is only one option left now.

You need to close the gap. Touch him. Steal whatever monstrous lifespan he possesses and turn it into power.

You run straight at him.

The fight becomes nothing but fists and instinct. No technique, no elegance; just survival. His punches land like sledgehammers, every impact drives the air from your lungs, cracked ribs, split skin. You taste metal with every breath. You kept reaching, fingers brushing air again and again as he bats your hands away like gnats.

“Come on!” he crows, foot slamming into your sternum and sending you tumbling across the dirt. Gravel shredding your uniform, your palms. You roll, coughing blood, pushing upright on shaking arms. You spit a red clot into the dust before you look up again.

Sukuna’s crimson eyes glitter. “Weak” he sighs. “Far too weak for me.”

“Yeah” you rasp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. A crooked, reckless grin pulled at your split lip. “Maybe. But you still won’t be able to kill me.”

The words light something feral behind his eyes. In less than a blink he is on you, fist burying itself in your stomach hard enough to lift you off your feet. Pain explodes white-hot. Your vision tunnels, darkness carving in from all sides.

On pure reflex you clutch at the front of his robe, anchoring yourself to him so you wouldn’t fly. Your right hand snakes between two of his blocking arms and slams flat against the centre of his bare chest.

You brace for the rush, the familiar, sickening flood of stolen life pouring into your veins like molten sunlight.

It never came. There was nothing.

Just skin. Warm, living skin beneath your palm.

For one impossible second the world narrows to that single point of contact. You feel the steady thump of a beating heart beneath muscle and bone. You feel the faint texture of markings under your fingertips, the impossible heat radiating off him.

Your head tilts, slow and curious, like a cat discovering a new sound.

Sukuna has gone perfectly still. His hand raised, claws extended for the killing blow, hovered inches from your throat.

You lift your palm a fraction, stare at it in open wonder, then press it back down again, harder, as if testing whether reality might change if you pushed firmly enough. Your fingers splay wide, tracing the ridges of muscle, the slight give of flesh. 

It so warm, alive…real.

You look up at him, eyes bright with something dangerously close to joy.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper, voice trembling on the edge of hysterical laughter.

Sukuna’s lip curls, baring sharp canines. “I’m going to kill you” he hisses, low and venomous.

You don’t hear him. All you can do is stare at your own hand as though it belongs to a stranger. His next slash came fast, aimed to remove the offending limb at the wrist.

It stops short though when he realises you aren’t even looking at it, you’re not bothering to defend yourself. You were ignoring him completely, lost in the simple miracle of touch.

“You ignoring me, brat?” he snarls, stepping back, letting your fingers sleep free.

“Come here” you breathe, reaching with both hands now, palms open and hungry.

He takes another wary step back, four eyes narrowing.

“I need to touch you again.”

“The hell; keep your filthy hands off me.” He strikes your wrists away, but the blow carries no real force; just enough to warn, to create distance. You follow anyway, stumbling forward, fingers curling greedily on empty air.

“Just one moment, please.”

You lunge.

Both palms hit his chest again, slide upward in a frantic, reverent glide; over the slope of his collarbones, along the thick column of his neck, thumbs brushing the black markings beneath his lower set of eyes. You feel everything at once, the faint prickle of stubble along his jaw, the thrum of his pulse beneath the skin, the impossible warmth seeping into your cold hands like you’ve plunged them into fire.

You were shaking. Tears you didn’t know you still had gathered at the corners of your eyes.

It was all so surreal, like the world had tilted on its axis and crushed every rule you’d ever lived by into the cracked pavement.

Sukuna’s eyes narrow to molten slits, glowing with open contempt, yet he hasn’t moved. Hasn’t torn you apart. Hasn’t even shifted his weight. Four arms hung loose at his sides, deceptively relaxed, while the mouth on his stomach curls up in a silent snarl.

“I suggest…” he rumbles, voice rolling like thunder, low and guttural, the kind of sound that crawls between your ribs and rattles bones, “ that you take your hands off me. Now.”

You don’t. You can’t.

“I’m not taking anything from you…” The words slip out softly, dazed by this new experience. Your gaze stayed locked on the impossible place where your bare palms met his bare chest. No drain. No flicker of stolen years rushing into your veins. Just heat bleeding into your cold skin like sunrise after centuries of night. “I’m not killing you”.

Your fingers move on their own, greedy and trembling. They dig into the thick cords of muscle along his neck, feeling the way tendons shift and flex beneath the surface, resilient and alive. You trace the bold black bands that cover his chest and arms, following their paths with the pads of your fingers as though reading braille. 

Every ridge, every dip, every faint scar you find sends a shiver racing up your arms and straight into your heart.

Sukuna’s breath hitches, barely. A fractional tightening of the abs beneath your fingers. The mouth on his stomach parts, tongue flicking once in irritation.

“So that’s your cursed technique” he sneers, the words dripping with disdain, yet still he doesn’t strike. He stands there, towering and terrible, and lets you map the topography of his body like it was yours to discover. “A leech. How utterly pathetic.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy pressing both palms hard over his pectorals, squeezing experimentally, watching in open wonder as the muscle yields and then springs back. Your thumbs brushes across a nipple by accident, you watch in amazement as it stiffens under the fleeting touch, and a low, involuntary growl vibrates through his chest into your wrists.

Before the sound has fully left him, his leg moves.

The kick comes lightning-fast, heel slamming into your sternum with enough force to launch you clear off your feet. You fly back ten metres, hit the pavement hard, rolling twice through broken glass and ash before the world stops spinning. Pain explodes across your back, your ribs, your skull. Air flees your lungs in a ragged wheeze. You curl up instinctively, arms wrapped around your middle, coughing blood into the dirt.

Through the haze you lift your head.

Sukuna is already turning away, pink hair whipping in the wind, four arms folding across his chest like a king bored with a mildly entertaining insect. The distance between you grows with every lazy step he took.

“No—” The word tears out of you, cracked and desperate. You shove up onto your knees, one arm outstretched, fingers splayed wide toward his retreating back. “Wait—”

He didn’t wait.

In a ripple of cursed energy he’s gone, leaving only the echo of laughter and the lingering warmth still clinging to your palms like a brand.

You stay there on your knees in the wreckage, hand reaching for a phantom that had already vanished, chest heaving around the hollow ache of almost.

All you want, more than breath, more than survival, is to touch him again.

…

The common room at Jujutsu High smelled faintly of cedar shavings and old paper, the late-afternoon light slanting through half-closed blinds. You’re stood in the centre of the worn flooring, palms damp, heart battering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Gojo lounges against the wall, one hip cocked, arms folded, that infuriating megawatt smile already locked and loaded. He bends forward slightly at the waist, presenting his face like a dare.

“Go on then” he sings, voice bright as fracturing glass. “Just don’t take too much, yeah? I still have plans for this century.”

Yaga sits hunched over his worktable in the corner, black glasses catching the light as he tilts his head up. “I really don’t think this is wise” he rumbles, the words half-lost beneath the rapid click-click-click of his felting needle stabbing into plush.

Your hand trembles in the air between you and Gojo, index finger extended. The distance feels like miles. His Six Eyes flickers toward you, glacier-blue and sparkling with wicked amusement.

“Go on” he urges again, waggling his brows in an exaggerated invitation.

You swallow the stone in your throat. One second of contact with Gojo Satoru would feel like drinking lightning from a bottle. But some desperate, foolish part of you still hopes. Hopes that the miracle on that blood-soaked street had rewritten the rules entirely. Hopes that you are finally, finally free.

You press your finger to his cheek before doubt can pull you back.

The moment skin meets skin, your world implodes.

Life, raw and infinite, slams into you like a freight train made of suns. Your knees buckle instantly. You tear your hand away, collapsing to the floor with a choked gasp, every nerve screaming from the overload. The influx is too much, too fast; your body convulses once, hard, then folds in on itself as nausea surges.

Gojo straightens, fingertips brushing the spot you’d touched, head cocked like a curious cat. “So I guess it still works” he murmurs, almost gentle. “How much did you take?”

“A day” you groan, curling onto your side, forehead pressed to the cool floor while your stomach tries to turn itself inside out. “Remind me… never to touch you again.”

He laughs, so bright and careless, and steps over you without ceremony, treating your sprawled body like a minor obstacle on his way to the door. “Noted.”

“Told you so” Yaga grunts, never once looking up, needle flashing as another cursed corpse takes shape beneath his hands.

No one else offers. Not Ijichi, not Mei Mei when she breezes through later, not even Shoko when she comes to check if you’ve concussed yourself on the floor. The invisible ring around you widens again, three feet of polite, flinching distance. When you stumble getting up, no hand reaches out to steady you. When you laugh too loud at something Nobara says, Yuji’s answering grin falters the instant your arm lifts in an aborted gesture that might have ruffled his hair.

You’re alone in your own skin again, sealed inside the same old prison.

And at night, when the dorm finally goes quiet, the memory of Sukuna’s warmth comes back to torment you.

You dream of it relentlessly. The impossible heat of his chest under your palms, the flex of muscle, the thud of his heart. In the dreams your hands didn’t stop at polite exploration. They slide over shoulders, down the ridged plane of his stomach, tangled in pink hair that feels softer than it looks. You dream of his four arms caging you close, of mouths that speak filth and praise in equal measure, of being pressed skin-to-skin with no death between you.

You dream of kissing him, of tasting blood and smoke and something darker. You dream of fingers laced tight, of walking hand-in-hand like that couple in the courtyard, drawing lazy circles over black markings while he pretends to be annoyed but lets you anyway.

Every morning you wake gasping, sheets twisted, cheeks wet. The ghost of his skin lingers on your fingertips like a stain you can’t wash off.

Sukuna is the exception.  

The only exception in centuries of slow, starving isolation.

And of course, because the universe has always possessed a vicious sense of humour, the one person you can touch without killing is the single most wicked, most wanted, most untouchable being in sorcerer history.

Ryomen Sukuna, The King of Curses.

Your only salvation, and the one creature alive who would probably laugh themselves sick if they ever learned what you’d started to crave in the dark.

…

You start your desperate search in whispers.

Every question is wrapped in the facade of duty. “intel on high-grade movement,” “historical patterns of the King of Curses,” “any sightings of white-haired attendants in the north.” You volunteer for the worst missions, the ones that take you into abandoned mountain shrines, flooded subway tunnels, cursed villages half swallowed by frost, because the curses there are old enough to remember Heian gossip.

You sit across from them while they’re bound in talismans and chains, voice calm, asking the same three questions disguised as a dozen different ones.

Where does he rest?  

Who serves him?  

Who brings him meat and sake?

Most spit in your face, try to bite, try to kill. 

You don’t sleep, and eating becomes an afterthought, a rice ball scarfed in the dark, black coffee that tastes like battery acid.  Your reflection starts looking like something that crawled out of a grave, hollow cheeks, bruised eyes, hands that won’t stop shaking from caffeine and want.

Weeks bleed into one long, cold night.

Then, on a wind-scoured ridge in the Japan Alps, snow hissing sideways through skeletal pines, you finally crack the cipher.

Uraume.

They stand ankle-deep in fresh powder, white robes untouched by the storm, breath pluming in perfect silence. The moment you step into the clearing they know. Maybe it’s the way you’re swaying on your feet. Maybe it’s the tremor in your outstretched fingers or the raw, frantic edge to your voice that hasn’t felt human in days.

“Take me to him.”

Uraume’s face is porcelain carved from winter itself, no surprise, no fear, only the faint curl of disdain at one corner of their mouth. Pink eyes flick over you like you’re an insect that’s wandered too close.

“You must have a death wish” they hiss, voice soft, flat.

“I won’t do anything” you say too quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “I swear I won’t fight. I won’t—”

“Like you could.”

The contempt is obvious, so clean and cold. You flinch, but you don’t back down. Snowflakes melt the instant they touch your burning cheeks.

“I just… I need to see him.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

Uraume studies you for a long, frozen moment. The wind howls through the pines; somewhere far, far below an avalanche rumbles, flattening whatever's in its wake.

At last they tilt their head, the tiniest concession.

“Sukuna will enjoy this” they murmur, almost to themselves. A faint, humourless smile touches their lips, sharp as frostbite. “I’ll prepare your body. He prefers human meat.”

They turn without another word, robes flaring white against white, and begin walking deeper into the storm.

You follow, heart hammering so hard you’re half-surprised you’re still standing.

You are finally going to touch him again.

The air inside is thick with old blood and incense. Torchlight flickers across walls, throwing long, dancing shadows that crawl like spiders across the floor. At the far end, raised on a dais built from the bodies of things that were once mighty, Ryomen Sukuna lounges.

Four arms, four eyes, one heart beating slow and steady beneath skin painted in living ink. Pink hair spiked up wildly. Blood, someone else’s, still clings to the corner of his smirking mouth. He is sprawled upon a throne like a bored god amongst the carnage, legs stretched out, one set of arms folded behind his head, the other idly spinning a severed finger between clawed knuckles.

The moment your eyes find him, the knot that has lived in your chest for weeks finally loosens. Breath rushes into lungs you hadn’t realised were starving. Your knees almost buckle right there.

You take one involuntary step forward, both hands already reaching, fingers trembling with centuries of withheld need.

His voice cuts across the cavern like a blade dragged over stone.

“You brought me a leech, Uraume.” The words echo, amused and venomous. “I can’t eat leeches. They leave a sour taste.”

Uraume, still half a step behind you, opens their mouth, perhaps to explain, perhaps to apologise, but Sukuna flicks two fingers in a lazy, dismissive arc. The air ripples. Uraume bows low, robes whispering over the floor, and casts you one last glacial glance, equal parts disdain and promise of later dismemberment, before vanishing into the dark.

The great doors thud shut somewhere far behind you.

Silence falls, broken only by the soft crackle of torches. You drop.

Your knees hit ice-cold stone so hard the impact jars up your back. Your forehead follows, pressed to the ground in a bow that is half desperation, half surrender. Your whole body shakes.

“Let me touch you” you rasp, voice cracking like thin ice. “Once. That’s all I need. Please.”

A low, rolling laugh reverberates through the chamber, through your bones.

“You come into my house…” His voice is closer now; you feel the shift in air pressure as he leans forward on his throne of corpses. “…and you make demands.” 

The words drip with contempt. A single clawed finger lifts, lazy, as though he’s already imagining how easily it could separate your head from your shoulders. “What a strange little leech you are. You don’t want something from me. You want to do something to me.”

You stay folded to the floor, forehead still touching stone, tears you didn’t realise you were shedding leaving hot trails down your cheeks and dripping onto the ancient floor.

“You’re the only one” you whisper, the confession torn out of you, voice trembling. “In a thousand years… you’re the only one I can touch without killing.”

The torches flicker. Somewhere high above, frost cracks along the rafters.

You wait, breath held, heart hammering so loudly you’re certain he can hear it, for judgment, for laughter, for the slash of claws that never comes.

Instead, there is only the slow, deliberate drag of bare feet across bone as the King of Curses descends his throne and comes to decide what to do with the creature begging at his feet.

His hand descends like judgment itself, and clamps beneath your jaw. His grip is like iron. Your head snaps up; the world tilts, crimson eyes filling every inch of your vision until the shrine, the torches, the bones, everything collapses into that searing gaze. Cursed energy rolls off him in waves so dense it feels like drowning on dry land.

“You’ll touch” he says, voice low, vibrating through the bones of your face, “where I allow. Understand?”

You try to nod. The movement is tiny, strangled by his hold. Satisfied, he releases you. You drop the short distance back to your knees with a soft thud, breath sawing in and out.

Then he extends one hand, palm down, fingers lax, lazy and disinterested. An offering and a test.

You don’t think. You simply lunge.

Your trembling hands close around his first, fingers wrapping around a wrist thick enough that your fingertips don’t even meet. The heat is immediate, shocking. You drag his palm upward, pressing it to your cheek like a man dying of thirst who has finally found water. The calloused skin sears away weeks of cold; the faint drag of claws over your cheekbone sends shivers racing down your spine. You turn into it, nuzzling shamelessly, lips brushing the heel of his hand, tasting iron and smoke and something darker that must be him.

A low, rumbling sound, disdain, disgust, or amusement, rolls out of his chest.

You can’t stop. You won’t.

Fever takes the reins. You surge upward from your knees, clumsy, frantic, and throw yourself against him. Arms wrap around the impossible breadth of his torso; you bury your face against the centre of his chest. Your palms skate over bare skin, greedy, memorising every ridge of muscle, every raised black marking, the faint texture of old scars. 

You press closer, and closer, until there is no space left between you, until the heat of him bleeds through your uniform and brands itself into your bones.

Your hips move without permission, a helpless, animal like motion, rubbing against the hard plane of his body like a starved thing finally allowed contact. Your cheek drags back and forth over his sternum, chasing warmth, chasing proof that this is real. Breath comes in broken sobs against his skin.

He stands perfectly still, four arms hanging loose, towering above you while you rut and cling and tremble like something feral that has forgotten how to be human.

And still, beneath the disgust curling his lip and the cold amusement glittering in his eyes, he does not push you away. Not yet.

Your palms refuse to still. They glide over the broad planes of his chest, tracing every ridge and scar, then climb higher, reverent, back up the powerful column of his throat. Your fingertips sink into his hair, those wild pink strands that looked coarse from afar, and you freeze, stunned. It’s impossibly soft, like heavy silk sliding between your fingers.  

“It’s like silk” you whisper, voice cracking open with wonder. Tears spill freely now, rolling down your cheeks and dripping onto his skin.

“Are you insane?” he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

You shake your head, frantic. “You don’t know what it’s like.” Your nails drag lightly down the nape of his neck, raising faint lines that vanish almost instantly. You lean in until your ear presses just left of center, right over the steady thud of his heart. “You don’t know what it’s like to never have touched anyone… never held someone’s hand… never been kissed.” 

A low, grudging grunt rumbles out of him. Two of his arms lift, barely, as if making reluctant room for the creature clinging to his torso.

“You’re so warm” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

The mouth on his stomach speaks, voice rough as gravel dragged across steel. “You’re trembling like a virgin, little leech.”

You only hum, burrowing closer, chasing the heat, the scent, the impossible reality of him.

Then the world tilts.

One massive hand closes around both your wrists, yanking them from his hair. Another palms the center of your chest and shoves. Your back meets a frozen pillar with a soft thud that knocks the air from your lungs. Your captured wrists are dragged upward, stretched high above your head until you’re forced onto the balls of your feet, spine arching, body presented like an offering. The position leaves you utterly helpless, chest heaving, throat exposed. 

Sukuna looms closer, crimson eyes glittering with predatory amusement.

“Do you want to feel more, little leech?” The mockery drips from every syllable. His gaze drags slow and deliberate across your tear-stained face, your parted lips, the desperate rise and fall of your chest. “Curious enough to find out what everything on me feels like?”

“Don’t call me that” you gasp, turning your face away, cheeks burning.

He leans in until his breath fans hot over your ear. “Well, little leech?” he croons, “I won’t do a thing unless you say it.”

You squirm, wrists twisting uselessly in his iron grip. He’s so much taller, broader; the pillar at your back is unyielding stone and he is living flame. His thigh slides between yours without warning, thick and deliberate, pressing up hard against the aching length straining your uniform pants. The pressure drags a broken sound from your throat.

“Please” you choke out, hips jerking involuntarily into the friction. “I—I want to feel—”

Before the plea is finished, his free hand seizes one of your trapped one and forces it downward. He guides your palm beneath the loose waist of his robes, past coarse pink hair and scorching skin, until your fingers close around one of his cocks, rigid, impossibly hot, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

You gasp, eyes flying wide. You can’t see it, only feel, but gods, the weight of it in your hand, the slick bead of pre-cum already coating the head, the thick veins that throb under your hesitant touch. You stare, transfixed, at the place where your wrist disappears beneath the fabric.

Of your own accord, you begin to move.

Slow at first, exploring, careful, then faster when his breath hitches. You trace every ridge, map every vein, spread the slick gathering at the slit so your hand glides smoother. His head tips back, throat working, a low growl building in his chest. You learn by the way his hips twitch, by the flex of abs, by the sharp inhale when your thumb sweeps just under the crown.

You tighten your grip, stroke faster, utterly drunk on the power to make the King of Curses shudder.

He snarls, something feral, and bucks hard into your fist, and cums suddenly.

Hot, thick pulses splatter over your trapped wrist, coat your fingers in viscous heat. You rub the viscous liquid between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the slippery warmth, the faint salt scent rising in the air.

Your hand is still curled around him when he finally lowers his head again, eyes glowing like fresh-spilled blood, a slow, dangerous smile curling across his face.

“Still curious, little leech?”

You nod before the question even finishes leaving his mouth, frantic, thoughtless, fever-hot. Anything. You would take anything he deigns to give you right now.

He laughs, sharp, cruel, delighted, and the sound slices straight through your spine.

Then the world tilts again.

One of his arms, thick as your thigh, slides under your ass and lifts. You’re airborne for a heartbeat, weightless, before he carries you across the shrine like you’re made of paper. The bone dais looms. He bends you forward over the armrest of his throne, crimson velvet plush and cool against your chest. Your toes barely skim the floor, your folded over the padded edge, spine arched, ass jutting high, utterly exposed. 

“So eager for me” he mocks, voice dripping acid amusement.

Fabric rips. First your shirt, torn off your shoulders and thrown. Then, your uniform pants, torn like wet tissue, shredded down to your knees in one brutal yank. Cold air kisses bare skin, then his palms, rough and scalding, spread your cheeks wide. You feel the weight of his stare on your hole, clinical and predatory.

“You’re not going to take me like this” he says, almost conversational, one brow arched high.

You twist to protest, words already forming, but the sight steals them. He pinches the claws of his right hand between thumb and forefinger and snaps them off, index to ring finger, like breaking dry kindling. The black tips clatter to the floor. The fingers are still thick, still dangerous, but blunt now.

A second hand seizes your chin, wrenching you upright until your back almost touches his chest. Those three declawed fingers appear in front of your lips.

“Suck” he growls against your ear, teeth scraping the lobe hard enough to sting.

You open instantly. He thrusts them in without ceremony. They fill your mouth, heavy and salty, stretching your jaw. You swirl your tongue desperately, coating every inch, tracing the pads, the ridges of knuckles. Saliva pools, spills over your lip, but you don’t care. You suck like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

He watches you for a long moment, eyes hooded, then pulls free with a wet pop.

The hand disappears behind you. One slick finger circles your rim once, twice, before pressing inside.. 

The intrusion is shocking, so foreign and thick. You gasp, body clamping down instinctively.

“Relax” he snaps, crooking the finger and dragging it out only to push back in. The burn is bright, but it fades quickly into something you have no name for. You force air into your lungs, force your muscles to yield.

He works you open with ruthless patience you never expected. One finger becomes two, scissoring, twisting, spreading saliva and slick until the burn melts into a heavy, electric ache. The third slides in alongside the others and you keen, high and broken, tears already leaking from the corners of your eyes to soak dark patches into the red velvet beneath your cheek.

He speeds up. The drag turns rougher, deliberate.

“Never been touched here either?” he sneers, curling his fingers just to hear the choked sob that rips out of you. “Pathetic.”

Then he shifts angle, knuckles pressing deep, and finds it.

You feel the stroke like lightning forking through every nerve. Pleasure flashes behind your eyes, white-hot, radiating outward until your toes curl and your thighs shake uncontrollably.

“Wha—” The word fractures. Your nails rake the velvet, tearing tufts free.

He laughs, low and vicious, and attacks that spot again, again, again. Each firm press drags another helpless cry from your throat, each drag back leaves you empty and begging.

“Stop—” you sob, not meaning it, not even close.

“Come on, little leech” he croons, seating all three fingers to the hilt and grinding mercilessly against that devastating place inside you. “Cum for me.”

You can’t breathe. Pressure coils so tight it hurts, coils tighter still, until something inside you shatters.

You come with a raw, ragged scream, entire body seizing, back bowing off the armrest as if an electric current is ripping through you. Pleasure crashes in endless waves, so intense your vision blacks out at the edges. Cum spills untouched between your belly and the velvet, pulse after pulse, until you’re limp and trembling and still twitching around the fingers buried deep inside you.

He keeps them there, pressed firm against that spot, milking every aftershock until you’re whimpering nonsense into the ruined cushion, tears and drool and sweat soaking the throne of the King of Curses.

Only then does he lean over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice velvet and venom.

“Good boy.” 

He doesn’t give you even a single heartbeat to recover.

While the aftershocks still ripple through your thighs, he drags two fingers through the mess you left on the velvet, gathering the warm, slick spend. You hear the wet sound of him coating himself, then the blunt, impossible pressure of one thick cockhead nudging against your loosened rim.

There is no pause, no mercy, no slow inching in.

He simply grips your hips with two hands, spreads you wider, and drives forward in one relentless thrust. The stretch is blinding. Your vision whites out; your mouth opens on a scream that never makes it past your throat. He seats himself to the hilt in a single stroke, pelvis flush to your ass, his other cock pressing against yours, filling you so completely you can feel him in your spine.

Your hands scrabble uselessly at the fabric of the throne, fingers flexing and clenching around nothing. All you can do is breathe, shallow, desperate pulls of air, while your body tries to decide if it’s dying or ascending.

Then he moves.

He fucks exactly the way he kills. Overwhelming, brutal, absolute. Each thrust slams the air from your lungs, jolts your whole body forward over the armrest, only for his grip to yank you back onto him harder. The head of his cock drags over that devastating spot inside you on every stroke, relentless, unerring.

And yet you push back to meet him, greedy, shameless, chasing more each time.

His hands are everywhere, mapping you with possessive violence.

One hand grips your hip, digging bruises into your skin, anchoring you exactly where he wants you. Another palm splays across your chest, flicking a nipple hard enough to spark pain, then slides higher and collars your throat. He lifts, forcing your back to arch slightly.

A third hand wraps around your leaking cock, pressing it flush to his extra one, stroking both in perfect, cruel synchronicity with his hips, thumb swiping over the slit on every upstroke.

The fourth hand fists your hair, tilting your head back so he can crush his mouth to yours. Teeth catching your lower lip and biting down; blood blooms copper-bright between you. Tongues tangle, messy and violent, sharing spit and crimson while he growls into the kiss.

“More, more, more” you chant, delirious, the word slurring against his mouth.

He laughs, maniacal, delighted, and gives you everything. Hips snap harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off bone walls like war drums. Grunts tear out of him, animal and triumphant; your own broken moans answer every one.

You claw at the hand around your throat, not to remove it but to beg. “Please, please, hold me, touch me—”

“Pathetic” he snarls, but he obeys.

He hauls you upright in one smooth motion, chest plastered to your sweat-slicked back. The hand in your hair slides down to splay over your sternum, pinning you flush against him. The hand that had been choking you slips upwards and cups your cheek, tilting your head until it rests on the broad slope of his shoulder. Tears spill freely now, streaking over his fingers.

His thumb strokes once across your cheekbone, a feather-light, almost tender motion that breaks you open more thoroughly than anything else.

You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like a blade, violent and total. Your whole body seizes, cock pulsing helplessly in his grip, ropes of cum splattering across the scarlet velvet in long, obscene arcs. You clamp down around him so hard he groans, raw and guttural right against your ear.

Two more stuttering thrusts and he follows. Heat floods you, thick and endless, painting your insides with pulse after pulse of his cum until it leaks hot down your thighs. His other cock paints the throne with cum, joining yours.

He stills, buried to the root, the only sound being your ragged breathing and the wet drip of spend hitting ancient stone.

Your legs give out completely.

He doesn’t let you fall.

Four arms tighten and hold you pinned against his chest, impaled and trembling, heart hammering against his ribs while the aftershocks roll through you both. Your head lolls on his shoulder, cheek smeared with tears and blood and his thumb still tracing idle, soothing circles you never thought the King of Curses capable of.

For a long moment, the only movement in the entire shrine is the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the faint, lazy throb of him still inside you.

Hot seed trickles down the inside of your thigh as his cock slides free with a slow, wet drag that makes you shudder all over again. The sudden emptiness is almost painful, but his arms don’t loosen; they keep you suspended, impaled on nothing now except the cradle of his hold. Your toes barely skim the cold stone.

“That enough, little leech?” he purrs against the shell of your ear, voice mocking and warm all at once. The mouth on his stomach flicks a lazy tongue over your spine, tasting the sweat gathered there.

You turn your head. Tears still leak in steady tracks from the corners of your eyes, your lips are swollen, bitten red from his teeth, and when you speak your voice is nothing but a raw, hoarse thread.

“Not even close.”

The words come out steady despite everything, despite the shaking, the tears, the cum cooling on your skin and his still dripping out of you. It’s a dare, a plea and a vow all at once.

For one heartbeat the shrine is perfectly still.

Then Sukuna laughs, the sound rolls through his chest into yours like distant thunder.

“Greedy little thing” he murmurs, teeth grazing the hinge of your jaw.

One hand slides down to cup your spent cock possessively, thumb smearing the mess there. Another tangles in your hair again, gentler this time, tipping your head back so he can look straight into your teary eyes.

“Fine” he says, voice dropping to something dark and promising. “We’re just getting started.”

ℒℯℴ𝓃 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒹𝓎 - ℛℯ𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ𝓃𝓉 ℰ𝓋𝒾𝓁 2 𝓇ℯ𝓂𝒶𝓀ℯ

“What?!”

The word came out sharper than he meant it to as all that lingering exhaustion under his bright blue eyes was gone. Completely wiped out by pure, unfiltered disbelief, brows that shot up and lips parting.

It was almost ridiculous.

“You can’t be serious…” he muttered quieter this time, yet right now his eyes were locked entirely on you to the point you actually had to look away because the laugh building in your throat was getting dangerous.

“Look here,” you said, voice steadying as you slid the box toward him, cardboard scraping lightly across the desk. The lid fell open just enough to reveal the ridiculous assortments of glazed, frosted and colorful things.

“They bought too many again,” you added, nudging it closer to him. “They’re just gonna get thrown out.”

You leaned in slightly.

“…please?”

The look you gave him made his shoulders drop.

Leon groaned quietly, dragging both hands down his face.

“…sure,” he mumbled finally, voice muffled behind his palms.

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you moved closer, closing the gap between you in a second. His hands were still covering his face when you reached for them, fingers curling gently around his wrists to pull them down.

A kiss that started soft and gentle not for long.

Leon melted into it almost instantly, lips parting against yours, a quiet breath slipping between them as his tongue met yours, hesitant at first to then become more certain.

Your hands cradled his face, feeling how smooth it was, the sharp lines of his jaw and that faint tension still lingering there.

A low and soft sound slipped from him unintentional, hands finding your waist to pull you closer until your body pressed fully against his and those bright blue eyes shut tight.

Then your hand moved down and his breath hitched sharply as your fingers wrapped around the growing heat beneath his pants.

“—hn—” a startled sound escaped him, forehead bumping lightly against yours and soon the whole reason of why this had started in the first place surfaced back in his mind.

You pulled back to look at him, smiling faintly at the way his face had already started to flush.

“…you’re too easy,” you murmured.

“Am not—” he started breathless, but the argument died the second you sank down right onto the desk, wood creaking softly under your weight as you settled between his legs, the box of donuts now sitting right beside you, forgotten for a brief second as your focus narrowed completely.

Everything else disappeared, all blocked out by his frame as your head stayed between his thick and muscular thighs with that prominent bulge straining harder now against his clothing.

Leon glanced quickly toward the office doors left and right while your fingers were already at his belt.

“Relax,” you murmured, glancing up at him as the buckle clicked open. “It’s just us.”

Working his gear loose with ease, knuckles brushing against him through the layers.

“Marvin’s out, remember?”

Leon let out a shaky breath at that, shoulders dropping slightly.

“…yeah,” he mumbled, though his voice was thinner now, distracted.

Your mouth pressed against him through his boxers right over the tip.

“—ah—” his head tipped back slightly, one hand bracing against the desk behind him while the other hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure where to go.

Once you pulled him free, the cool air hit him first, followed immediately by your mouth when a soft kiss was placed right at the tip and Leon shuddered.

The first donut was awkward as you lined it up carefully, pressing it against the head and immediately met resistance.

The dough stretched just enough to give, sliding over the tip inch by inch, dragging along his length in a way that made his hips twitch involuntarily.

“Holy—shit—” You leaned in, placing a quick kiss just below it and his cock jumped, twitching sharply at the contact.

“Sensitive?” you teased softly.

“Shut up—” he shot back weakly, already losing ground.

One donut became two.

Then three.

Each one easier to push down than the last with less road to do.

Col and sticky icing smeared slightly against his heated skin. Bright colors streaked along him, cock visibly throbbing with every movement you made.

“Four,” you said softly after the last one slid into place.

You leaned back slightly, admiring your work.

“That’s impressive.”

Leon blinked down at you, dazed.

“…how is that impressive?”

“Each of these is, what—three inches wide?” You glanced up at him, a slow smile forming as his face went to a darker shade of pink.

Your lips brushed him once you leaned down and Leon’s entire body lock up, a broken moan slipped from him while your tongue dragged along the exposed skin, lips sealing around him more and more as you cleared the path.

The sweetness melted.

“—fuck—” Leon gasped, voice cracking, hips jerking slightly before he caught himself.

Your mouth took more of him deeper and he lost whatever composure he had left as his breathing turned ragged, uneven.

ℒℯℴ𝓃 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒹𝓎 - ℛℯ𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ𝓃𝓉 ℰ𝓋𝒾𝓁 4 𝓇ℯ𝓂𝒶𝓀ℯ

A scoff left him instantly as his head turned away from you, jaw tightening to try and suppress the grin threatening to break through.

It tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway, stubborn and crooked.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He muttered.

The inside of the Spanish police car reeked of cigarette smoke and worn leather.

One of his large and gloved hands came up to shove you back across the seat, your shoulder bumping lightly against the opposite door with a dull thud.

“Knock it off,” he added, though the amusement in his voice completely ruined the authority of it.

Same damn idea. Of course it is.

Before you could respond, the driver’s door creaked open and the remaining Spanish officer leaned halfway back inside, cigarette still between his fingers, ember glowing faintly as he spoke in thick, accented English.

“I go… see my friend, sí?” he said, gesturing vaguely into the darkness. Then his eyes flicked between you and Leon, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“No hagan cochinadas, eh?” Tone playful that left little room for interpretation.

He reached back in, grabbing the box from the front and handing it over casually.

“For you. Want some?”

You took the whole thing without hesitation and the officer barked out a rough, smoker’s laugh, stepping back out of the car as he shook his head.

“Tu novio…” he added, glancing at Leon with a smirk, “le gustan mucho los dulces.”

Leon’s eyes shifted slightly to land on you and the box in your hands as recognition hit him instantly.

“You’ve gotta be—” he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head again before leaning back into the seat.

“Sí, claro… y yo soy el problema, ¿no?” He muttered something quick in Spanish before the door shut again and silence fell.

The second it did you moved fast and Leon didn’t parry you.

His gloved hand moved but to slid into your hair and grip the back of your head, anchoring you in place as you dropped down between his legs.

“…you don’t waste time,” he muttered, voice already dropping lower and rougher.

Your fingers were at his belt in seconds, metal clicking softly, sound loud in the confined space as you worked it loose and his thighs spread slightly to accommodate you, muscles shifting under dark fabric while he observed, grip tightening as you tugged his jeans down enough to free him.

Already fully hard, a visible twitch from the heavy piece of meat veined as cool air made contact.

Your lips brushed the head testing and his grip tightened in your hair.

Reaching for the first donut and lining it up, you pressed it against the tip and was met immediately with resistance.

You pushed slightly, applying slow pressure to not get the thing to break as it began to give inch by inch.

“…keep going,” his jaw clenching immediately after as sensations sparked along his entire length.

You leaned in to press a quick kiss just below it and a small grunt caught in the back of his throat.

Each tasty circular food you added gave a small fight, stacking them lower and lower. Icing smeared faintly, cold against his heated skin, leaving streaks of sugar that clung stubbornly along his length and into the hair at his base.

“New record,” you murmured softly after another slid into place and you looked up at him, a small smile forming. “Think you just broke it.”

Leon’s eyes flicked down to take in the sight, grip in your hair tightening slightly, tugging to pull your face closer.

“Then maybe you should get to work,” he said, voice dropping into something huskier edged with heat as a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Before those cops come back and see how mentally ill you are.”

A low grunt escaped him as your mouth moved again, lips brushing him as you tore into the donut, tongue immediately following to drag along the newly exposed skin.

Leon’s head dropped back against the seat with a dull thud.

“—fuck—” word coming out low and strained while your mouth worked lower and deeper, tongue flicking over sensitive spots that made his thighs tense on either side of you.

Sticky sweetness mixed with heat the more space cleared, lips sealing tighter and Leon’s breathing turning uneven.

Whatever composure he’d been pretending to have was now gone.

ℒℯℴ𝓃 𝒦ℯ𝓃𝓃ℯ𝒹𝓎 - ℛℯ𝓈𝒾𝒹ℯ𝓃𝓉 ℰ𝓋𝒾𝓁 ℛℯ𝓆𝓊𝒾ℯ𝓂

Leon didn’t even need to look.

“I married a freak.” His groan came out long and dragged, head tipping back slightly as one gloved hand came up to cover his face. The gummy material dulled the sensation of the scruff that had grown in over the last few days.

Laughing brightly and unbothered while shifting in your seat beside him, one leg folding slightly under you as you made yourself comfortable.

“Yeah?” you shot back easily. “M’ surprised you didn’t propose with a donut then.”

Leon huffed, an amused exhale through his nose as his hand dragged down his face, revealing a knowing smirk.

“…yeah,” he murmured dryly, voice rough by age and experience. “Would’ve saved me a hell of a lot of money.”

That faint and crooked smile was still there.

You tapped lightly on the box with your short nails, recreating the little rhythm Sherry had shown you of many online.

Leon’s eyes flicked down briefly, then back up when you leaned a little closer.

“…please?”

He sighed long and resigned, completely unsurprised.

“…fine,” he muttered. “Not like you’re gonna shut up otherwise.”

Permission granted, you moved instantly.

Leaning down between his legs, hands already at his belt as you worked it open. The metal clicked softly beneath your practiced fingers.

Leon’s gaze stayed fixed out the windshield, scanning the empty road out of habit before his large and gloved hand came down against your ass in a brutal smack enough to jolt you forward, face bumping straight into the bulge in his jeans.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest.

“Focus,” he muttered.

You huffed against him, breath warm through the fabric, hands fueled by desire resuming immediately to work the zipper down.

Fabric shifted until he was free, an heavy arousal that came from someone who had secretly developed a thing for this. His cock stood firm against his abdomen, veined and flushed, tip already damp catching the dim light inside the car.

The first donut was too tight, it stretched slightly under your fingers not enough to slide easily.

“You’re really committed to this, huh?” Leon’s brows knit faintly as he watched you twisted it gently, applying slow pressure as it began to give.

“…ah—fuck—”

That cold thing slid lower, catching briefly in the coarse hair at his base, pressing it down awkwardly before settling.

You leaned in, placing a quick kiss just above it and a small grunt slipped from the back of his throat.

More sweet treats followed in slow but quicker process from less road to perform, stacking one after the other. The icing smeared faintly, cool against his heated skin, sugar clinging to him in uneven patches.

His breathing changed, glove creaking as the grip on the steering wheel tightening.

“—swear t’ God, If you make a mess…” he muttered, though his voice lacked any real threat.

By the time you were done, there were several stacked along his length, slightly uneven and pressed tight against his thickness.

Incredibly obscene tower of wonders.

“…you done decorating?” he asked, voice rough and edged with something darker now.

Instead of answering you just leaned in, soft tear of dough tearing by your lips while brushing his skin and making his entire body tense.

Precome had already begun to gather at the tip, spilling down and mixing with the sugar and adding a new layer.

Salty-sweet treat.

His hand dropped from the wheel, fingers gripping your shoulder now as your mouth took more of him deeper.

“…yeah—” he muttered under his breath, voice strained now, control slipping in quiet increments.

His cock throbbed against your tongue, twitching with every movement and flick the more of him got freed.

He was completely into it.

ℰ𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝒲𝒾𝓃𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈

His head turned so fast it might as well have cracked something, eyes wide, blinking hard like he’d misheard you.

There was a full stunned pause before the realization hit.

“…You’re—” he let out a short, incredulous breath, voice rough with disbelief, “—you’re actually serious?”

The look on his face was priceless, layers of shock, mild horror and a flicker of reluctant amusement.

There was also something dangerously reactive beginning to stir.

His lips twitched like he didn’t know whether to laugh or scold you and the faintest flush crept up the back of his neck.

All the elements of a child’s birthday clung faintly to the air between sugar, cheap frosting and the waxy ghost of blown-out candles.

Both you and Ethan looked exactly like men who had survived a room full of children who got slowly recollected by their parents.

Dirty blonde hair of his, slightly wavy in places from absentminded hand-raking, fell messily over his forehead. His face carried the weight of the day between the faint stubble shadowing his jaw, lips slightly chapped and eyes half-lidded but still alert.

Broad shoulders slouched into the couch, shirt wrinkled and tugged loose at the collar, exposing a glimpse of collarbone and the strong line of his neck.

You were draped against him, cheek brushing his throat, lips hovering enough that your breath warmed his skin affectionately.

His hand rested loosely at your side, fingers flexing and already relaxing into the quiet right after cleaning the place.

Right before you offered those words and everything snapped.

He’s not joking… absolutely not joking.

Not answering right away, you instead leaned in closer. lips brushed the side of his neck in a quiet, drawn-out kiss followed by another.

“Please.” Voice low and coaxing.

Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose, head tipping back slightly as your mouth worked upward, breath dragging heat along his jawline.

“…God,” he muttered, voice dropping, fraying at the edges. “Are you my husband or some horny teenager?”

One of his large and calloused hands settled more firmly on your waist now.

This is such a bad idea

You hummed against his skin in amusement, pressing another kiss just beneath his ear.

“What’s wrong with being both?”

That earned you a deep and resigned groan straight from his chest.

“It’s a waste,” he grumbled, though there was no real conviction left in it. “Those wer—those are perfectly good donuts.”

Your lips found his cheek now, soft and teasing, peppering him with kisses that made his jaw tighten.

“Mm, yeah?” you murmured, voice laced with mock innocence. “You want Rose to eat all of them instead?”

A pause.

“I could eat them all for you.”

His cock jumped at hearing those words, trapped beneath denim that suddenly felt far too restrictive for the situation.

He huffed out a breath, trying, but failing, to cling to some thread of rationality.

“…Right,” he muttered, voice dry but strained, “so you get all of them and Rose doesn’t? That’s your plan?”

Followed by a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Kind of gluttonous, don’t you think?”

Laughing softly at his words, the sound seemed to ripple through him as you leaned in closer, lips ghosting over his ear, voice dropping into something purposely seductive.

“Would you rather deal with a sugar-rushed kid that keeps you wide awake for hours…” you murmured, breath fanning against his skin before your mouth dragged down the side of his neck.

“…or me in a sugar rush?” A pause as your lips hovered just above his pulse. ”…wanting to play with you instead?”

The next puff of air left him in a shaky exhale, chest rising and falling a little faster now and the grip on your waist tightened without him even realizing it.

Underneath, his cock twitched harder this time, pressing insistently against his jeans.

“…I don’t really have a choice here, do I?” he muttered, voice rough, edged with reluctant humor and far less restrain.

“…Alright.” He leaned in, chasing your lips instinctively but he barely got halfway before you were already gone, going across the room to reach for the box of wonders.

The faint sugary scent grew stronger as you approached and, without hesitation, you dropped down in front of him right between his legs.

Ethan’s posture shifted instinctively as his legs spread wider, knees angling outward. His hands hovered for a second, unsure what to do with themselves, before one dragged down his face in a disbelieving pass, surprise melting the more he observed you in this position, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of his cheek as he watched you handle the box.

The soft clink of his belt buckle came as Ethan’s hands, now steady in firefights, felt strangely clumsy as they worked at his jeans. Leather slid free with a muted hiss, metal catching the warm lamplight before dropping loose.

Meanwhile, the box rested open in your lap, scent of sugar and fried dough thick in the air while your fingers moved with surprising care, picking up one of the smaller donuts.

“What are you doing?” Ethan’s brows knit slightly as he watched you.

You didn’t look up right away while pressing two thumbs into the center of the donut hole to slowly widen it without breaking anything. The soft dough stretched, sugar flaking off in tiny crystalline grains that clung to your fingertips.

Then you glanced up at him, playful and knowing look with a grain of wickedness.

“Well…” you murmured, tone teasing but heavy with intent, “I know my husband.” You lifted the donut slightly, tilting it. “And I know these probably won’t fit.”

Your gaze dipped to point toward the growing tent in his jeans.

“Not without some effort.”

Ethan let out a short, breathy huff that almost passed as a laugh, head shaking once in disbelief but his hips shifted upward anyway as he pushed his jeans down to free himself.

Thick and fully, visibly erect, heavy looking while also veiny along the sides, flushed deep at the tip.

A kind of girth that made your earlier comment feel less teasing and more a genuine logistical concern.

The faint trail of darker hair at his pelvis framed him, already catching a few stray grains of sugar that had fallen from your hands as the first donut met resistance immediately.

You held it steady, guiding it carefully over the tip, fingers brushing along the sensitive head just enough to make a low, surprised grunt slip from him, hips twitching upward involuntarily.

“Easy,” you murmured, almost soothing, though the glint in your eyes said otherwise.

Twisting slightly and patiently applying more pressure on the soft dough as you worked it down over the head and thicker ridge, causing Ethan’s jaw to clench as sensation sparked along every inch it passed.

“Fuck—” he exhaled sharply, head tilting back for a second before snapping forward to watch the donut finally sliding and settling lower along his shaft.

Another one followed right before another one slid in.

Each one required effort from your fingers pressing and working them down inch by inch. The soft dough compressed slightly against his girth, tiny crystals of sugar scattering and sticking to his skin, catching in the fine hair at his base.

Cool pastry and rough sugar against warm and sensitive flesh twitching with every movement.

“…hn—ngh—” low, uneven sounds began to build in his throat, his breathing growing heavier as you worked. His hands gripped the edge of the couch now, knuckles whitening slightly.

Every time you pushed one lower, you were leaning in so close your lips brushed his shaft, a warm kiss placed above where your fingers worked and a visible shudder passed through his abdomen, cock jerking under your touch, making the donut you were guiding slip just slightly before you steadied it again.

“Hold still,” you murmured, though your tone was more amused than commanding.

“…You try—” he shot back breathlessly, voice breaking halfway through.

By the time you were done, there were several of them stacked one on top of the other, some slightly misshapen from the effort, others sitting snugly, creating a ridiculously obscene contrast between a sweet treat and something very, very not.

Leaning back to admire your work, a slow smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you breathed, voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s a lot.”

Eyes flicking up to his.

“Guess I underestimated you.”

Ethan let out something between a groan and a disbelieving laugh, head falling back against the couch cushion.

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice strained, “feels like it.”

Your breath ghosted over him again as the soft tear of dough came from a bite you took, followed by a faint crunch of sugar, lips brushing his skin as you pulled back, taking part of the donut along the road.

“Hh—fuck—” His head dropped back fully now, throat exposed, more sounds spilling from him as your mouth returned, lips grazing and tongue flicking against the newly exposed skin as you cleared space inch by inch.

The sugar melted under the heat of your mouth, leaving faint stickiness behind that only made every pass of your tongue more clingy.

His cock throbbed under you, each twitch sharper than the last.

One hand of his finally dropped to your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair, grounding himself as your pace shifted and more of him was freed.

Less obstruction, more access for your mouth that now closed around him properly and Ethan’s entire body reacted.

“—ah—shit—!” Hips jerking upward before he caught himself, grip tightening in your hair as he tried to keep still, tongue dragging along where sugar still clung, lips sealing tight as you took him deeper, ready for the salty treat to contrast the sweetness dominating your palate.

𝒞𝒽𝓇𝒾𝓈 ℛℯ𝒹𝒻𝒾ℯ𝓁𝒹

Chris didn’t say a word, he just stared at you hard.

To anyone else, it would’ve been enough to make them shut up immediately. His blue eyes, now darkened and heavier by age, locked onto yours with weight, jaw set tight, beard rough and untrimmed along the edges.

It genuinely looked like he might punch you.

He’s thinking about it.

You clapped your hands together lightly in a smack, tilting your head with a casual ease that completely clashed with the intensity of his glare.

“Relax,” you said, almost breezy. “Ethan and fake-Mia-actually-Miranda won’t be back for hours.”

Chris’s eyes flicked away because he was done arguing.

A sharp exhale left him as he turned his head toward the window, pulling a cigar from his gear and lighting it, orange flame flickering briefly in the dark before teleporting to the tip.

“I don’t have time for your shit,” he muttered, voice gravelly los, smoke curling from his lips as he spoke.

Outside, the quiet rural dark stretched endlessly as you leaned your head back against the seat, watching him.

“…please?”

The softer tone you’ve used made Chris sigh deep in his chest.

A sound of defeat you’ve learned too well.

Your hands moved carefully down to his tactical gear, working at the buckles and straps.

He didn’t stop or even looked at you, shoulders broad and unmoving.

Your lips brushed his scratchy cheek, beard dragging against your skin with every kiss, a faint rasping sensation that lingered as you pressed more while trailing slowly along his jawline.

Chris grunted.

Annoyed on the surface without opposing.

Your hands finished their work as his girth stood firm against his clothed abs.

Chris exhaled quietly, head tipping back against the seat as he took another drag from his cigar.

The dough from the first donut strained instantly, soft ring deforming against his thickness as you pushed before cracking along the edge, sugar flaking off and sticking to his skin.

Barely intact, it slid lower, settling near the base where it pressed awkwardly into the coarse hair there.

Leaning in to place a kiss just above it, tongue following to lick along the underside, gathering the sugar that clung stubbornly to sensitive skin.

A quiet exhale left him, longer this time.

The next donut split as you forced it down, pieces bending and compressing against his girth as you worked it into place and you’ve given up completely.

One barely holding together with pieces of the other stacked along his shaft, sugar scattered unevenly across his skin and into the hair at his base.

“Damn,” you murmured softly but Chris didn’t answer, his large hand moved to settle on the back of your head.

Your lips brushing him as the carcass of that sugar bomb tore beneath the pressure of your tongue, dragging along the exposed skin beneath.

Chris’s grip tightened slightly as a low grunt slipped from him, head tilting back again, throat exposed as his breathing shifted to a deeper tone.

Warm lips wrapping around him properly now, nose brushing against the thick bush of his pubes as you worked him.

𝒞𝒶𝓇𝓁ℴ𝓈 𝒪𝓁𝒾𝓋ℯ𝒾𝓇𝒶

A wide grin broke across his face instantly, full of teeth and pure interest.

“Oh, hell yeah—” The CQBR rifle hit the ground with a dull clatter, completely abandoned without a second thought as he straightened to full height right in front of you.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

His hands were already moving quickly to unzip and tug at his tactical gear now that he finally had the chance to break the monotony.

“You’re a lifesaver, you know that?” he added, voice warm with amusement.

Finally something fun.

The boredom of keeping safe a train car not at all infested with zombies was making itself felt too much, you assumed.

By the time you set the small box beside you, he was already out.

His cock dropped free with a heavy and unrestrained motion, bouncing once from the sudden release before settling thick and solid between his thighs.

Big with veins running along the length, head flushed and already glistening faintly.

Carlos exhaled low through his nose, looking down at you with a lazy hunger in his gaze.

“Vai, deixa gostoso pra mim,” he muttered, voice dripping profoundly with suggestiveness.

You looked up at him, lips parting slightly as your gaze lingered on the way he hung just inches from your mouth, heavy and inviting.

The first one was pushed down roughly, soft dough immediately straining and cracking slightly as it tried to stretch around his thickness.

“Shit—” Carlos breathed, head tipping back slightly as the pressure dragged over the sensitive head.

The surface split faintly as it slid lower, sugar coating flaking off and sticking to his skin, catching in the dark bush at his base.

“Damn—” he muttered, a low grunt forming in the back of his throat.

Quick kisses pressed along his shaft as you worked another donut down.

Warm mouth, cool sugar and rough texture all against sensitive skin of his twitching cock.

“Yeah…yeah, keep doing that—” he added, voice dropping, rougher now.

The next one nearly fell apart in your hands as you forced it down, cracks forming along the edges the more it stretched over him.

“…fuck,” Carlos exhaled, one hand bracing against the seat behind you as his hips shifted forward the more things that weird sensation enveloped entirely his member.

You leaned in, licking along the underside to gather the sugar that clung stubbornly there.

“Maybe you should thank me,” he muttered, voice husky and thick with amusement, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he looked down. “‘Fore a zombie walks in and sees how damn hungry y’are for ma cock.”

Your lips brushing his skin as the first donut tore away, your tongue immediately following, sweeping along the exposed length.

Carlos’s head dropped back with a low grunt.

“—yeah—fuck—”

His grip tightened slightly in your hair as your mouth worked, lips sealing around him more and more as space cleared.

Sticky sugar melting under your tongue and mixing with the saltiness he had beneath your sugar-drunk tongue.

“Yeaaaah, just like that—” His hips rolled forward to further go down your throat.

“And I’ve seen so many bodies…” He says that part to himself, knowing it would be in bad taste to mention his past conquests to you, but his brain can’t help but compare.

“Y-yeah? Funny… I was thinking the exact same thing…”

“Pfft…” He snickers to himself as he begins to pull your zipper down. “Believe me, M.C. I knew. Those eyes of yours said everything…” With your zipper down and buttons unbuttoned, he begins to pull your pants down your legs. “And in my job, you learn how to tell exactly where a person’s eyes are looking, no matter the angle or lighting. So I could tell when your eyes started at my chest…” He plants a kiss on your upper thighs when the skin shows itself. “Then to my arms…” He kisses your lower thighs. “To my abs…” He kisses the top of your feet before he pulls your pants off and tosses them to the side. “And finally… on my dick, and fuck, did your eye linger there, haha~.”

And he finally kisses your cock that was throbbing and leaking under your underwear.

“H-hng!” 

You let your first noise of the night, quickly covering your mouth, remembering that the two of you are not alone in the cabin.

Truthfully, after getting alcohol in their system, none of the men could be awoken, even by an earthquake, but it’s just what your body thought of doing.

“D-did my eyes really linger that long?” You ask, your shaky voice not going unnoticed by either of you.

“Yes, yes, they did~. But hey, it made me happy…” He says, teasingly biting your underwear. “And for us to be here now, with my mouth on the prize, I’m above the fucking moon…”

With his deep and sultry voice making you shiver and his mouth barely on your cock making it throb even more, you find yourself pushing your hips and cock up against his lips.

“T-then please… let me join you up there?” You ask yearningly, not sure how much more spicy talk you can handle before letting some very slutty begs out.

“Whatever you want, M.C…” He finally grips the waistband of your underwear with his hands, his fingers sneaking under and touching the skin that only lovers can. 

“Let’s fly away.”

And with barely a second passing, Sukuna pulls your underwear down, letting them smoothly travel down your legs, before also setting them to the side.

…

And after so much yearning to see this sight once more, here you are.

Finally exposed and underneath him, completely at his mercy.

You’re far from the first boy that’s ever been underneath him, but with you being his first lover, that’s where the novelty lies.

And with the firelight shining softly and ethereally on your slick and throbbing cock, Sukuna fully envelops it in the engulfing embrace of his big and veiny right hand.

“A-hah-!” Another embarrassingly loud cry of shocked bliss escapes your mouth as his palm rubs itself all over your slick tip, making you feel heated electricity all over.

But the hand that flew up to cover your mouth wasn’t yours. It was going to be, if your raised left hand is indicative of anything, but a larger, rougher hand slapped over your mouth faster.

“Shh…” He shushes you, putting a pre-slicked finger to his lips before licking your essence that coated it as he pulls his hand over your mouth away. “Mmm… fuck…” He lets out a delighted hum as your flavour dances across his taste buds and imprints itself in his memory. 

“Sorry for shutting you up like that, M.C. I know no one will wake up, but… let’s not take any chances, hm? Normally, I love when I make a guy scream, but that’s when I don’t have my family in the same house as me…” He shivers at the thought of Yuji or his dad catching or hearing you two in the act before touching your cock lasciviously once more. “I have to warn you that trying to keep quiet will be hard with what I’m about to do to you, but… try for me?” He asks sweetly, his sugary words laced with aphrodisiacs.

…

You could change your mind right now, and you could just stop this risky little game before it’s too late and just snuggle or something.

But as you think these thoughts to yourself, Sukuna strokes your cock with his hot and huge hand, his calloused skin and many rings getting coated in your clear, slick and making slimy sounds as his hand goes up and down your shaft at a steady and tantalizing pace.

“Mmmm…~ Sukuna…!”

And despite his sweet words, that devious and promising smirk of his commands you to give him a response.

And so, you nod and sheepishly yet boldly get more comfortable as you place your feet above him, just right above his ass, his thick and plump cheeks of muscle and flesh feeling plushly divine under your heels and making you wish you could just grip them and squeeze them.

“I’ll try…”

With your words serving as his green light, Sukuna gives you a cheeky wink, “That’s my guy…,” before pushing your hips down on the ground, not allowing you to move at all, and he grips the base of your cock with his slimy-in-pre hand and engulfing your tip in the hot and wet embrace of his mouth.

“...!!!! Hnnn!!!...~” The slick and hot warmth of Sukuna’s mouth immediately sets your entire body, inside and out, ablaze, burning blue. And despite your best efforts, along with preparing yourself for whatever he might have planned, you still let out a quiet noise of shocked pleasure as he slowly took you inside of him, deeper and deeper, inch by inch.

“Mmm… mhm~…” He moans and hums deeply and satisfactorily as he takes more and more of your thick cock in his mouth, the vibrations making your toes dance as you moan torturously in your hand that’s covering your mouth.

Your throbbing heat, your smooth and slick skin, your underside that feels sinful against his tongue, and your ever-flowing pre-cum are better than anything he could’ve fantasized, and dare he say, your cock is better than anything he had in his mouth before, which is truly saying something.

God, to think yesterday morning he was an unashamed and unapologetic manwhore who never thought of love, to now be devotedly sucking the dick of a guy who stole his heart without even needing to do something crazy or pull any special tricks.

The adoration and infatuation he feels for you fuels and inflames him far more than lust for handsome strangers ever did, and the way your heels dig into his ass when he finally takes your entire length inside of his mouth and reaches his throat, makes his rock-hard monster in his pants throb and leak harder than it ever did prior.

It’s clear that there is no aphrodisiac or stimulant stronger than adoration, and as he savours the feeling of your whole cock filling his mouth and throat, his lips on your bush, his nose on your abdomen, and his chin on your balls, it’s obvious that he’s truly grateful for this unexpected change in his life.

“Hah… hah… m-mmm!~” With every gulp of his throat, flick of his tongue on your tip, and deep hum that reverberates all over your cock, you let out strained and hushed noises of tortured pleasure. 

You’ve never had a man take you in with such ease and expertise before, and this is no doubt the result of having many bodies claimed under the sheets.

Feeling unfathomable levels of delight, impatience, torture, and need as he lingers down on you, you have to force yourself to speak, the words getting interrupted by your breathy moans and gasps multiple times.

“Su… Kuna…!” Even when you do speak, your words are chopped into pieces and strained. “Oh my god, fuck! You feel so good around me, ngahh!! S-so deep…!~”

“Mhm?~” 

With your whole cock filling his mouth and throat up, all he can manage to do is let out a teasing and playful hum as he revels in how he was able to fuck up your voice just by engulfing his wet heat around your cock.

This moment tonight is something that words could never do justice.

Visualizing and imagining will never hold a candle to the painting that this intimate moment creates and the sensations and emotions that come forth with every passing second.

With warm firelight covering you two in a warm and flickering glow, quiet moans, gasps, deep hums, and wet noises creating a lewd soundscape, soft blankets and pillows brushing softly against your naked skin, and Sukuna burying his face in your hips and keeping your cock warm and wet inside of him, this snowy night is the perfect melange of romance, sex, and holiday joy.

But with impatience on both of your ends spilling over like an overfilled bucket, Sukuna begins to bob his head up and down your cock at a slow, steady, and loving pace enough to make you moan louder despite your best efforts, but still keeping the atmosphere quiet and sneakily lewd, fitting as a naughty holiday night tryst.

“… F-fuck!~ S-Sukun- Nnn-ah!”

As Sukuna goes up and down your dick like a man in heat, he does the craziest things that make you see stars, your past lives, and Santa flying in the sky with his reindeer.

The flat of his tongue rubs itself forcefully on your tip, your underside, and your balls, his wet walls feel like a hot and slippery temptation into hell, and his big hand grips your base tightly, stroking up and down, making you feel an inescapable and unrelenting wave of the greatest oral pleasures you have ever felt in your entire life.

If one searched for cock worship on Google and clicked on the Images button, a screenshot from this moment would be the first photo that appears, just from how fucking devoted Sukuna is to the cause of changing your life by sucking you off.

You want to scream, you fucking have to, with just how overwhelmingly amazing his mouth feels on your dick.

But you force yourself to bite one of the blankets near you, your teeth digging into the plush fabric as you hold your voice in, with pathetic whimpers spilling out despite your best wishes.

And perhaps because he’s an Itadori man by blood, as kind as he can be, he also has a devious streak to him, and he lets that side work in tandem with his adoring and sweet side in making you enter a flow state.

Fully aware that you’re trying your best to not scream or moan up to the snowy and glittery night skies, Sukuna makes full advantage of the fact that he can get away with making some noises with his voice being muffled by your cock and his face buried in between your thighs, moaning, humming, and rumbling, which results in your feeling an exhilarating side dish of pleasure that perfectly accompanies the sensations that his silky mouth bring.

The soundscape is playful, it’s loving, it’s heated, it’s passionate, it’s novel, it’s teasing, and most of all, it’s perfect with your gasps and whimpers, Sukuna’s moans and rumbles, the wet and slick noises that sound louder than they should under this blanket fort, and the fireplace serving as the auditory foundation. 

You didn’t think your winter vacation would go like this, with you all of a sudden finding a lover of your own and somewhat immediately getting down and dirty, but with Sukuna, and no, you’re not gonna get sick of thinking this, it feels so right.

Whichever deity decided to write the story of your life with a different pen than usual, they’re deserving of all the praise and worship.

But eventually, after what seemed like an eternal fate that you’d never want to escape, with all the heat, wetness, suction, slimy friction, and vibrations spread all over your cock, you finally feel your body responding to the call that no man could ever dream of denying.

“O-o-ohhhh fuck…! I’m- Mmmmm!!!!!” 

When Sukuna notices your thighs shaking after a few more seconds of deepthroating you, sucking you off, moaning all over your cock, and devotedly stroking your base, he hums proudly at the fruits of his labour and knows that for the first time tonight, your fountain’s about to shoot and spray as you deserve.

And while he would love to tease you some more and perhaps edge you with some playful and torturous words, this is a night to celebrate your coming together as a new couple (?), fuck, that word is so foreign to him, but all of that is to say, this isn’t a night for games or anything to make you cry. 

Tonight, accompanied by the flickering lights, the scent of gingerbread candles, the soft blankets under you, and that December 24th (now 25th) frequency, all you deserve are orgasms that will serve as a gift greater than anything you’d find under a tree or in some shop, and he’ll be the giver.

So with that resolve, with his hand that wasn’t around your base, he grabs your hand that was tangled in his hair and adoringly laces your fingers together as he amps up the intensity in his oral ministrations. 

Every flick of his tongue is stronger, his own saliva begins to form a sticky pool around your base, and your pre-cum serves as fuel that allows him to never slow down, and just go stronger and harder in his pursuit to make you shoot.

And sure enough, you feel it coming, and this moment where the pleasure builds and builds and builds like the brief moment in time when a rollercoaster ascends higher and higher before the drop, feels like needles dripped in liquid euphoria being poked all over your body.

It’s amazing, it’s tectonic shifting, it’s page turning, it’s epiphany-causing, and it’s rewiring new networks in your body.

The pure white wave that approaches from the horizon sends tremors all over your body, serving as pleasurable appetizers before the main course and crash.

“Gh- Hah….! Hah-AH-! Sukuna….. I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna cum…! Please!” 

You don’t know what you’re begging for, your whispers are strained, and you’re just an all-around mess that’s about to become even messier, but fuck, is it exhilarating and feeling like heaven and hell all at once.

And after hearing your begs and pleas for release and for an unforgettable few minutes in heaven, Sukuna puts all his power and strength in his tongue as he full-on assaults your sensitive and leaking tip with the flat of it, twisting his wrist around your slimy-in-spit-and-pre base as he does so.

And that was when the first building in your city came crashing down.

That was when your first orgasm of the night came forth.

“....!!!!!!!! Mmmmm!!!!! Mmmnnnaaahh! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!~” 

As the greatest sensations and pleasures known to men begin to stake their claim over your entire body, you shove the blanket that fell off your face a few minutes ago back over your mouth to muffle your moans to the heavens, tears falling from your eyes like little diamonds as your cock starts shooting its first splurt of white cream.

And fucking hell, you’re shooting like a boy who hasn’t cum in weeks (which you are).

The intensity and speed at which you shoot cum inside of Sukuna’s eagerly awaiting tunnel is a testament not just to how long you went without cumming due to a stressful exam season, but also to Sukuna’s long-honed expertise and knowledge of pleasuring a man.

Everything he did with his tongue, everything he did with his throat, everything he did to your tip, everything he did to your base, and everything he did to your balls, was all done with professional fluidity and power, and it shows with how much jizz you’re shooting inside of him and with how your eyes are rolling back.

As your creamy, raw, and all-you flavour floods his mouth and coats his taste buds, Sukuna closes his eyes blissfully and hums satisfiedly yet greedily, like a man getting his high from the worst yet best drugs a man can let enter his system.

“Mmmmmmmmmmm…. Mhm~ Mm-!” But soon enough, the volume at which you shoot becomes too much for him to handle, and he has to pull his mouth off your cock to swallow what was given to him.

As such, you begin to shoot semen all over his face, your creamy white meeting the deep black of his tattoos, marking his skin in your own way, with your own design.

 “Oho…. fuck, M.C! Yeah, that’s good, that’s right~ Keep shooting for me, okay~? Fuck, you’re enjoying this as much as you can and should, yeah?”

As sweetly romantic as the setting is, Sukuna’s words and what you do to his face are nothing you’d see on a Hallmark Christmas movie for families, with him never stopping his lewdly vile encouragements, even as you paint his face.  

“God, look what I did to you… that was all me…” As semen gets on his lips, he keeps talking. “Stick with me, and this will be your every night…” Strings now dribble down his chin. “Now that I’m your man, you’ll enjoy everything I’m capable of…”

As he speaks, he never stops stroking the base of your pulsating cock, with your fresh cum coating his fingers and the rings, your life energy getting imbued and stored in his gemstones and steel.

But finally, after a few more seconds of thriving in that glowing white flow state, your cock that was once shooting rockets calms down to weak little spurts of your remaining first orgasm.

The once high-adrenaline and highly amorous atmosphere, laden with moans, slick noises, and the sound of semen splurting, is now peaceful yet still physically heated and slightly humid with the scent of cum and sweat intermingling with the scent of holiday baked goods and spices.

Accompanying the ever-present cracks of the fireplaces are your and Sukuna’s exerted huffs, and your sweaty body and his cum-glazed face shine ever brighter as the light of the fire touches you.

Satisfied with a job well done, Sukuna moves up from his spot between your thighs and stands up on his knees and looms above you, his head almost about to touch the manmade blanket ceiling.

As he wordlessly stares at your sinfully tantalizing, sweaty naked body, you admire what you did to him as well.

There’s something so charmingly masculine and leg-quivering about looking at a man’s face after he just spent the last few minutes between your thighs and made you shoot all over him after he pleasured you endlessly and devotedly, your cum still glazed and shining on him

This is a real man.

And you get to call him yours, despite all odds.

With the heat becoming far too much for him, Sukuna finally pulls his godforsaken (in his opinion only) ugly Christmas sweater over his head and thinks of tossing it into the nearby fire before just tossing it where your discarded clothes are.

Now, you can perv on each other’s torsos freely, with no need to hide the fiery hunger in your eyes.

Your eyes are on his expansive pecs, his rock-solid abs, his mountainous shoulders, and the tattoos that dance all along his skin like a personal trademark, and his eyes are on your soft skin, your muscles that, while nowhere near as large as his own, speak of your own strength.

And Sukuna’s arousal is apparent.

His herculean cock that you saw last night, throbs and pulses under his pants, demanding instead of begging to be let out.

“M.C…” Sukuna finally speaks, wiping your cum off his face with a hand. “Come here…”

With impatient gentleness, he puts one hand under your hips and the other under your back and lifts you off the ground, holding you in his arms.

“H-huh?!” You were still catching your breath and regaining clarity when he picked you up, so all you could do was make a shocked and breathy noise as you lay limp and twitchy as he held you close. “Sukuna? What are you, hah, what are you doing?” You ask as he begins to move the two of you out of the blanket fort.

“M.C… I can’t lie, I’m getting so fucking impatient, and I want nothing more than to just say fuck it and ruin you, and make you scream and have us turn that blanket fort into a sweaty and cum-soaked mess together… But while I still have some of my sanity in place, I’m just taking us somewhere that we can get messy and a bit noisier.”

…

Such lewd, dirty, and imagination-activating words… they make your cock leak once more in anticipation and hunger, and all you can do is hug your face into his face as he stands on his feet and begins walking to God knows where.

“O-okay… yes, please. I’d like that…”

“And don’t worry, M.C… All I want tonight is to make you understand how serious I am about you, and I’m gonna do that by making you feel nothing but pleasure and joy…”

As he walks, he sneaks his hand that he used to wipe your cum off his face down your back, tracing two fingers down your spine and leaving a trail of your essence. 

“There won’t be any games, just sensations that will make you cling to me, leave scratch marks on my back, and say my name over and over and over again like I’m your God.”

He brings those two fingers even lower… brushing right against your asshole.

“A-Aaah!” You moan into his chest as his fingers circle your rim and rub against your puckering ring.

“And, I’ll claim you as my own, body and soul. I’ll claim you on the outside with bite marks…”

And to drive his point home, he bites into your right shoulder, leaving a mark of his newfound lover’s claim over you.

“I’ll claim you emotionally and mentally with the sound of my voice…” 

He blows a warm stream of air into your ear.

“And I’ll claim you on the inside with…”

“Fuck!”

And with those cum-slicked fingers that were teasing your asshole, he finally pushes them in, deep.

“My. Cock.”

He whispers those words into your ear with a deep, dominant, and commanding tone, not promising, but ensuring you of what’s to come.

He continues to fingerfuck you and push his fingers deeper inside your hole as he walks and whispers dirty things into your ear, making you feel multiple instances of pleasure, physical and verbal.

“With the very same cock you just couldn’t stop looking at last night… I’m gonna fuck you so good, M.C… I’m gonna fuck you so right… I’ll show you what you were missing out on before you met me… before you fucking stole my heart.”

He speaks provokingly as if challenging and belittling whoever you slept with in the past.

His fingers swirl around your hole, your cum slicking up your walls immediately. With every scissoring motion and with every curve of his knuckles, he stretches you for him expertly.

“Are you excited, M.C.? Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you up, fill you up, and show you just what I can do with my… heh, no, maybe I’ll call it your cock? I am yours after all…”

His words, his lewd yet loving expression, and his unrelenting fingers all make your mind a blur, but one thing's for certain: you want this man that you now call your own to fuck you into the next holiday season.

And with a kiss to his lips that he eagerly reciprocates, you look into his heated and devoted eyes, his fingers never stopping.

“Please don’t make me wait anymore, Sukuna. C- H-hnng! Cl-claim me, take me, fuck me, whatever you want, just do it, please!”

…

“Heh, whatever you want, M.C.”

Upon hearing your honest and lustful pleas, with a veteran soldier’s accuracy, Sukuna JABS your prostate with his two fingers, not even giving you a millisecond to scream before he begins to fingerblast you as he continues walking.

He fingerblasts your sweet spot so fucking fast and hard over and over and over and over and over again that you can’t even moan or gasp, with the sensations and pleasure of his immediate and merciless assault knocking your voice out of your throat every single fucking time.

SCHLOPSCHLOPSCHLOPSCHLOPSCHLOPSCHLOP

Wet and slimy noises of his thick and big fingers going in and out of you, full-on heartlessly assaulting your prostate, are loud and unashamed as you wordlessly scream against Sukuna’s chest.

“I’m gonna make sure you never forget this night, M.C.”

His voice is sturdy and firm, and his face confident and promising, as if he isn’t completely brutalizing and violating your sweet spot with your fingers and completely emptying your brain of all cognizant thoughts, with you clinging to him like a brainless beast.

“Lust and love… yeah, that’s the type of night I wanna give you…”

And finally, he reaches a door after walking the two of you through a dark hallway.

“While I’m still learning this romance thing… There’s one thing that I can give you…”

He opens the door and walks the two of you into a room you’ve never been in.

“And it’ll be the best dicking down you’ll ever have…”

He then begins to close the door.

“Let’s unwrap another gift, hm, M.C.?”

And right before the door shuts…

You let out a silent scream as you cum once more, shooting cum all over Sukuna’s chest.

A few barely lit candles reflect off dark wood walls, the scent of luxurious and aromatic oils dances in the air, a pair of jeans and boxers lie discarded on black tiled flooring, and the sounds of passionate moans, kisses, and slushing water echo freely and unapologetically.

Glistening with water, oil, and semen, looking like a beautifully debauched piece of art and perfectly embodying lust, longing, and newfound love, you and Sukuna make love in a bathtub larger than a bathtub should normally be in water that you can’t tell is hot because of its temperature or because of your two exerting and impassioned bodies working up a rose-scented sweat.

As you bounce up and down Sukuna’s cock in the hot and slippery water, and as he grips your hips and aids you in the motions, your lips are stuck together as if bound by a magnetic pull, but no matter how kiss-swollen your lips get, no matter if Sukuna bites a bit too hard and draws some blood, and no matter if you’ve been making out ravenously and infatuatedly for the past who knows how many minutes, you just can’t get enough of each other’s lips and kisses, wanting to enjoy each other’s touch in as many ways possible, at the same time.

“Aah~, ahh~, a-a- Oh-ho….. fuck yeah, M.C…”

Whenever you both need to, unfortunately, pull away for air, Sukuna, in a breathy, deep, and bewitching timbre, sends shivers all over your spine with lascivious declarations of romantic pleasure, letting you know that he’s loving everything that he’s feeling.

“Shit… and to think…” He pushes back his wet and sweaty hair off his forehead with one hand, the other holding you steady in his lap. “To think just yesterday I was in this very same tub, ngh, talking to my bud about some cute guy that got my attention… And to think that that very same boy is now riding my dick? Ohhhhh, fuckkk~” His words get cut off when one thrust into you feels a bit too good, worshippingly burying his face in your neck, licking up your sweat and some water as if to satiate his accumulating thirst. “Life works in funny ways… a-ah~!”

“Mm! W-what did you say about me?”

“Oh… just told him that I met a cutie who can cook~,” He scratches down your back, “Looks good in a fluffy sweater…,” He grips your ass with both of his hands, “Has a soft and cute voice…,” And he fucks you harder, “And that I wanted nothing more than to get into his sweet tight ass that looked a bit too good in those pants he was wearing…”

“A-Ah! Shit, Sukuna!” You slip on your knees, unable to ride him anymore, and just letting him fuck up into you roughly and quickly despite you both being mostly underwater. His large cock brutalizes your insides with its monstrous size and girth, yet every thrust feels like a rough kiss rather than a heartless jab on your insides. Loving and lustful, just like Sukuna. “I, fuck! I guess you got what you wanted, huh?”

“Hmm, hmm~ I got so much more than what I wanted. When I talked to my bud, you were just a cute guy who I thought would be fun to fuck or at least befriend… but clearly, you ended up becoming way more than that… And, thank God for that. Sex was always great, but… it never felt like this before. I never had sex with a heart that feels like it’s floating on air, like it’s rubbing against silk sheets. I’m never looking back…”

Again… you never intended to make this man go from certified fuckboy to certified loverboy but… hey, why complain about a good thing?

“I’m never looking back either… Everything about you makes me go crazy… And I wanna learn everything about you… the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly… all of that would make me feel closer to you… and that’s all I want.”

“... Goddamn it!”

Like the final string of restraint was snapped within him, your heartfelt and desperate words to know all about him make Sukuna go all-out in his pursuit to make you see stars tonight, slamming up into it at a brutal and devoted pace, the water all around you splashing and sloshing around, looking beautifully picturesque in this dimly lit washroom.

SLAMSLAMSLAMPLAPLAPLAPLSPLASHSPLASHFWOPFWOP

Fueled by love, hunger, desperation, and adrenaline, Sukuna flip-flops between a man wanting to treat his boy to a night of treasuring and worship and a beast wanting nothing more than to be coated white in your cum, similar to a beast covered in blood panting in victory.

“Anything you want, M.C., I’ll give it to you!” He says in a deep and exerted rumble, “Anything you want me to say, I’ll say it! Anything you want to learn, it’s all yours! Ask me, and I’ll give you the whole world and more if you so please!”

“God, fuck! M.C.!!!!!!! You want me to fly you across the world? I’ll make it happen! You want me to take you to the nicest places? I’ll make it happen! You want me to fuck you for three days straight like a brainless animal and make you forget your damn name?! YOU WOULDN’T NEED TO ASK! FUCK!”

His voice echoes in the washroom as he yells his devotion and willingness to make any of your wishes come true, and what’s crazy is that you cannot tell if it’s lust or love driving him into this amorously insane state, or perhaps it’s both…

And all you can do is whimper, whine, and nod against him as he fucks you, brutalizes you, worships you, and claims you forever as his boy.

But soon enough, after your sweet spot is assaulted, violated, and attacked by his cock in the best way endlessly for some time, you feel that familiar impending rush, and Sukuna is no different, if rambling ending and shaky thrusts and grip on your ass are anything to go off. 

“I’m- I’M CLOSE, M.C.! GOD, I’M GONNA FUCKING BUST INSIDE OF YOU!” Sukuna bites into your shoulder, realizing that he’s getting a bit loud. “Is… Fuck! Do you want that, M.C.? You want me to paint your insides white with my cum? You want me to claim in the deepest way possible?”

“... I want nothing more, Sukuna… Make me yours forever, and yours alone… I don’t want to ask to be yours anymore… I want to thank you for making me yours. I don’t want to say please, I want to say thank you.”

And the fire in Sukuna’s eyes that were already burning blue, goes above and beyond and burns an electrifying sapphire colour, as if a truck’s headlights shone directly on a giant gemstone.

And he doesn’t speak, for he lets his body, thrusts, and cock, do the talking, promising, and marrying between your two bodies.

He just slams you down on his steel-hard cock at a blinding pace, mashes your lips against his, and takes you to the moon as you asked him to do.

SLAMSLAMSLAMPLAPLAPLAPLSPLASHSPLASHFWOPFWOPSLAMSLAMSLAMPLAPLAPLAPLSPLASHSPLASHFWOPFWOP

Water with cum from previously busted loads splashes out of the bathtub and onto the floor. You’re both glistening and soaked in water, oil, and sweat, and your voices are muffled in each other’s mouths, and somehow, there’s nothing more romantic than this mindless, beastly, and fiery making of love. 

And soon enough, the dam breaks and you and Sukuna fly to the moon and paint the sky white for the final time tonight.

“NGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

“MMMMMM!!!!!!!”

You shoot white streams of hot cum all over Sukuna’s chest, into the bathwater, and even onto your faces when your cock pokes out of the water, and Sukuna unloads a barrel of his own hot cream inside you, painting your insides white and leaving his watermark and signature, marking the space as his and his only. 

The washroom, once pristine and luxurious, is now humid, musky, and filled with a mix of many scents, including spiced apple candles, aromatic bath oils, sweat, musk, and semen to create a heady aroma that keeps you two in a sex-heightened flow state as you release and moan brainlessly into each other’s mouths, still kissing even after you feel tornadoes, tidals waves, and lightning strikes all over your bodies. 

This is love in its most carnal, primal, and ferocious state.

This is lust, it’s most adoring, infatuated, and devoted state.

And for a man like Sukuna, who is learning how to love, who has only known and enjoyed lust for many years, it perfectly suits him.

Soon enough, the fire dies down, the tornadoes fade away, the waves go back to the ocean, and the clouds clear to reveal a starry sky, one that you and Sukuna lie under, snuggled together, panting harshly as you come back to Earth and go back from beasts to men.

What was once a room rampant with water moving around like a stormy sea, echoing with passionate moans, and skin slamming against skin, and lips kissing lips, is now silent and serene with just the sounds of you and Sukuna catching your breath.

Finding his voice first, Sukuna raises his leaned-back head to look down at you, seeing you pressing your face against his cum-streaked and oil-slick chest.

He kisses your head, testing to see if you’re still awake. “Hey…” His voice is a soft whisper, not wanting to take you out of your peaceful state after such a passionate and climactic moment. “You still awake, M.C.?”

“...Mhm…” It’s quiet, but he can hear you affirm his words with a hum. Slowly but surely, you take your face off his chest and sit back on his lap. “Somehow…”

Laughing at the cum that’s all over your face as a result of you resting on him, Sukuna wipes it all away with a hand before looking into your tired eyes. “I gotta give it to you… Not many guys can handle a night with me, especially when I’m fired up like that. We truly must be meant for each other…” He jokes, enjoying the smile that appears on your tired face.

“Yeah, yeah, if you say so… Anyways… It should go without saying that we should probably take a shower. I’m not sure what the water to oil to cum ratio in this bathtub is, but all I know is that I’m not feeling clean.”

“Gotta agree with you there. But personally… I just wanna say in here for a bit longer, if that’s okay with you? It’s… nice to just sit here in the barely lit silence with the sound of the water with you in my arms…”

“... Well, considering that I’m still feeling a bit too limp to move… Let’s do just that…”

“Fuck yeah…”

And so, with a few fewer candles lit than before, as a result of the water splashing around in the midst of your passionate tryst, and the heady aroma of scented candles, sweat, and semen floating around you like a cloudy reminder of what you two have become tonight, you and Sukuna lay in silence, in each other’s embrace, thinking different things.

A few seconds pass by before Sukuna speaks up while rubbing your back up and down. 

“M.C., Realistically speaking… and I still stand by really wanting to try and be a good man for you, but, what do you… want in the long term, for us, specifically.” He says, looking up at the dark ceiling. “I know that I can expect cute dates, sleepovers, and taking photos on trips because, ahem, that’s why I saw that boyfriends are supposed to do online, but… what about when we’re older… and all that shit?”

…

Is this post-nut pondering?

“Am I maybe… thinking too hard about this or-”

“No, Sukuna. You’re asking an important question that would’ve needed to be asked anyway, especially considering the foundation we’re starting on. And, for what it’s worth, I think that a man who thinks too much is better than a man who doesn’t think at all; it shows that you’re serious about us, and that means a lot to me.” You think to yourself for a bit, letting one of your hands dance around in the water before you speak. “To answer your question… I don’t think I have an answer yet, haha…”

“What?”

“I just think that… It’s too early for me to know what I want with you yet. I think that the more time we spend together, the more we learn about each other, and the more we adjust to each other’s lives… that’s how my vision for our future will develop. Rather than think too much about the future… let’s let the present and past guide us.”

“... Let the present and past guide us…” He repeats your words slowly to himself, letting them sink in. “I think I get what you mean. It’s like… letting those cute dates and all that shit serve as the foundation for our relationship and lead us in the direction we deem best.”

“Exactly. I think that it’s cute that you looked online for information about relationships, but… not all relationships have guidebooks for guys like us, who… come from such different worlds and have lived such different lives. We’re just gonna have to move forward together and push through any obstacle that comes our way. Then and only then, maybe I’ll have an answer for what I want for my future with you…”

“So what can we do now?”

“Well, I think the first step of our relationship is… enjoying the rest of this vacation. Jeez, Sukuna, all this talk about the future and we still haven’t even seen all the gifts being opened yet…” You tease him affectionately, adoring the feeling of his skin and muscles against yours.