⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

in the days coming up to the aforementioned holiday, class 3-A were chattering away in their classroom, gossiping about who would be confessing to who, and what they planned to do for the occasion.

"would you extras shut the fuck up?! it's just another holiday made up to make you buy more crap you don't need," bakugou exclaimed from his seat. you and the girls pouted at his negativity, arguing that it wasn't about the chocolate or teddy bears, but about love. bakugou scoffed; earlier in the hallway he was almost hit square in the head with a heart shaped arrow, but yeah, this holiday was totally about love.

"you're just salty you don't get as many confessions as todoroki!" kirishima piped up. he and kaminari shot each other a look and giggled behind their hands.

this was a highly debated subject around this time of year, they were no doubt the biggest heartthrobs at U.A. every february, without fail, the two would open their lockers to a landslide of love letters, chocolate and stuffed animals. junior girls would chase the two down in between periods, and the perfume from the assortment of gifts would make the corridor reek of a sick floral scent for weeks.

whipping around to his two biggest ragebaiters, the irked blonde's palms began to spark, and the rest of the class braced for impact. fortunately for kirishima and kaminari, the door slid open to reveal a mess of capture tape and unkempt hair, as their teacher strolled up to his podium.

"enough," aizawa said in his usual monotone voice, rubbing his temples. "it's not even nine yet and you're already doing my head in." taking your seats, the class's chatter subsided and attention was on aizawa as the school day started.

bakugou was pissed.

unfortunately for him, the rest of his day was preoccupied thinking about those idiotic valentines confessions. of course he got more love letters than that stupid pretty boy, it wasn't even close. the very thought that todoroki would surpass him at something so trivial and meaningless was annoying him to no end. he groaned at the thought of having to haul the unwanted chocolate and teddy bears back to his dorm room, or better yet, the dump.

the morning of valentine's rolled around, and as usual, he and todoroki were at their lockers, large trash bags in hand. the scent of roses lingered in the halls, and you could tell both boys' lockers were full to the brim. the corners of pink and red envelopes stuck out from the edges of the metal doors, some scattering the ground like cherry blossom petals. you and the others laughed at the annual sight.

"the kitchen's gonna have chocolate for months!"

"save some chicks for the rest of us!"

"look out, avalanche!"

bakugou growled while todoroki just sighed, neither of them particularly thrilled about this yearly occurrence. from the corner of your eye you spotted a huddled group of freshmen girls whispering ecstatically and eyeing the boys like hawks, no doubt fuelled by delusion and fantasy. before either of them could turn the handles on their lockers, hands slammed on the metal, stopping the two. they both turned to see sero, a wicked grin gracing his face.

"now now, don't you wanna settle this debate for good this year?" the two gave the taller boy a blank stare. bakugou lit up, opening his mouth, getting ready to yell at him, before kirishima and kaminari popped up behind him.

"let's place a bet!" the red haired boy exclaimed. "to see who really gets more confessions!"

"winner gets dinner, on us!" kaminari continued, giving his best smile to persuade the two.

bakugou clicked his tongue. what a pain in the ass. now, not only was he going to have to haul all this shit back to the dorms, he was going to have to count them while all these losers were watching! he briefly considered blowing up the entire row of lockers, when a gentle nudge in the arm caught his attention.

"that's kind of a fun idea, right kats?" he turned to see you, looking up at his with those big eyes he always found himself looking for. the use of your nickname for him made his heart do a flip. he glanced away, hoping you wouldn't notice the pink that began to dust the tips of his ears. he looked to todoroki, who muttering something about soba; the bastard was actually considering the stupid bet.

bakugou, being backed into a corner, reluctantly conceded, letting out an annoyed grunt of affirmation. "whatever, nerds. it's obviously going to be me anyways." at least he could get a dinner out of this.

cheers erupted from the trio of boys as they ran off, having already risked their lives to ask such a stupid thing from bakugou; if they stayed around longer, who knows what would happen. you beamed, giving bakugou a bright smile along with a tingling feeling in his chest before following after them. if bakugou was visibly red, todoroki didn't say anything.

they finally opened their lockers, only to be hit with a wave of sickly sweet scents and girly envelopes - some pink, some red, one… with a lock of hair taped to it — gross. the familiar sight elicited a sigh from the two boys, now up to their knees in romance themed and heart shaped goods. bakugou began shoving the gifts into the trash bag, not caring that they were crumpling up in his iron grip.

just like last year, and the year before, he kept a sharp eye out, wondering if any of them were from you.

the class gathered excitedly in the common room as the sun began to set. word of the boys' valentine's bet spread, and they were more than eager to see who was truly more popular among the student population at U.A.

"it's gotta be todoroki, he's got that tragic backstory, plus he's super handsome!" hagakure's floating clothes waved around excitedly.

"i wouldn't count katsuki out just yet," you rebutted, the girls turning to look at you. "he's got that delinquent look, girls love a bad boy!"

the others hummed in agreement, and continued theorising about the winner of the bet. you took this opportunity to glance at bakugou sitting across the room, his bag of confessions haphazardly thrown beside him. he caught your gaze and made eye contact — had he heard what you said? choosing to play it cool, you gave him a smile and a thumbs up, causing him to look away.

sero stood with his hands on his hips at the top of the room, his smug grin indicating he was clearly pleased with himself. as the rest of the class settled on or around the couches, he cleared his throat.

"ladies and gentlemen!" he said with a flourish, akin to a circus ring leader. you caught bakugou rolling his eyes, which made you giggle quietly. "we are about to settle this once and for all! bakugou verses todoroki: who's U.A's biggest heartthrob, the most eligible bachelor, the shining prince-"

"will you just get on with it!" bakugou cut him off before it went on for too long. sero flinched before nodding to kirishima and kaminari. the duo produced the large bags of confessions, rustling the contents for added effect. oohs and ahhs echoed around the common room. the confessions were promptly dumped on opposite sides of the table, an assortment of gifts and letters spilling out.

yaoyorozu and iida, the only two students trusted to be able to count properly, took seats at either end — thus, the bet began. the class watched with wide eyes, on the edge of their seats. to be honest, they were counting envelopes, it wasn't that intense, but the tension and atmosphere said otherwise.

"57, 58… 59," iida put down the last letter from bakugou's pile. the class's eyes shot over to yaoyorozu on the opposite end of the table. she gently set down the last piece of paper in her hand onto todoroki's side.

"… 59 as well," she said with a sigh.

the class erupted, hell broke loose.

"what a cop out!"

"a tie! are we deadass?!"

"there's no way! recount!"

the class was split down the middle, half roaring with laughing and the other half outraged at the result. todoroki looked wistfully into space, no doubt mourning the loss of his free soba. bakugou scoffed at his peers' reactions.

"tch, told ya there was no way i'd lose to half n' half" he leaned back and crossed his arms.

"well, you didn't exactly win either bro," kaminari replied. the blonde jumped out of his seat, and you let out a hearty laugh, watching as bakugou chased his friend around the common room, sparks flying.

with the bet over and no conclusive result, you and your friends continued to chat and hang out in the common room. one by one, everyone retreated to their respective rooms, turning in for the night. you watched from your spot on the couch as bakugou got up to head to his.

bakugou closed his dorm room door behind him, sighing. at least he didn't technically lose.

a more harrowing thought plagued his mind as he took a seat on his bed — none of those confessions were from you. he closed his eyes and imagined a scenario wherein you shyly handed him an envelope, a confession, before he dismissed the thought. he was certain you didn't see him the way he saw you - he chalked up the long talks at night and your smiley attitude towards him as you two just being good friends.

the thought of you made his chest tighten. how he wished even just one of the hundreds of love letters he received over his years at school were from you. he'd rather to blow himself up than admit that though. he flopped back, eyes still closed and near falling asleep, when a rhythmic knock at the door jolted him awake.

he grumbled at the sudden intrusion, ready to bark at whoever dared come to him when he was trying to sleep. he swung the door open, full of anger, before coming face to face with his favourite pair of eyes. his gaze instantly softened at the sight of you at his door.

"sorry for coming over unannounced, i should have sent you a text!" you gave him an apologetic look. he sighed, mumbling a soft 'whatever' as he stepped aside to let you enter. you took a seat at the edge of his bed, looking around. you noted that everything was in the same place as the last time you had seen his room, right down to the pens on his desk.

"whaddya want?" he huffed, taking a seat an inch or two away from you. you felt warmth radiate from him, and a faint scent of caramel.

"i just wanted to see you!" and there it was, the smile that made him weak in the knees and red in the face. "how'd you feel about the whole valentine's thing?"

he scoffed in response, trying to hide his true expression. "its a buncha bullshit. the bet was stupid anyways."

you giggled and he felt that feeling in his chest again. he was for sure losing it.

"it was pretty silly. though, i don't think you should feel down about it, considering you won," came your reply.

his head snapped up to look at you, while you looked back at him with a knowing smile on your face. you were hoping he was too focused on what you just said to notice the blush slowly invading your cheeks. he opened his mouth to question your obviously lacking memory when you turned your whole body to face him.

with the slightest trace of a tremble, you reached into your pocket to produce a small orange envelope, complete with a tiny red heart seal. you quickly shoved it to his chest, knocking him back a little. your cheeks flushed, feeling his toned muscles under his shirt. bakugou just stared at you back at you, wide eyed, the letter laying forgotten in his lap.

"there," you said quietly, close to a whisper. "that makes 60. one more than todoroki, so i guess you won after all." after what felt like forever, bakugou's eyes broke from your figure to look down at the paper. a shade of orange identical to his hero costume, with his name written in your handwriting on the front. his fingers pressed into the paper, his grip gentle as if the whole world was contained in whatever was in this envelope.

"is this… from you?" you turned to look at him, only to find him already staring intently into your eyes. nerves suddenly taking over, you could only nod in response. his eyes bounced between you and the letter you just gave him.

"well, who else would it be from?"

you felt heat rise to your face, and a twisted feeling in your stomach area. a silence fell over the room, the only sound you could hear was the mechanical whirr of the ceiling fan above you. your mind raced in tandem with your heart that was beating so hard you thought it was trying to claw it's way out of your chest.

the boy in front of you inched towards you, moving to you until you could feel his warm breath against your face. "kat-"

his reply to your confession came in the form of a kiss; his lips met yours and instinctively your hands reached to pull him closer. they tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck, causing him to deepen the kiss, his hands rubbing circles on the small of your back.

you finally pulled away, and bakugou let out a noise that almost sounded like a whimper. he gazed at you like you hung the stars outside his window yourself, before pressing another kiss to your lips.

"it took you long enough." he pulled you to his chest, mumbling into your shoulder. you let out a soft laugh.

"just please tell me you won't throw it out like the rest of them"

bonus!

the next day at breakfast, bakugou sulked on his stool at the kitchen island. he mindlessly scrolled on his phone while kirishima gave the boy powerful thumps on the back.

"lighten up bakubro! its okay you didn't win the bet!" he exclaimed way too loudly for the morning.

bakugou opened his mouth, retort at the ready, when you walked into the common room from bakugou's room. eyes followed you as you casually strolled in, sporting bed head, wrinkled pyjamas, and a black zip up hoodie that was way too big for you.

"mornin'" you yawned, raising a sleepy hand up in greeting, before opening the fridge in search of breakfast.

kirishima gawked at you, before turning to stare at bakugou. the blonde didn't look up from his phone, not even acknowledging your arrival. breakfast in one hand, you came up to him and squeezed him in a tight hug with the other. his arm snaked around your shoulder, mumbling a 'mornin' gorgeous', as he planted a kiss on your cheek, before letting you go to sit with the girls. he shot a disgruntled, but more so smug, look at his friend.

"didn't win my ass."

yayyy the first part of my valentines event!

i heart kats sm, argh i just love writing for him!!!!

⋆˚࿔ make sure to check out the other fics from L-O-V-E!

But blazed or not, Enjin still has a job to do. Umbreaker sweeps him across the trash dunes in a speedy blur, but by the time he arrives he is already too late and the show is over. 

All that’s left is you: a young woman passed out in a pile of demolished trash beast remains and other junk. The giant kaiju-like plushie—now inanimate and no bigger than a hand—lay beside you tethered to your person by a keyring. 

Happening upon another giver in No Man’s Land wasn’t out of the ordinary, sure, but if Enjin thought he was high from seeing your jinki in action he had to be damn near in the clouds once he recognized your clothes.  

Similar to when Enjin discovered Rudo, he could immediately tell by your dress you are a Spherite. But unlike the threadbare attire of the scrappy tribesmen teen, yours practically screams wealth. They are the finest clothes Enjin has ever laid eyes on. Appearing as if they are woven from gold itself, despite the fresh layer of grime that settled on them.

You aren’t just any ol’ Spherite—you’re a Spherite noblewoman.

Keh, interesting. 

With a shake of his head Enjin scoops you up, heading back to HQ. They aren’t gonna believe this…

Enjin digs out a backup mask from his satchel—clearly not made for your face, because it slides right off. With an annoyed sigh, he holds it in place himself. Guess that’s his job now… at least until you wake up.

Although Enjin soon discovers a pattern of how unnecessarily difficult Spherites can be upon arriving to the Abyss—as the first thing you do upon waking in Enjin’s arms is to slap the everloving dogshit out of him. 

Fuck, you have a mean right hand. 

Enjin tongues a tooth to make sure it’s still there. 

“Let me go this instant, you filthy kidnapping degenerate! I demand you to take me home!” You cry out. 

Tears fog up the mask on your face as you clearly mistook Enjin for some kind of criminal with his ‘full face’ on. Enjin sighs, tightening his grip on you and taking the not-so-painless beating you’re dishing out until you reach the nearest city. 

The very second you both are in a habitable area for breathing, Enjin unceremoniously dumps you to the ground. He catches the mask, yet he leaves you to fall straight on your ass. The fall shocks you but Enjin’s sure what’s really got you stunned is the strange bustling city surrounding you.

Removing his fullface, Enjin crouches down to eye-level with you. Overwhelmed and overstimulated by the foreign place, your eyes dart around helplessly. You’re frantic, looking everywhere for some sort of bearing of where you are and avoiding the man in front of you.

Yet Enjin just waits, clicking his tongue and rocking back on his heels, for you to quiet your hysterics enough for him to get a word in.

When your eyes, still wide with panic, finally meet, he has the nerve to raise a brow—like you’re the one being dramatic and not the guy who literally kidnapped you.

“So, as you may have noticed by now…this ain’t the Sphere,” Enjin says, balancing a cigarette between his lips. 

You look at him skeptically—he says it like it’s nothing, while your world is actively falling apart. What is he even talking about?!

“I know this ain’t the welcome wagon you posh Spherites are used to but…”

Enjin pauses, exhaling smoke to the sky. Your gaze follows up, widening once you see the oddly shaped dome covering the city, a strange yellow fog in the atmosphere.

“....welcome to the Abyss, Girlie. Name’s Enjin.” 

Blankly staring at Enjin, you say nothing. The both of you in a mini stare down. Although you’re the first to give by suddenly bursting into sobs.

Rolling his eyes, a thought briefly flashes in Enjin's head that he should have just left you for the raiders. Hell, he could still leave you now—you’re calling way too much attention to yourself.

However, Enjin also figures that with you all but swimming in luxury on the Sphere, you probably thought of the Pit—your so-called Hell, or its inhabitants as mere fairytale.

Enjin’s inkling is confirmed when you calm down enough to piece together that your now ex-husband had hired a bunch of shady tribesmen to kidnap and dispose of you—all to collect your inheritance. 

Yeah, not your fault.  Enjin thinks and cuts you a break. 

For your own sake, Enjin somehow convinces you to come back to Cleaner HQ with him. He can’t return you to the Sphere himself—but he knows another Spherite who’s trying to make their way back. That small glimmer of hope is enough to lift your spirits, just barely. This time, you follow him willingly—though you still cry the entire way to HQ.

Shame how prone to hysterics you are, otherwise Enjin actually thinks you’re pretty hot. Noting how the expensive silk of your dress clings so damn well to your every curve. He’d sell your clothes while you were near the shopping district—but unlike Rudo, he doubts he could talk you out of them. 

At least—not yet.

But that thought is drastically short lived as Enjin spends more time in your presence. Sure, you could have gotten along. You could’ve even been Enjin’s type. Yet there’s one glaring problem: 

You’re an annoying, needy-ass brat.  

Besides looks, you tick off nearly every one of his dealbreakers. You’re ditzy, dependent and whiny. Basically Enjin’s nightmare.

Plus your snobby little ass never once thanked nor apologized to him over the following weeks.

Not after he saved you.

Not after he brought you back to HQ where you were welcomed with skeptical, yet open arms—as a new, very reluctant (you had no other options really) recruit in-training.

And you certainly never thanked Enjin, even after all his shit luck, when he was assigned to be your teacher and look after your haughty ass. You have the most indignant pout on your face when Corvus announces that since Enjin found you, you're Enjin’s problem.

“You have to be kidding me? I’m stuck with Trashy Poppins here!?”

“Yo, Trashy—what!?” The reference doesn’t land with Enjin but he knows it isn’t good.

Semiu nods curtly in agreement of the pairing, amused that Enjin finally has someone to keep him on his toes as she ushers you off to get settled in.

The fuck?! 

Lamenting being stuck is supposed to be Enjin’s line. Enjin had figured the logical move was to pair you with Zanka—the closest thing to nobility among the Cleaners—and let you bond with Rudo, a fellow Spherite, even if he was a tribesman.

But it doesn’t take long to realize neither boy can handle a grown ass woman like you. One flutter of your lashes and they’re useless saps—like the big sister he never had, you could soothe Rudo’s worst moods with a mere head pat. 

While Zanka, older and appreciating your more ‘robust’ qualities, trips over his own tongue trying to talk to you.

Both ready to do anything just to earn a few sweet coos—unless someone steps in.

It had to be Enjin. He was the only one who could ‘resist’ your charms.

Still, Enjin’s got his work cut out for him when it comes to you—especially training you for combat and figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to use that so-ugly-it’s-almost-cute vital instrument.

He tries not to judge. Really, he does. Jinki are personal—he knows that better than anyone. But still…the fact that you even have one? That’s wild.

A Spherite? A noble Spherite, no less—the same pompous assholes who treat the Abyss like a dumping ground—actually caring enough about something to pump it full of anima?

Yeah, that’s impressive, he’ll give you that. What wasn’t though was the name you gave the lil thing: Bubu.

Tsk. Wack as hell. Vital instruments deserve names with some bite. Something like—Umbreaker.

Still, credit where it’s due—you’re picking things up faster than expected. 

However, that doesn’t spare him from your nonstop bitching, though. The complaints come daily: the strange smells your hair absorbs, the absence of your sacred skincare routines, not being able to take a 30 minute shower, and how everything down here always tastes just a little off.

But the most absurd? The cherry blossoms.

You complain the most about not being able to frolic in your lush, petal-covered garden full of rows of cherry blossoms. Enjin’s never even seen a damn tree like that, let alone the acres of grass and flowers you describe like some bedtime fairytale. You haughtily anoint yourself as a floral herbalist, an expert when it comes to your pretty little flowers.

It’s shit like that on top of everything else that irks Enjin when it comes to you.

And yet?

Enjin thinks the most irritating thing about you is the fact that he can’t seem to stay away from you. 

Sure, you’re annoying as fuck—but in spite of his own objections, Enjin keeps finding ways to keep your time occupied. He makes up excuses to train you longer and drags you along on missions that are solely meant for him. 

Moreover, since you can never keep that pretty little mouth shut, anyone you meet clocks you as a Spherite within seconds—which means you need Enjin’s constant protection, whether you like it or not.

Enjin ends up spending less time drinking or chasing women, finding a far more amusing pastime instead—the way your face twists in indignation every time the Ground doesn’t live up to your so-called “noble standards.” 

He gets a kick out of it, really. Agitating you on purpose, just to watch you squirm.

“Goddamnit, Enjin! Watch it!” 

You’d shriek every time your short skirt went flying from a sudden gust of wind he’d whip up with Umbreaker. Enjin saves that lil trick for No Man’s Land when the others’ backs are turned.

“That’s Enjin-sensei to you, Princess.” 

“Choke—slowly, Trashy Poppins.”

You’d lunge for his mask like you actually meant to rip it off, but at 6 '3, Enjin’s tall enough that you never have a chance at reaching it. It’s all worth it too—Enjin’s already got every pastel scrap of lace you own burned into memory, each one tucked away like a reward for getting under your skin.

It’s a little sadistic, sure—the way he taunts you nonstop, delighting in soiling that polished image of yours to grind you into the dirt of the ground right along with him. 

There’s a fire in your eyes every time Enjin dubs you as “Your Royal Trash Princess”—or just “TP” if he’s feeling lazy. You never fail to rise to his bait, eager to prove yourself—and prove him wrong.

Enjin feels he’s owed a bit of amusement for all his troubles.

Doesn’t mean anything.

Yet the more Enjin pushes, the harder it is to ignore that your bratty spark isn’t just an attitude problem. It’s energy. Real, raw passion. The kind that could actually cultivate anima. He sees it best when you’re snapping at him, flushed and defiant, too stubborn to back down.

It’s trouble to be sure, but fuck if Enjin doesn’t love coaxing it out of you.

All it took this time to get you going was him doubting your so-called knowledge of plants and remedies— “what kinda ‘floral herbalist’ hasn’t toked one?”  

So now here you are, in the HQ lounge, about to smoke your first joint as a ‘pre-game’ to the happy hour Corvus organized for all the Cleaners.

You and Enjin sit shoulder to shoulder on a worn, black quilted-leather sofa that’s seen better days. The cushions creak as you nervously smooth your skirt and settle in, unhooking your jinki—Bubu—from your belt to set her gently on the table.

Enjin rolls a few joints with unhurried precision—like he’s got all the time in the world, and watching you squirm is part of the ritual.

“Bet ya didn’t have anything like this in your lil’ garden, eh TP?” Enjin quips, breaking the silence.

Nose already upturned, your face scrunches as Enjin tosses an extra bud from his stash into your open palms. You hated the nickname ‘TP’ most of all, too easily mistaken for ‘toilet paper’ and Enjin knows that.

You shoot Enjin a dirty look before letting your focus drift back to the brittle sprig in your hands—the first real plant you’ve touched since becoming a Ground-dweller.

You think you actually recognize it. 

Back on the Sphere, your family was among the wealthiest, and your garden was massive. You took pride in your green thumb—like Delmon, whose garden you’ve been meaning to ask about. You want to help, if only to see what kind of plants can survive in conditions this toxic. But Enjin never gives you the space—always hovering, always cutting in before you can finish a full conversation.

You brush off those thoughts but your frown stays as your fingers trace the bud’s dry veins. Even for a dehydrated sample, it feels wrong—brittle in a way that hints of sickness. 

“Hmm. We had something like this—I think. But it’s just another weed.” You say shrugging.

“Heh,” Enjin smirks at your cluelessness, “Would you believe me if I told you ‘weed’ is exactly what we call it, Princess?”

You roll your eyes at the inordinately simple name. It probably has a proper scientific designation—but expecting Enjin to know it? Please.

“We always uprooted them—weeds are unsightly in gardens, you know. A weed, let alone one sick as this, would definitely be pruned right away so as to not syphon nutrients from the other plant life.”

“HAH?!”  

Mid-seal on his joint, Enjin stops cold, staring at you like you just dared to commit some sort of sacrilege before exhaling a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in pure betrayal.

He can’t believe Spherities are probably pissing away the dankest shit ever cultivated. The thought was maddening.

When Enjin’s eyes do meet yours again, there's no amusement as he takes a rather chastising tone with you.

“Princess, for your own good, never repeat that in front of anyone down here…I mean it.”

You huff, but Enjin doesn’t blink—just starts sealing the joint again, eyes never leaving you as his tongue drags slowly across the edge of the paper.

You squirm, and that’s all the reward he needs. 

“See somethin’ you like?” Enjin drawls, holding the finished joint out toward you like it’s a gift—and not a trap with your name written all over it.

Turning on teacher mode, Enjin decides to school you.

“I know we mostly have ‘reggie’ down here, but still, it’s worth its weight in gold for its purposes. Not just for fun ya know—chronic pain, nausea, anxiety—gives a bit of relief from the ailments of Abyss-living you Spherites have so graciously bestowed on us.”

From his pocket, Enjin produces a lighter, shoulders curling as he bows into the flame to set it alight.

Your eyes flick over the sinewy stretch of Enjin arms, the way his jacket strains across his shoulders—reminding you just how solid Enjin really is beneath all that shapeless fabric. Built like a weapon, hiding in plain sight.

You watch as his ringed fingers lift the joint to his lips. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, Enjin sinks back into the sofa like gravity’s got a tighter hold on him than usual. Smoke pools in his chest before slipping out in a long, deliberate exhale.

His gaze follows it, distant—like he’s chewing on thoughts far heavier than anything you said… but somehow still set off by it.

“That’s the problem with you Spherites….you don’t see things the way they are—you see things the way you are.” 

Enjin chuffs at his own words, closing his eyes to let his high settle. Not even completely stoned yet and he’s already spouting off pseudo philosophical one-liners.

“Everything else is collateral, amirite?”

Ouch.

Toeing at the floor, you sulk in silence. Wounded from the verbal licks Enjin just dealt you. Mulling over his words in silence though, you know it isn’t that simple. Horticulture can be complicated even in the most ideal conditions. Just because a plant is viable doesn’t mean it belongs in every garden—some plants are just incompatible.

However…

You sit silently, your teeth worrying your bottom lip as you study the brittle bud in your palm.

…that doesn’t make it worthless.

Instead of exploring any potential use, you tossed the so-called "weed" out—just like everything else the Sphere deemed useless. Not even considering how valuable it could be. You can see why Enjin wouldn't want you repeating that mistake. Enough people already looked at you with disdain as it is. 

Sure there’s a lot of things you miss about it, mostly superficial things that had to do with vanity, but overall life up there was super sterile and dull. You’d never say it out loud but you are glad you fell, it was hard on the ground but it was liberating.

Sighing, you quietly concede. You hate anytime Enjin actually has a point though. It’s the worst thing imaginable—for your pride and for his already unbearable ego.

Cracking an eye open, Enjin curses under his breath. Switching tactics, he decides to replace the long look on his Trash Princess’s face. Annoyance would do just fine. Besides, there was no need for you to pout over it, you actually had a shot at redemption here… heh, the kind that might just work out in his favor, too.

“Y’knowwwww, we’re always learnin’ better ways to grow things down here, faster too...”

Enjin moves so quietly, you don’t realize how close he is until you turn—and he’s right in your face, barely a breath away. Swiping his ringed thumb across your cheek, Enjin’s touch is surprisingly tender. However his expression is entirely obnoxious, full of amusement from how fast your pouty little face flusters.

“...could be a nice little hobby that would do alotta good…and if anyone could figure out how to grow this shit properly down here—”

Enjin plucks at the heat of your warm cheeks, pinching just enough to tease and drag the moment into something more lighthearted.

“—I do believe it could be you—Trash Princess.”

Your eyes catch something deeper than just teasing in his golden gaze—but before you can dwell on it, instinct kicks in. You jerk back, swatting his hand away, shoving whatever that was out of your mind.

Enjin just laughs, unbothered, as you glare at him.

“And why can’t you get Delmon to do it?” you counter, arms folding across your chest. By now, you’ve learned Enjin usually has an angle for everything.

Right on the mark, for a beat, Enjin actually pauses. He hadn’t expected you to bring up the obvious—Delmon, the gentle giant practically martyred to the idea of saving what’s left of the Abyss. But Enjin’s roguish grin slips back into place, spreading wider as he leans in, unapologetically invading your space.

“Why? Well...’cause I asked you, Princess. The ol’lug has enough on his plate as it is. You can handle it alone, can’t ya?”

Truthfully, even knowing your interest in Delmon never strays beyond roots and soil, it still irks every time Enjin catches sight of you with him. You look every bit the noble—graceful, composed, eyes soft and curious as you gaze up at Delmon, eager to learn. It grates on Enjin more than he’d admit, knowing he’s never once gotten that look, despite monopolizing most of your time.

“Ya know—unless, your skillset just ain’t up t’par?” Enjin finishes with a shrug.

Wholly unconvinced, you see this for the bait it is from a mile away. Nevertheless, you can’t deny that you are eager to get even the tiniest bit of normalcy back in your life from your old hobbies. Planting something, anything, would be nice—even if it ends up being contraband for Enjin. Although you still aren’t quite sure why you can’t consult Delmon. 

“Ugh! Fine!”

You fall back onto the sofa and Enjin follows, his arm settling behind you, practically draped around your shoulders. You don’t even flinch. He takes another slow hit, smoke curling toward the ceiling, but this time there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he watches you. Deciding he’s babysat the joint long enough, he leans in with a lazy smirk and holds it out to you.

“Enjin—your eyes!” You blurt out, disregarding his invitation. “Is that just from smoking!? I can’t go to happy hour looking like some kinda zombie!”

Enjin sputters mid-laugh, coughing as wisps of smoke leak from the corners of his smart ass grin.

“Eh, well duh. Why else would they get so red when I smoke?”

Enjin coughs out a few more chuckles. You roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Trashy Poppins…I didn't make the connection since the air quality down here is 80% pollution! You could have anything.”

While Enjin is amused by your sass, the joint continues to burn down. Each second unsmoked is wasting precious bud. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low purr—the kind that makes your stomach flip.

Heh, time to pull out the big guns.

“Aht-aht-aht, c’mon now, Princess, you know the golden rule…”

You sigh, thinking you need that happy hour drink more than ever right now.

“You’re not serious.”

But you know he is, and of course you remember the silly motto Enjin makes an unspoken rule for his team. Although he mostly just uses it to get you to do something you’ll usually regret later.  You sigh, knowing you’ll never make it to happy hour until you appease the big man-child in front of you.

Enjin’s golden eyes shine with even more mischief than before and together like some damn mantra, you both repeat:

“...it’s not peer pressure—it’s just your turn.”

Resigned, you click your tongue, swiping at the joint in his hands. But Enjin is much faster as he pulls back with infuriating speed. You glower at him, snark locked and loaded.

“Nah, actually I’ll help you out since it’s your first time, Princess.”

Innuendo coils around his words, heat radiating off him as you tense under his gaze. You don’t want to argue with him though, the sooner you smoked, the sooner you both could be at happy hour.

“Open.” 

Enjin’s fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he holds the joint to your peach-glossed lips, eyes darkening when you part them obediently for him.

“Now breathe it in, nice and slow…deeper. Yeah, that’s it—hold it. Don’t let go until I say—good girl.”

You want to scoff at him, but you can’t—not with tears stinging your eyes and smoke burning its way down your lungs. By the time Enjin gives you the nod to exhale, you’re already choking, coughing it all back up in ragged plumes.

Yeah, this was nowhere in hell as easy as Enjin made it look.

The buzz rises in your head almost instantly, an airy haze creeping into your consciousness.

“See? Not a terrible cherry pop, eh?”

The glare you throw at Enjin is more of a squint. Still recovering from the fire tearing down your throat, your coughs earn you a few heavy-handed smacks on the back from Enjin. If it’s out of comfort or mockery, you can't tell. 

Everything in the room is spinning and becoming more distant, like a daydream.

“Easy there, breathe—it’ll hit easier when ya figure out how to grow it right, Princess. The dank shit won’t burn this hard.”

You want to bite back that even if you do figure out how to grow the damn ‘weed’ plant, you’d never touch it again. But the sudden heaviness seeping into your limbs drags you down, tilting your head on the axis of equilibrium.

“I think, no—I know, I need to lay down.”

Not waiting for permission, you flop down onto the worn cushions beneath you, curling up awkwardly with your head leaning against the armrest and your legs dangling off the seat at an angle. 

Enjin doesn’t miss a beat though—he scoops your legs into his lap, tugging off your boots so you can be comfortable.

Leaning back, perfectly at ease, Enjin holds the joint in one hand while the other rests on your stocking-covered shin, giving it a casual, reassuring pat. The way your arm drapes over your face tells him everything—yeah, you’ve got the spins.

“Keh, you’ll make it, Princess. Just let it all ride out.”

You’d make it alright, but not to happy hour anytime soon. Enjin supposes he might’ve let you take a bigger hit than you were ready for. 

Whoops.

Silence stretches in the aftermath but it’s not uncomfortable. Enjin takes a few more lazy tokes, one golden eye cracked open just enough to watch you, taking stock of your state. 

It’s in moments like this—rare ones, when you’re quiet—that he remembers just how fucking smoking hot you are.

Especially in that Cleaner uniform. Man, God bless August.

The eccentric tailor took special care in designing it thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration—August even convinced Enjin to allow him to keep some of the trim from your Spherite clothes that he repurposes. The outcome of your uniform is shinier, more fitted and much sluttier than standard issue. 

You took to it immediately, without much fuss and actually complimenting August. That was August’s gift though—whipping up pieces to suit even the finickiest of tastes—and Enjin had to admit, the man did his big one. 

But the real surprise wasn’t the craftsmanship. It was you—his oh-so-prim little Trash Princess—strutting around in something so damn naughty. Dressed up like a treat that Enjin can’t help but eat up with his eyes.

And whaddya know? Enjin has the munchies bad right now.

Left to his own devices, Enjin takes his time devouring the sight in front of him. His gaze lingers down the length of your legs sprawled across his lap, to the soft, exposed flesh of your thighs—spilling over the edge of your stockings just enough to make his jaw clench.

Fuck, they look so soft. He can't help but wonder how they'd feel locked around his head as his eyes climb to the next indulgence—your crop top. Rucked up to your ribs, the thin white cotton hugs just beneath your tits. Shit, the way your cute little nips poke through the fabric makes his mouth twitch with the urge to say ‘hi’ right back—with his tongue.

Is it hotter in here, or—?

Leering at you for too long is a surefire way for Enjin to pop a boner. Enjin knows he’s not alone in that either. That uniform of yours turns heads in every city you pass through. Consequently, Enjin has split more skulls because of idiots trying to hit on you or cop a feel than he ever has for anyone trying to snatch a Spherite.

Not that he’s jealous or nothing.

Nah. Just doing his job. Watching out for you. Plenty of unscrupulous assholes out there willing to pounce on a clueless little thing like you.

However, right now, Enjin’s just as unscrupulous—‘watching out’ only for a flash of your panties as each restless wiggle sinks you deeper into the lumpy cushions, bunching your skirt higher and teasing him with a glimpse of skimpy lace.

Man, just a little more and he’d know exactly which pair you picked today.

Sobering up a bit more, you sigh at your inability to get comfortable when you could feel the very springs in the sofa. Stretching, you straighten your leg suddenly and—

“Yo! Watch the feets, girl!”  

Though there’s amusement in his voice as he jolts upright, tatted hands grabbing your ankle before you’re able to land another blow.

“Ah, sorry—” You mutter sheepishly, reeling back your foot. “I didn’t mean to kick Umbreaker.”

For what it’s worth, the apology comes quickly—you’ve learned better than to mess with a man’s jinki, especially Enjin’s. You've nearly tripped more times than you can count over that bulky extension of himself that he always keeps within reach.

You know it’s serious too when he doesn’t even bother with the stupid nicknames he usually calls you. Nevertheless, you’re left puzzled when Enjin’s laughter comes out loud and sharp. 

“...that wasn’t Umbreaker, Princess.”

Huh? What does he mean that isn’t— 

You freeze. 

Carefully peeking out from under your arm, your reddened eyes squint down the length of your body and onto his. When the realization does set in of what exactly you kicked, it smacks you harder than any hit of ganja ever could.

“O…oh…—OH MY GAWD!”

Immediately springing upright, your vertigo swirls with how fast you’re scrambling to your knees as you gawk.

Time passes for what seems like a solid minute or two and neither of you speak. 

You’re staring at the crotch of Enjin’s baggy pants and Enjin is staring at you.

“Heh.”

The devious look on Enjin’s face right now could shame the devil himself. Yet you’re still in utter disbelief.

There’s no way that’s his dick!

Still, your brain won’t stop running the numbers—high girl math with clumsy calculations drawn from the fleeting brush of your toes against the long, thick mass hidden beneath the fabric of his baggy pants. Enjin’s words ring in your mind like a gong—‘that wasn’t Umbreaker…’

“You’re burnin’ a hole through my dick, Princess—”

Enjin’s voice unfurls seductively, like the smoke curling from his lips.

“—keep starin’ like that and I’m gonna think you wanna see it.”

Your eyes meet his dead-on. 

“I do.”

“Yeah, I’m sure yo—wait, come again?!”

Enjin’s grip goes slack, the joint slipping from his fingers. He was halfway to some sassy quip, ready to taunt your denial—but your delivery is so honest, with no teasing or angle to play off, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The embers hiss against his thigh before he even registers he dropped it.

“Tch.” Cursing under his breath, he flicks it aside—it’s all roach anyway—and tries to pull himself back together.

You’re fucking with him. Yeah. That’s it. 

Smug again, Enjin leans into the bit you started.

“Ha ha…right. I know my stuck up lil’ Trash Princess isn’t asking to give me a dick inspection…”

Enjin adjusts his pants in a casual sweep that doesn’t fool either of you. He’s not brushing off the remaining flakes of ash—he’s palming his restless cock that jumped at the idea of you actually wanting to see it.

But both you and Enjin would quickly discover, despite your snobby Spherite upbringing, you lose any type of filter and sense of couth while high—blurting out your thoughts unabashedly. 

“I said I wanted to see it, Trashy Poppins. Or m’not gonna believe you’re actually that big.”

You fold your arms, huffing stubbornly.

There was no way an unbearably annoying man like Enjin was slanging actual horse cock! 

He had to be the one fucking with you here.

Well, wait, no—a cocky, stupidly sexy man having a big dick actually tracks, now that you think about it.

But still—you need to verify. For science, if nothing else. 

Yeah. Science.

Enjin blinks, taking stock of you—kneeling close, your tits straining like they’re about to burst free, and your skirt rides so high on your thighs this time, he swears one more millimeter and he’d see your panties for real. 

“C’mon now…”

Your sickly sweet coos needle at Enjin’s spine.

“...as if you aren’t always upskirting me just to see my panties.”

Shit. You knew it was intentional?

“At least you can show me your undies for a change. If you’re really that big, then I’ll be able to tell.”

The spark alight in your eyes is a challenge to Enjin, who loves pushing your limits. Now he needs to know how far you’ll go. Even if he’s completely unprepared for this turn of events, he’s sure as fuck not gonna be the one backing down first.

“S’that right, Princess? Well, I haven’t even seen yours today so—”

Enjin doesn’t even get the chance to finish before you’re lifting your skirt and spreading your knees wider. You stare up at the ceiling, the popcorn squares suddenly appearing super interesting to you. Enjin’s eyes however immediately zero-in on the pink lace stretched tight across your pussy.

Christ.

With a much closer view, Enjin picks up all the little details he usually misses—like how the hem digs into your soft curves or how the material is thin enough to see the split of your chubby lil pussy lips pressed underneath. 

Goddamn, are you intentionally buying them a size too small? 

Or is your pussy print just that fat?

Enjin gulps, mouth dry. 

His attention caught like a hook to your cunt, everything else is unimportant—including the irony of how he was just teasing you for the very same thing—it’s all utterly lost on him. His priorities shifting rapidly the longer he ogles you.

After a minute, giving him quite frankly more of his fill than he deserves, you let your skirt drop back into place. The alluring spell of your fatma breaks when your  knees snap shut and Enjin is yanked back to a world that doesn’t exist between the apex of your doughy thighs. 

All of his lecherous starring is worth it though—if only to be able to throw his own saying back at him for once.

“Now, how’s it go again? It’s not peer pressu—”

“—Yeah, yeah, I got it, Princess—My turn.” 

Enjin relents, cutting you off with a twisted grin as he shakes his head.

“Ya don’t gotta break my arm to see my dick, babe. Just makin’ sure you’re sure. Don’t need you runnin’ off telling Semiu I flashed ya.”

Semiu is already on Enjin’s ass for teasing you as much as he does. Something about him being ‘too grown’ not to ‘nut up’ and ‘come to terms with his reality’, but Enjin was never listening for long, zoning out as soon as a new lecture was underway. 

However, if your prissy ass really wants to see his dick that bad, of course he’d oblige. Hell, Enjin would get another kick outta watching your horror when you realize for real just how much he’s packing. It had been a minute since he'd seen that look on a woman.

For being as hot and charming as he is, Enjin didn’t get nearly as much play as he should’ve. He isn’t a virgin by any means, but too many women take one glance at his size and back off expeditiously.  

Life on the ground meant hustling to survive for most. Nobody could afford to be laid up for days just because Enjin’s wrecking ball of a cock tore through their walls, rendering them unable to walk—let alone go to work.

Yet with a clink, that all changes as the leather strap of his belt and gear slides free. Enjin lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his thighs and there it is—short red boxer briefs with a black waistband, the fabric stretched thin over the obscenely long, thick outline of his dick resting along his thigh.

Simply put, your jaw drops. There’s a static-like silence buzzing in your mind as you process the monstrous mass of phallic muscle before you.

You’ve never seen a dick that huge in your entire life. 

Clocking your shock, Enjin’s chest puffs like he’s just been crowned a king in the room.

“Relax, Princess…” he drawls, smugness saturating every word.

“I ain’t even all the way hard yet.”

Bullshit! 

Your eyes pingpong between his face and his cock before landing on the obvious conclusion—no overthinking this time.

“What are you waiting for then? Get hard.”

Enjin actually chokes for real this time, still not used to how blunt his demure lil’ Trash Princess gets when she’s high. He manages to laugh regardless once he finds his breath as he sure as hell doesn’t hate this new side of you.

“Hah?! It doesn’t work like that ya know…”

Enjin lies right through his fucking teeth. 

Just hearing that vulgar command from your prissy lil’ lips has his blood surging south, his cock swelling at rapid speed. Already on go, his dickprint thickens, straining against the fabric until threads stretch thin to form almost obscenely over him like second skin.

Yet unlike his past hookups you don’t flinch at the sight of him getting even bigger. 

There’s more than enough incredulousness on your face for sure, but Enjin half expected you to backpedal for the sake of your pussy’s self-preservation and book it out the door. Instead, the look you’re giving his dick is more akin to awe than fear.

Truly, though—you are in awe.

Men weren’t like this on the Sphere. Well, your husband certainly wasn’t.

Older than you by over a decade, your husband’s stamina was so poor he never lasted long. His size, his endurance, and his dismissive comments about your sexual appetite being perversely unbecoming for a lady of your station had you wondering if something was wrong with you this entire time—if you expected too much from sex.

But when your eyes drift back to Enjin—catching the thick vein running along his length, visible even through the fabric—you know better now. 

It was never you.

The realization brings a surge of boldness. Your gaze trails the pulse of his cock down to the wet patch blooming at the tip—so much pre spilling it seeps through the fabric. 

Enjin inhales sharply through his nose. He knows he’s proven his size, but your silence and the way you’re eyeing his cock like some kind of museum exhibit is starting to get to him. 

Enjin doesn’t want to back down as he impatiently waits for your final verdict of approval. But if you keep staring at him like that, with those big pretty eyes of yours, he’s going to come in his pants, untouched, like some fucking cuck.

“Well, Princess? Big enough for ya?”

You don’t even hear Enjin, too lost in your own thoughts. Your body, buzzed and reckless, has a mind of its own though. Reaching out, your hand leaves your lap to trace the thick ridges of his cock, mapping its shape through his briefs. 

“Oh, shiiii—” Enjin hisses. 

His lip catches between his teeth as all thoughts vanish the moment your delicate little fingers start stroking him.

“Argh—fuck. Can’t jus’ go grabbing a man’s dick like that ya know.”

Yet Enjin does nothing to stop you as your touch grows bolder. Your palm flattens around his girth—too thick for even your whole hand to wrap around, even through his boxers.

How would someone even get something that monstrous inside them!?

Encircling his leaky cockhead, you giggle as your index finger slowly tap-tap-taps the mess he’s made there, amused at how many of the small, sticky suds you can gather on your finger through the material.

Enjin’s own laugh is strangled. This can’t be real.

“Heh… fuck… you really tryna kill me, huh, Princess? Fuckin’ tease…”

You’re unfazed by Enjin’s provocations – too mesmerized by the obscenely large cock in front of you that has you squirming uncomfortably as your own panties turn swampy with heat. 

“May I?”

Meeting Enjin’s gaze, your polite innocence is accented by a wide-eyed pout that’s far too sweet for the filthy implications of your request. Like you’re nicely asking permission to play with your favorite toy—except you don’t even wait for him to give it,fingers impatiently snapping the edges of his waistband like some cockhungry slut. 

“Uh…” Enjin blanks while his dick is practically screaming at him to respond—even a damned head nod would suffice. Yet his brain blue-screens as it registers that look—the normally innocent, curiosity filled look that he's been craving since he found you in No Man's Land—now twisted into something debased and filthy.  And best of all?

Meant just for him.

Enjin’s so fucking hard right now it’s painful—and hell, if you’re planning to do something about that, he’s not about to stop you.

“Keh. Do you, boo.”

Enjin manspreads, giving you full access. You eagerly pull down his shorts just enough to release his cock, and it springs free, thick and heavy. 

Good God, he’s a big boy! 

Although you knew that, seeing the monster in all of its unleashed glory was an entirely different experience. Enjin’s dick bobs back to curve towards his abs, a shiny pubic piercing shining at his base under its shadow.

Panting, your previously dormant inner size queen activates. You have to swallow down the bucket of saliva collecting on your tongue before you choke—you can’t help but salivate at the thought of what a huge cock like this tastes like… what it feels like. 

You’re pretty sure it could break you in two, and surprisingly, the thought excites you.

Lowering yourself on all fours, the first tentative lick you give Enjin’s length has his toes curling as he grips the sofa, ripping a chunk clean off the decaying material. 

You moan out a depraved 'ahhh' once you reach the top, a little smile playing on your lips as you tongue down the hole at his tip.  Greedily, you lap up all the little dribbles of pre beading at the tip and flowing out.

“W-Woaaah—ugh. FUCK!”

Enjin’s hand flies into your hair as he clears his throat. Sure, your mouthwatering stares made a blowie likely, but diving in this shamelessly? It’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his damn mind.

You grip his base—an insurance policy to keep him from cumming—while your other hand cups his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. His thigh jolts beneath you and you simper at how sensitive he is despite his massive size.

“T-There’s no way in hell they taught your prissy ass how to be this much of a slut up there.”

Pouting, you release his balls to cradle his cockhead against your puffed up cheek, uncaring of the amount of pre seeping across your jaw. 

“D-Do…do you hate it? My hus—um, ex said it was a turn off. H-he'd say I have 'the depravity of a slums streetwalker.”

Staring up at Enjin, your eyes are clouded with lust, yet edged with worry—like he’d threatened to rip something precious away.  But it’s only his cock you’re coddling tighter against your cheek, your lips parting just enough to chase the beads of pre that drip close to your mouth.

If you weren’t gripping Enjin’s base so hard he definitely would have blown a load all over your face. Fuck, if the thought isn’t tempting to him though – he doesn’t think you’d even mind in this state.  

Goddamn, you’re so much sluttier than Enjin could have ever imagined. 

And he’d imagined it plenty. 

Especially on nights Enjin stumbled back to HQ drunk and alone, having closed down the bar with Corvus and Gris. Left to sate his own booze-fueled boner, he’d shamelessly rut into his pillow. Yet, no matter where his perversions strayed, every faceless fantasy in the dark insisted on transmuting into you. 

You seriously think he couldn’t match your freak? 

Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.

“Hate it?” 

Enjin holds back the growl building at the back of his throat. There’s a torrent of thoughts swirling with his high all at once—all coming to settle right back into his dick. 

“Never. Show me who you really are, Princess—n’ I’ll give it right back to ya tenfold—that’s a promise.”

If you weren’t already trembling with arousal—finally free to let your freak flag fly—you might’ve shied away. Enjin’s easy acceptance of you stirs something deeper, something messy that you usually ignore before it can settle. Now, with his scent thick on your face and tongue, you’re not thinking at all—aching with the urge to all but inhale his cock.

You merely nod, flashing Enjin a coy smile before stretching your plush lips to wrap around him. Slowly, you swallow down his girth, mouth hot with suction so deliciously moist Enjin’s hips jerk up. You gag, but his firm grip on your roots keeps your head in place, forcing his length to breach your throat.

“That’s it, baby…open up f-f’er me—g-good fucking girl, Princess…”

Tears prick at your eyes as his cock pounds back of your throat. The stretch is brutal—but some desperate part of you craves more of his filthy praise. What you can’t take with your mouth, your hands make up for—stroking every thick inch your lips can’t swallow.

“Shiiiit, girl! You’re a pro at this.”

If you ask Enjin later, he’d probably call you a throat goat, however most of your “experience” came from the smutty paperbacks high-society wives hid in corsets and swapped under tea tables—not actual practice. You don’t really know what you are doing. You’re just following the book's explicit instructions. 

Still, Enjin doesn’t seem to mind being your test dummy. 

On the contrary, Enjin is more than happy to let you do your thing and he does just that. Although, the longer your head bobs along his cock, the more your skirt rides up—until it finally flips over your hips, giving him a perfect view of the cheeky lace framing your ass.

Enjin groans, gripping your ass with bruising force before sliding his fingers down to palm your pussy over your panties—fuck, you’re already dripping for him.

“Hah—uppity cunt gets this sloppy just from a lil’ dick sucking, eh?”

Enjin laughs, yet the gravel rattling in his voice betrays him. No one has ever fearlessly tried to deepthroat him and actually fucking enjoyed it. 

Unable to respond with your mouth, too busy still trying to do the impossible and fit more inside your throat, your hips respond instead—wiggling desperately against his fingers, begging for more of his touch. 

Enjin doesn’t hesitate. Slipping a tatted finger into your panties, he drags it through your folds, marveling at how wet and scorching you are. Pushing into your core, your walls clamp down, fluttering around his digit.

Oh fuck, even his fingers are big! 

A second ringed finger follows – the rough, callous fingers of a man who's seen too many fights scrape so good against all your gooey spots. Lewd squelches echo from your pussy as your throat tightens around him in tandem. The sounds, the squeeze, the heat—all of it is driving him crazy.

Shit he’s gonna cum for real this time. 

To his credit, Enjin tries to warn you—tries to pull you off before it’s too late. 

He doesn’t wanna risk pissing you off and having you refuse to ever do this again. Enjin still wants to fool around more;, he wants to fuck you. It’s that thought—your pretty pussy lips splitting open to swallow him instead—that has him busting his hot seed down your throat in thick, hot pulses.

“HAHH—FUHH!”

Releasing your hair, Enjin half expects you to pull away, furious he hadn’t warned you.  Instead, your nails dig into his thigh, steadying yourself. You moan around him, the vibrations rippling through his sensitive cock while you work him for every last drop, his hips jerking beneath you.

Only when you’re certain you’ve drained him do you pull back, swollen lips coming off his cock with a wet pop. 

“Allll go-neee S-Sheee? HAhhhhh~♡”

Tits jiggling as you heave for air, you present your tongue to Enjin as proof you’ve swallowed all of him. Every. Filthy. Drop.

“Oh fuck me… you’re a nasty lil’ Trash Princess, aren’t you?”

You can’t help but agree—your throat’s wrecked and your pussy’s aching to be used just as thoroughly. Enjin’s fingers aren’t inside you any more, although they are still on your pussy, running through your folds absentmindedly.  

“Ngh—n-eed m-more,” you slur.

All your decorum was lost to the wind the moment you asked to see his dick—you don’t even care that it’s Enjin of all people that you just gave head to. Suddenly, the obnoxious pain in your ass seems like your only deliverance. Right now, you're more frustrated that you've spent so much time bickering with him when you could have been fucking him.

You much prefer his moans to anything else coming out of his mouth.

You need him to get hard again—immediately!

Enjin, mind mushy with release, takes another joint out to light. As much as he wants to return the favor after that kind of sloppy top, the man needs a minute.  His high has his whole body tingling from the post release sensitivity.

But you can’t wait any longer. It’s been god knows how long since you’ve had a proper orgasm and those were only from your own small, fumbling fingers. Throat achy and raw, you quiver at the masochistic thought of how his cock is going to absolutely obliterate your pussy.

You slide your panties down before flinging off your jacket and top.  Taking a seat on Enjin's lap, you're now clad in just your bra, your skirt that's bunched up at your hips, and thigh highs. Grabbing his cock, you give his soggy, half-hard girth a few encouraging pumps.

Your pussy is already slobbering, a viscous string of syrupy slick drips down from your slit to land on his cockhead, connecting you to him as you line him up. 

Feeling your fingers around his length, Enjin's eyes fly open, balancing the joint between his lips as he quickly shrugs off his own jacket, checking the pockets.

“Woah, woah. Slow your roll there sweetheart—you’re skipping a few steps.”

You aren’t listening though, not giving a fuck what Enjin is talking about as you cry out, grinding your clit against his fat tip, before running it back through your folds.

Enjin grits his teeth, coughing out smoke as he holds the joint in one hand and your hips in the other. You’re being a brat again, not listening to a single word he’s saying. 

“Gotta find my rubbers…also gotta stretch you out better, Princess—you’re gonna split in two if I don’t.”

You whimper, petulant and needy. You press his cockhead against your entrance, swiveling your hips like you’re going to recklessly sink down on him at any second.

“Huh? Rubbers?” You shake your head in confusion, pouting. “m’Ennnnjiiiiin…I can’t wait that long—puh-leaseee don’t make me wait s’long, Enjiiiiin. I can take it, promiseee!”

The way you sweetly coo his name is shattering any sense of self-control Enjin has left. The urge to submit you to the ultimate corruption surges hot through his veins, but Enjin knows how big he is and while he did want to break you, he didn’t want to hurt you in the process. You are absolutely nuts to want to ride him with so little prep—now, on top of everything else, you apparently wanted him to fuck you raw.

Wait—did you just ask what rubbers were? Did you not have condoms on the Sphere?

But any lingering concerns dissipate the second you start fighting to get his tip inside you.

“Too s-slow!” You groan.

Fear is the last thing on your mind—evident in the way you impale yourself on him, defiant even against the impossible stretch. Your pussy is tight around the swollen head of his cock, strangling it as your nails dig into his shoulders. You grind in slow, desperate circles. Tears roll down your cheeks as you bite them to keep from crying out, your body fighting against every inch.

Enjin watches with a dark glint in his eyes – you trying so hard for him makes him want to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions. But he’d let you have it at your own pace…for now. 

Releasing your hip, Enjin spits into his palm, rubbing his slick fingers over your clit in slow steady circles. 

“Such a hard-headed girl—c’mere…”

Enjin takes a long drag from the joint, balancing it between his fingers as he grabs the back of your neck. His lips crash into yours before you can think.

You gasp and Enjin takes the opportunity to exhale the smoke deep into your lungs, taking the harshest of the hit himself. You're left with only the smooth, earthy flavor warming your chest before it melts through your limbs.

But it’s the way he kisses you after that really knocks the ground out from under you. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours—hungry, messy, like he wants to steal the little air you have left until you’re only breathing him in.

Your arms wrap around his neck, hands buried in his soft buzzed undercut, anchoring yourself. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, teeth nipping your lower lip before diving right back in. All the while, his thumb keeps grinding into your clit, faster now, like he’s keeping rhythm with the pulse that’s beating under your skin.

Why does it feel this good? How is he doing this to your body? S’not fair! 

Not realizing you could feel this good from a kiss, you're unraveling in real time. Your mind goes blank with every pulse, every word, every inch. You’re not even fully seated yet, but you can already feel the blunt head of his cock grinding against your cervix, the pressure building with each centimeter you drop. You never imagined you could feel this full—like he might actually breach your womb.

The thought alone has you trembling, unstable, your aching thighs giving out, causing you to slide down a bit too fast. The thick veins along his length rake across your g-spot and your body snaps. A sharp, helpless spasm rocks you as your breath catches and a small, unexpected orgasm rolls through you.

Enjin pulls back just enough to let you breathe, though your body doesn’t stop shivering, lost in a blur of pleasure and pain.

“Eh... did you just cum, Princess?”

The question is rhetorical, full of smug amusement, as he can feel the increasing wetness leaking down his cock, making it all the easier for you to slide down.    

Teasing your earlobe, Enjin’s tongue dips in to flick at the shell of it, making you clench.

“HA! Good fucking girl! A lil’ more and I bet she’ll be a real squirter f’er me.”

Enjin beams, proud of his Trash Princess. No woman had ever taken him this deep—not even close. Enjin hadn’t expected you to be any different. And yet…when Enjin looks down, he releases a groan deep from his gut.

The sight alone almost has Enjin nutting in you -- your drooling cunt spread so wide around his girth, sitting almost at his base. A thought flashes briefly – it's kinda like he’s a virgin again. Parts of his dick had never experienced this kind of molten heat so maybe, in a sense, he is? Enjin didn’t fucking care if he was though, as he ain’t about to be with the way your pretty pussy is giving way like it’s made for him. 

“Run that back.”

Enjin takes the final drag, pinching the smoldering end of the joint between his fingers before flicking it aside. He leans in again, slower this time. There’s no rush in how his mouth seals over yours. The second shotgun is less about the smoke and more about the feel of you—your lips parting for him, your breath syncing to his, and the small whimper you make as he sucks slowly on your tongue.

The haze spreads between you both, thick and warm. Simultaneously, his knuckles tease your clit, a soft schlick sound filling the space between you from you getting wetter by the second. By the strength of some unknown force, you finally bottom out, immediately collapsing into his neck. 

You both moan. Enjin feels you quivering from the inside out and you feel him everywhere—shifting your guts into your ribs. 

“I…I did it.”

Your smile blooms soft against his inked skin, lips grazing the spot where you can feel his own pulse hammering wildly.

Enjin’s in no state to congratulate you on your impressive feat. Completely sheathed in you raw, coring out your gummy walls into the shape of his dick—something in his brain chemistry fizzles. Like a bit of pussy juice, acting as a catalyst, slipped into his dick and traveled straight to his prefrontal cortex to corrode all of his previous thoughts about you. The result is clear.

Enjin doesn’t give a fuck if you are a snobby, annoying, needy lil’ brat who never let him get away with shit and bitches at him constantly—the furtherest thing from his type.

Because honestly?

Motherfuck a bullshit-ass type. Your slutty ass pussy is fuckin’ perfect. 

For the first time, Enjin realizes he might be in love with you. 

How could he even look at another woman after this?

One thing if for certain—Enjin is going to make damn sure you never have the desire to even look at another man.

Both his hands trail up your hips, groping and squeezing the plump curves of your ass before settling at your waist. His blunt black nails dig into your skin to pull you back from his neck.

Enjin whistles, admiring the stagnant stream of spittle lingering on your chin. Look at you—cockdrunk just from sitting on him. 

Enjin doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.

“Enjiiiiiin,” you whimper, not being able to hold yourself up. 

But your cries for him only inflame the predatory smirk on his lips, your honeyed cunt hugging his cock so beautifully. 

“Makes sense you fell from heaven, huh Princess?” 

Whether you're ready or not, Enjin forcibly winds you on his cock in slow circles. Your clit brushes up against the well placed pubic ring like a reward for being the first to experience it.

“—cause this pussy’s a fuckin’ angel.”

Your eyes are already lodged in your skull so you can’t even roll them at his cheesy line. But if your pussy is an angel, then Enjin's dick is most definitely a demon—his sinful cock tearing through your insides and condemning you straight to hell.

Moaning loudly, your body moves on autopilot—chasing more friction from the rhythm Enjin set. Good thing everyone was at happy hour or you would for sure be attracting some major attention now.

Although, to be honest you probably wouldn’t notice anyway. You don’t even notice when your bra falls away, your tits spilling out just so Enjin could watch them jiggle in his face. You only register its disappearance once his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, his tongue finally saying it’s ‘hello’.

“Shiiiiit!”

Your hips stutter, then stall when Enjin tugs at your sensitive bud with his teeth.

“Hey…I know my Trash Princess ain’t tappin’ out just yet.” 

SMACK!

Enjin brings a heavy palm down on your ass and your pussy clenches tighter around him. Enjin relishes the way your plush curves mold to his hands, each smack adding to the wet, messy sounds between you. You’ve already leaked enough on his lap to stain the sofa beneath you.

“Nah, ya just got on the ride, baby. Giddy-up.”

SMACK!

“NNNGH!” You weakly glare daggers at him. 

Any softness on Enjin’s face has since been replaced by something far more mischievous. If you thought he was obnoxious before—you’re about to learn he’s a full-blown menace inside of pussy.

Wobbling, you gather together what little resolve you have left to roll your hips forward. 

“HAAH! S’too biiiiiig,” you whine but your body can’t stop.

The juices saturated between you grant enough momentum to finally get a good, smooth bounce going.

“Fuck—that’s it, ride it like it’s yours, baby.” Enjin encourages you.

The way you cream harder every time he calls you 'baby' doesn't go unnoticed.

“Oh? You like me talking sweet to the pussy, baby girl?—Or do you just like being my filthy lil’ trash slut, hm Princess?”

Gritting your teeth, you grab on to Enjin’s shirt like reins, pulling him closer to you. 

“Y-You’re…gonna—ahshiiiit—hafta f-fuck m’better than thisss…if you want m-me to be your ‘baby girl’—Trash Daddy.”

Unfortunately, your sass falls flat—you can barely keep your head from lulling to the side. But Enjin’s thoroughly entertained nonetheless—he’ll take ‘Trash Daddy’ over ‘Trashy Poppins’ any day.

“Bet.”

Electricity runs through Enjin. He’s all charged up—now it’s his turn to unleash.

Your brow furrows from the noise Enjin makes—you’re not sure if he just laughed or snarled. But it's the only warning you get. 

Sliding down the sofa a bit, adjusting himself for stability, Enjin spreads his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he bullies his cock up into you like he's breaking in his own personal fleshlight.

All you can do is go slack, falling forward on his chest. His grip bruising your hips, not allowing you to run from the way his blunt cockhead plows into your womb like a battering ram. 

The couch beneath you groans, its frame creaking under the strain. The wood and leather protest like the entire thing might fall apart at any moment.

“Enjinnnnn, m’slowwww dowwwnnn!” 

Your cries only fuel his frenzy and Enjin knows from the way you’re gushing on him you can take it.

Fuck—this sweet lil’ pussy is just so good for him. Imagine if he never met you. 

If you never—

Enjin cuts the thought off cold. 

Moving before you can blink—your world flips. One second he’s pummeling up into you, the next you’re on your back. 

Enjin peels away his shirt, muscles flexing as he looms over you. His hands curl around your ankles to keep them pinned overhead. A single bead of sweat catches your bleary eyes as it slides down his bare chest, gliding over firm muscle. The bold ink patterns seem to come alive on his skin. He looks so fucking sexy right now and you can’t help but to shamelessly ogle him.

Yet, there’s something much too serious and somber about Enjin’s current demeanor. You’ve been staring at him far too long to go unnoticed. The highly expressive, sassy powerhouse is rarely this silent. He should be teasing you right now, asking some smartass shit like if you’re ‘enjoying the view’. 

“Enjin?”

Your sweet voice hits his ears and instantly you have his attention again. Enjin flashes you a pearly white smile.

“Heh, enjoy the break, Princess? You wont get another.”

Ignoring the question in your eyes, Enjin folds you into a mating press, thrusting to the hilt all in one motion. The sound of flesh lewdly slapping against flesh fills the room, as do your cries.

But there’s still something else burning in his eyes. Enjin knows it’s unfair not to be honest with you, but taking out his unspoken feelings on your pretty pussy is the only way he can express himself at the moment. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud creak followed by a decisive snap and two of the sofa’s legs give out. If your sweat and cum weren't like glue on the old leather you’d surely slide off head first. You yell out in alarm, but Enjin doesn’t give a fuck about the damn sofa.

His mood is still soured by the thought that wouldn’t be shaken away until he confronted it—

If you never fell.

But you did. He found you—and now that Enjin has you under him like this, he needs to fuck the point he’s concluded into you:

If Rudo ever finds a way to the Sphere, Enjin will personally travel there and see to your ex-husband himself. 

Hell, he might even rail you in front of him a few times—show him what a real man could do. Maybe even a real…husband?

If the sounds of sloshing fluids and skin slapping skin weren't ringing so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else, you would have thought Enjin had lost his mind with the way he was cackling above you.  He sounds completely deranged, laughing at the idea of him finally wanting to settle down all while continuing to pound you deeper into the broken sofa.

But despite being high off weed and your pussy, Enjin’s mind has never been more clear—he wants to lock you down.

“Hah… P-Princess, can ya feel me in your tummy? Right…” Enjin’s golden eyes lock on the ever-so-slightly distended bulge from the monstrous intrusion in your guts.

“....right, here.” 

Throwing your legs over his shoulders, his large hands splay across your sweat sheened belly. You’re squirming under the heat of Enjin sandwiching your guts between his palm and his cock. Its all far too much—you’re too full, unable to really focus on what Enjin’s saying.

“Ahh, E-Enj—m’ c-cum, g-gonna mmm…” you hiccup, swallowing your tears.

Your nails rake down his arm to ground yourself but your body is thrumming too hard, adrift in the rush rolling through every one of your wired nerves. Your tits bounce obscenely every time your velvety walls devour his cock back down to the base. Enjin’s pubic piercing bucking against your clit has you clutching onto his dick like you were about to break it off.

You feel so fucking good. Enjin desperately needs to feel you creaming on his cock, and you would be soon if your kitten nails raking down his arms– adding more red to his already inked skin– were any indication. 

“That’s it, Princess, hah—fuck, baby, I got you. Squirt for your Trash Daddy.”

As if on command, the knot inside you coils to its breaking point, prickling every nerve, releasing a warm rush of fluids. Your body tingling in ecstasy, you quickly tumble over your peak, eyes blinded by speckles of brightness as you cum.

Yet Enjin hasn't slowed, his continuous pounding forcing more of your cum and squirt to gush out of you—the melody of his now drenched balls colliding with your wet ass only growing loude

“Fuck, that’s it. Pussy cryin’ like she wants my cum, Princess…” 

You’re barely conscious from all the pleasure, eyes rolling back into your head. 

“She’s jealous that slutty throat of yours got all my cum, now it’s her turn to swallow, isn’t that right?”

It’s a rather roundabout way for Enjin to ask if he can nut inside you, but then again, he wasn’t really asking. The thought of breeding you makes him feral. 

“Ahh—f’nnghhhh!”

Non-verbal and fucked dumb, you’d probably agree to anything right now. You’re an utter mess–pussy stretched beyond anything you thought possible, face sticky with slobber rolling down to pool in the folds of your neck. 

“O’course it is…gonna dump all these trash babies into my princess’ sweet lil’ cunt.”

Although you are super turned on by the thought of Enjin breeding you, there's no way you have any idea how serious Enjin is about putting a baby in you. How could you? You don’t even realize the love confession his cock is professing to you.

“FUHHHH—take it!”

Enjin pumps thick ropes of his cum into your tummy as his body thrashes on top of yours. The primal intensity has you vibrating as another orgasm rips through your overstimulated and overworked pussy. Filled the brim, his spunk overflows, sploshing out of your pussy as he rocks his hips, urging his seed deeper to plant right in your womb.

In the afterglow, the two of you lie off-kilter in a tangled heap on the broken sofa. There’s blood rushing to your head— not the worst place for it, you think, all things considered. Enjin’s weight is heavy, his chest heaving into yours, warm and sticky as he wraps you in his arms. 

Just as you feel you both might drift off like this, Enjin stirs. Flinching, you whimper as Enjin wills himself up, his cock sliding out of your pussy with a squelchy suctioning noise. Your knees part for him with zero resistance as he inspects his handiwork, peeling apart your battered pussy lips to reveal your dug out slit. 

“Whewww,” Enjin whistles at the sight of the thick creampie glistening in your core. “All this cum your cute pussy pulled outta me—you’d think she was my jinki.”

Sober, you likely would have slapped him for referring to your pussy as his vital instrument. But ecstasy clouds your logic, so high off endorphins and other substances, you only giggle. It is kinda funny you suppose.

“Yeah—squirtin’ on command like that. Definitely an attack type.”

Spread open, the thick plug of spunk froths out of you. But Enjin simply tuts, pushing it right back in, not wanting to waste a single drop.

“Yeah, how about that, ’mma duel wielder! Yup, definitely gotta name ‘er now—what you thinkin’ I should call her, princess?”

Enjin sees the way your pretty cunny is twitching, and in his pussy drunk mind, it's an approval. The spasms that still quake through you are like tremors of Morse Code—your slutty pussy agreeing with him, begging for more. Flipping you over on your belly, Enjin is more than happy to fulfill any request of his new vital instrument.

“Got it! Cumbringer! The Umbreaker and The Cumbringer. Nice ring to ‘em, dont’cha think?”

Cumbringer!?

Later, you would definitely regret being so thoroughly fucked out of your mind you didn’t put a stop to this. Enjin is most definitely going to be insufferably proud of himself for the next 3-6 business weeks. He’d lord this over you and tease you with not-so-subtle hints around the rest of the cleaners. 

Yet, as Enjin is swabbing his huge cock through your folds, you feel the ache of loss in your core, wanting to be filled again and you can’t seem to find the fucks to care—you just needed more of his dick, like…now.

Pleased with your compliance, Enjin thumbs the dips at the small of your back, perching your ass up so your back arches real nice.

“Trash Daddy’s gonna take real good care of Cumbringer from now on, too. Make ‘er live up to the name.”

When Enjin pushes into you again, the new angle has him bullying against your g-spot with even more intensity than before. Seeing the way you jolt, he holds back from going as deep this time to directly abuse the spot. Slick runs down your legs and despite how slippery the ruined leather cushions are beneath you, Enjin still holds you firm as his cock sloshes through your ruined pussy.

“Say, how much anima you think is in my nut, Princess?”

You don’t respond but Enjin, proving to have the stamina of a beast, feels like he should give you at least two more doses just to be sure.

⛓

Fading in and out of a euphoric stupor, you’re unsure how much time passes. Absolutely cockdrunk, at some point, you’d simply just surrendered. Your pussy clearly has zero complaints about being a jinki for Enjin’s cock and you are too dumb once you get a lil dick to stop him.

Somehow, you’ve ended up folded over the wide coffee table. It’s unstable beneath you, but Enjin doesn’t seem to care what he breaks when he’s fucking you. He only moved from the sofa when the back of it finally broke.

Straining, you think you hear voices but everything feels so far away and fuzzy. The room gets darker and you realize Enjin’s thrown his coat over you. Still sheathed deep inside you, Enjin’s cock plants lazy kisses to your womb as he speaks rather casually to someone.

Hmm, did he get a call? Is that Semiu?

Semiu is likely calling, wondering why you both haven’t shown up to happy hour yet—shit. There’s no way you’re making it in this condition; your limbs are toast. You can’t even move the weight of Enjin's bulky jacket off of you, the heavy material trapping you in the humidity of your own breath and sweat. But in a way, the warmth is comforting. Your cheek resting against the wood, you allow the tent of muggy heat and his cock moving languidly inside you to lull you into complacency— in your delirium, everything feels like a nice dream.

Yet Enjin is fully alert, a shit eating grin on his face as he stares down Semiu and Gris who had just walked in on Enjin shamelessly beating your doonies down. Enjin only spared your modesty by covering you up, but he has no qualms with either Gris or Semiu seeing him in all his glory and doesn’t even bother pulling out of you.

A fact that is painfully clear as he pats the pockets of his jacket draped over you for his cigs—he might as well smoke if he’s giving you a break.

“I win,” Semiu turns to Gris, hand out expectantly.

Semiu’s cool expression never changes but there is amusement in her eyes as Gris fishes into his pockets and places a stack of bills into her hand.

“Tsk, damn…” Gris shakes his head, although he’s not shocked. 

The two of you are down so horrendously bad for each other that this should have happened long ago as far as everyone else was concerned. The tension has been at an unbearable level for those around you, the way the two of you picked at each other non-stop like a kid’s first crush.

Alas, you’re an airhead and Enjin is so stubborn he’s delusional. So the older Cleaner members couldn’t help, but place bets on when and where you and Enjin would finally slip between the sheets. Its a shame that you weren't in one of your beds right now--in between actual sheets--instead of the lounge becoming collateral damage.

“You know, after all the game you talked about winning your money back at poker tonight, Bro said you were a no-show because you knew you were gonna lose…” Gris eyes the boneless, quivering lump that is you under Enjin’s jacket. 

Enjin really did a number on you. Your nonsensical babbles pouting for Enjin to ‘make sure to tell Semiu to bring you back some fries from the bar’ obviously means you have no idea that they are actually in the room.

“But it looks like you have your ‘ace in the hole' for an entirely different game.”

Enjin chortles. His hips stutter forward a bit too hard and you squeak in protest, he just hushes you.

“Awe, so you came back all this way to check-up on us? How sweet,” Enjin says sarcastically, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Hardly. Rudo accidentally chugged an entire beer he thought was soda—then proceeded to throw it all up over Zanka,” Semiu says flatly. 

Enjin attempts to hold back his laughter as Semiu continues with a sigh. She explains thatGris helped carry Rudo back, promptly putting his little blacked out ass to bed. Zanka locked himself in the bathroom immediately upon returning.

“Although they're sure to be occupied for the rest of the night, since the kids are back in the building you need to wrap this shit up Enjin—she looks like she could use the break anyway.”

Semiu casts a sympathetic look your way. She did warn you about Enjin though, so he was your mess to deal with now. 

“Sure thing,” Enjin says, patting your form underneath his coat, “I’ve trained my new jinki well enough for tonight.” 

Semiu takes one look at the absolutely diabolical grin on Enjin’s face and decides she's already had enough of his shit for the night.

She sighs again. “Just hurry it up, alright?”

Enjin gives Semiu a cheeky salute. Yet the second her back is turned, Enjin mimes a dramatic chef’s kiss to the air for Gris. Enjin’s eyes roll back like he’s just had the best meal of his life. 

Gris snorts, shooting him a wink and a thumbs-up for a ‘job well done’ like a proud teammate before heading out of the room as well.

“One more thing.”

Semiu pauses in the doorway, hands resting on the double doors, surveying the crime scene-like state of the lounge. The sofa is toast, the coffee table’s on life support, and there's a growing puddle under you, spilling over to slowly drip off its edge onto the floor.

“If you’re just going to recklessly rawdog her, at least get her on the pill. Alice can sort that out tomorrow—right after you replace every piece of furniture you’ve both annihilated.”

Enjin simply shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“I suppose…we can stop by Alice’s too.” 

Semiu just rolls her eyes, only to wrinkle her nose as a wave of stale air wafts by.

“And for the love of god—crack a window. Smells like fresh ass in here.”

Once the doors finally click shut, Enjin rips his jacket off of you and smiles. You’re still blissed out in lalaland while your pussy, Cumbringer, is clenching around him like she has one more go left in her.

Grabbing your arm, he pulls you up. Still sheathed inside you, he sits back on his knees, bringing you with him, your back pressed against his chest.

“Mmmm—*yawns* Was that Semiu on the call, Enj?”

Call? Oh, heh.

“Ha, yeah baby girl, just Semiu on the line,” Enjin lies too easily. 

It’s for your own benefit though–no need to ruin your bliss with anything silly like embarrassment or shame from being walked-in on. Hell, unless Semiu says something, Enjin might be able to get away with not ever telling you.

“She said they ran outta fries though. I’ll get ya some later, yeah? Jus’ need Cumbringer to clock in one more time, Princess...”

Enjin rocks his hips with yours in a slow wave and your pout melts, no longer caring about the fries. Your head tips back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you.

“Ah, mmmm, b-but—ngnh!  She mentioned something about hotdogs and getting pills tomorrow? Is that a mission?”

Enjin hums to keep from laughing as he turns your face towards him. He smirks devilishly against your lips.

Distracting you with sweet chaste kisses, Enjin rubs gentle circles over your womb. You’re gonna be so fucking hot waddling around HQ in your slutty ass uniform, tits leaking and belly full with his brats. 

The only pill he’d get from Alice would be a fertility pill.

“Nothing my slutty baby girl or my Cumbringer gotta worry about, Princess. Leave everything t’me.”

𝐚𝐧: ahh tysm for reading, especially if you are new to my writing. enjin brain rot is lethal. i needed to get this outta my system! jjk girlies forgive me for straying from my wip list and kinktober lol. definitely down to write more of him. i have a p2 and another enjin story (an AU) idea. but i have to focus on my jjk kinktober now! ♡

When Zanka first met you, he knew instantly what your presentation was.

Now, you didn't look like the classical image of an omega (fragile, elegant, something meant to be kept in the privacy of a luxurious house or on the arm of a nobleman), but you did have the scent of one. Zanka, himself, couldn't smell you—betas are all noseblind, unable to detect pheromones—but every single alpha in HQ could. To this day, their heads always turn as soon as you enter the room, enticed by whatever honeyed scent trails after you. Some of them openly trail after you, offering little gifts in the hopes of starting a courtship. Even Enjin, who's met far more omegas than most people will ever encounter in their lifetime, sometimes gets distracted by your presence.

“She smells like fresh flowers,” Delmon once told him. “Tuberoses, I think. They're tough to grow—tougher than any other species.”

Zanka understood the attention after that. Flowers are incredibly rare on the Ground, and most species smell foul thanks to the toxicity of the soil and their frequently carnivorous nature. Even the full garden and all the resources of the Nijiku Estate could hardly support more than a handful of lilies. Zanka couldn't tell you what a tuberose would smell like, and couldn't even really tell you what one would look like—but it must be something addictive, with the way you're always turning heads. He can't be sure, though. Zanka won't ever know your scent.

He has no biological reason to look at you as much as he does. No biological reason to be mesmerised by you as much as he is. No biological reason to want you the way an alpha would.

But it's really hard not to want you. Really, really hard. Which is unfortunate, since he has no business looking at an omega.

“You're so old-fashioned about this stuff," you whine at him one day, looping your arm around his and pressing yourself to his shoulder. Zanka’s heart rate ticks up, but he keeps a straight face. Somehow. He distracts himself with your musings. You love to interrogate people about their thoughts on mismatched relationships—alphas with betas, and omegas with betas, and omegas with omegas—and right now he's the focus of your scrutiny.

“What do you mean you’d never date an omega?” you demand. “What don't you like about us?”

Zanka studies your face carefully. You don't look hurt, exactly, but you do look disappointed. He gets it. Exceptionally rare and desirable, omegas have a tough deal in most parts of the Ground. In places like Kamuatari District, you'd have been courted by multiple suitors, then engaged to an alpha soon after coming of age and safely married off long ago; elsewhere, you might have ended up exploited, or trafficked, or worse. It was his old man’s opinion that alphas couldn't be trusted around unmated omegas, and that omegas should be considered a kind of protected class. The rest of Kamuatari district felt similarly; it was unusual for omegas to marry anyone other than alpha suitors who could take proper care of them—except for maybe the occasional beta with enough wealth and rank among the Hell Guard, but those marriages were usually considered a farce. It was also unheard of for omegas to freely talk to anyone without the company of their alpha mate. Zanka’s mother, herself, never left the Nijiku Estate unless it was on the arm of his father, and said that doing otherwise would be “foolish”.

When Zanka first told you about this, you'd balked at him—probably because you seem deeply uninterested in finding an alpha to chaperone you for all your exploits—though you also kind of understood it.

It does make me nervous sometimes that this place is full of alphas, you'd said, seating yourself on Zanka’s lap. He’d tried not to look at your doe eyes or pouty lips, nor the dangerously low cut of your top. That's why I like it when you hold me, you know. You make me feel so safe.

Zanka said he was glad to hear that, and then he prayed to every god in existence that you wouldn't notice his flustered expression or very obvious boner. Just as he is right now, trying to ignore the press of your chest against his arm.

“It ain't that I don't like omegas,” he replies carefully. “But I’d never be able to take care of one as their mate, y'know? Not as a beta.”

“That's stupid,” you say plainly. “What could an alpha do that a beta can't?”

He tries not to splutter. “Ain’t it obvious?”

You stare blankly. “No?”

Zanka wants to die. You have to be playing dumb. But then again, you've never been in a relationship, so maybe you're just astonishingly ignorant about certain mating rituals. He has half a mind to tell you to ask an omega, but then he realises there are none besides you in HQ.

“Like,” he starts, struggling. “We can't scent ‘em so other alphas stay away. Or make ‘em feel protected. Or take care of them during… you know.” During heats, he wants to say, but can't get out. Zanka’s pretty sure that he's already red up to the tips of his ears; if he goes anywhere near the topic of knotting, he’ll probably combust. “Anyway—omegas never pay attention to me. Don't ya think that says something? I'd never be enough for one.”

“I think you’d be enough for anyone,” you grouse. “I wish you'd stop talking about yourself like that, Zanka.”

“Like what?” He gives you a bewildered look.

“Like you’re always looking down on yourself. Saying you’re a mediocrity, or you’ll never be enough, or whatever.”

Zanka shrugs. “I ain't lookin’ down on myself—just sayin’ the truth. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a beta or a mediocrity, but everyone’s gotta acknowledge their own limits.”

“I think you were raised to believe in too many limits,” you say, actually sounding a little sad. Zanka would hate hearing that from anyone else—his family’s business isn't anyone’s but his own—but he knows you mean well. And anyway, you were probably raised with infinitely more limits than him. You're an omega, after all.

“Doesn’t matter much now,” Zanka tries to console you. “I’m with the Cleaners now, ain't I? And stuff like that doesn't matter to most people here.”

Though it does matter to him. He's not one to forget about his limits. Even if he's fine with being a beta, a mediocrity, a disinherited nobody—he knows it wouldn't be fine for you, eventually. Or at least he wouldn't be fine giving you that kind of life.

Sometimes, though, when you smile too long at him or stare at him in that pretty way of yours, Zanka wonders if that could someday change. After he's different, after he's powerful, after he's more than some failed heir—then maybe he'd have some kind of business looking at you. But it feels pointless to think about it as he is right now.

After all—he's a beta anyway.

Whenever you go into preheat, you ask Zanka for his sweaters and T-shirts. The fabrics of your clothes are so nice, you always say, nuzzling into whatever you've stolen off his body. Makes for good nesting material, you know?

Zanka’s never thought too hard about it. He's always heard that omegas want comfortable nests, after all—it keeps them feeling safe during a vulnerable and sometimes painful time. It's no skin off his back if you want to borrow some old clothes that would make you feel a little better during your heats, especially since yours are so brutal. You're already looking ill right now, before it's even started. Practically shivering on the couch, deep bags under your eyes from all the sleep you've lost over the past couple of days. When he drapes his cardigan over your shoulders, you immediately burrow into it—pull it tight around your body and press your nose against the blue cotton. You breathe in deeply, sighing with relief—something he's seen you do plenty of times.

Zanka’s never quite understood this particular habit of yours. “Why d’ya always sniff my clothes?” he asks. “Is it an omega thing?”

“Kinda,” you murmur. “It's comforting.” You're so tired that you sway a little bit; he allows you to lean against him and rest your head on his shoulder. “Omegas like familiar scents during their heats—don’t you know that?”

“No,” he admits. “Talkin’ about heats was real taboo in Kamuatari District. I know the broad strokes of what happens, but nothin’ else.” Which is probably a good thing: Zanka thinks he’d die if he did learn, in detail, what happened to an omega during their heat. It's a calculated decision when he asks, “Anyway, whaddya mean you like my scent? Betas don't have scents.”

You frown. “What are you talking about? You totally do. It's just very faint.” As if to prove a point, you close your eyes and lean in very close to his nape. He can feel the soft tickle of your breath against his pulse, your lips inches from his throat.

Zanka stops breathing.

Your voice is low, almost velvety, when you speak again: “None of your alpha friends or family ever told you about your scent?”

“N-nah,” he says. He's stuttering and his face is burning, but you don't comment on it, merely staring up at him in a way that’s making him pray—again—that he won’t get a boner. “It was real taboo to talk about scents in Kamuatari District, too.”

You tilt your head. “Taboo?”

“Yeah. Ain't it rude? It's like commentin’ on someone’s body.”

You let out a laugh: faint, tinged with amusement, and maybe derision too. “That’s awfully silly. An omega’s body is already everyone else's business—wouldn’t you agree?”

You give Zanka one of those long, penetrating looks again, leaning into him. He becomes acutely aware of the obvious view down your shirt and tries to think about literally anything else. You always get extra touchy with him during your preheats: you’ve had some downright horrifying experiences with alphas during previous ones, and it eases your anxiety over it when you're physically close to Zanka. It makes him feel extra scummy for checking you out. You're going to him for comfort; he should definitely not be thinking about the way your curves feel against his body.

“Uh,” he replies.

You press your lips to the shell of his ear, voice soft: “Do you wanna know what you smell like, Zanka?”

“Uh.”

You inhale, breathing out a little sigh afterward that has him shivering.

“Like incense,” you murmur. “Sandalwood, I think. It's very pleasant. Calms me down during my heats.”

He swallows. Hard. “Y-your heats?”

“Mhm.” Your hand brushes against his thigh; his heart jumps. “Mine are really bad, you know. It always hurts so much because of how empty I am. But your scent always helps my body relax. Makes me feel better.”

Zanka is going to die.

He knows you're not trying to make any suggestive comments. Incense helps everyone relax; that's why so many people burn it in the first place. And there's no way, biologically, that Zanka’s scent could provide any kind of sexual or physical relief to you during a heat—he isn't an alpha, after all. But holy shit does everything about this moment feel suggestive. He pulls back, face burning, pants mortifyingly tight. Thankfully, you don't look at his lap.

“Zanka?” you ask, blinking. “Is something wrong?”

You look so innocent—and even kind of worried, like you've done something wrong. Guilt floods him.

“No,” he says quickly, trying to adjust his pants as subtly as possible. “Nothin’ at all. You just made me think—aren’t ya uncomfortable right now? Since you're in preheat. Maybe I should get ya more clothes for your nest, and you could get around to making it faster.”

You blink, then smile a little.

“Sure,” you say. “Why don't you help me build it, actually?”

Zanka ends up giving you half his wardrobe and spends most of the evening watching you meticulously arrange and re-arrange a pile of blankets and sweaters on your bed. He can't determine what makes you satisfied with certain parts of your nest and what makes you decide to demolish others, but that's fine since he isn't helping with actually building it. His only role is to rub his wrists along whatever shirt he's donating to your cause, or holding it against the crook of his neck until you deem it ready to use.

“This is how you scent things,” you explain patiently. “You rub your scent glands on it, or you press your whole body against it. Easy work.”

“But I don't have scent glands.”

“Of course you do. How else would you have a scent?” You frown. “Wow, you really don't know anything about mating biology, do you?”

“It ain't like I need to know about it,” Zanka points out, “since I'm a beta and all.”

“It could still come up,” you insist. “Sometimes omegas and alphas will try to mark their beta mates on their scent glands. Almost never takes, but it happens.”

Zanka imagines, almost against his will, the feeling of your teeth and lips on his neck; he can feel his cheeks going pink. “Sure,” he replies, hoping he doesn't sound too affected, “but omegas ain't ever interested in me, alphas don't look my way, and betas don't do any of that. My ex never wanted me to scent anythin’ for her.”

You freeze. “You have an ex?”

“...yeah?” Zanka is understanding, all of a sudden, that he's said something wrong. From the fleeting twitch of your mouth and the way your breath stops, he can tell you're upset. He wonders what tuberose and bitter orange would smell like together; Enjin had once said, when you had shut yourself into your room for three days straight, that it was very easy for him to tell when you were depressed. Zanka had then decided that since he couldn't smell your moods, he'd simply learn your microexpressions instead—and they’re alarming him right now.

“Met her in the city while I was out on a job, before ya joined the Cleaners,” he says carefully. “Didn't last long.”

You relax. “Oh,” you say. “I guess that's fine.”

Zanka isn't sure why his dating history is being judged or the criteria by which you're judging it, but he feels like it's a bad idea to ask. “Anythin’ else I can do to help here?” he says instead, studying your nest carefully. He still can't see any rhyme or reason to how it's arranged, but if he memorises it, he could re-build it for you next time anyway.

You hesitate. “I mean… you could…”

You don't often get shy—at least, not compared to Zanka. It's weird watching you fumble with your words. “I kinda thought… you know, when my heat comes for real… it’s always really tough since I'm alone…”

Oh. Of course. “Is there anythin’ I can get ya?” he knows to ask. He asked Enjin once how to help an omega through their heat, so he knows the basics: “Water? Snacks? Meds? I'll run out and get whatever ya need.”

“No, I've got all of that sorted. But… company would be nice, you know?”

Zanka stares at you for a little bit before he realises what you're asking, and he has to swallow a lump in his throat. “Are ya askin’ me to help you find a heat partner?”

You give him a dumbfounded look. Probably surprised he's already intuited what you're about to ask, given how clueless he is about other mating rituals. “What? Well, I mean—”

“There's a lot of alphas here who'd be happy to help, I think. I could ask one of them for ya, if there's someone you're thinkin’ of?” Zanka tries to sound casual, even though the idea is unsettling to him. Heat partners weren't a thing in Kamuatari since omegas got married so young there, but they make sense out here in East Ward, where omegas tend to stay unmated for longer. Zanka’s not judging anyone for it. The thing is, when he tries to picture you spending your heat with any of the alphas he knows and trusts—Enjin or Tamsy or Semiu—

—he’s realising that he'd want it to be no one other than himself.

Which is stupid. He's got no business looking at an omega. No business looking at you. What could he do to help you through your heat?

Maybe his mood is showing on his face, because your eyes go soft.

“No, I'm not asking for that either. I'm fine spending it alone.”

“But you should have an alpha take care of ya. Nearly all omegas need it.”

“I don't.” Then you give him an uncertain look, which borders on shy, and which makes his heart jump in a way that feels like it might require medical attention. “But it'd be nice if we could talk a little through our chokers, while I'm going through it?”

Your heat runs its course over the next week. You'd ordinarily hole up in your room the whole time, completely alone, and Zanka would have no clue what's happening in there other than the fact that you’re suffering. It always makes him feel on edge. So this time around, it's a relief when you call at night and he hears your voice—even though it's always ragged and exhausted, like you've been completely wrung out by heatsickness.

“Wish you could hold me,” you murmur once, sleepy and wistful. “It always makes me feel better when you do.”

“I don't think I could actually do much for ya,” Zanka tells you, trying to ignore the funny squeeze that his heart’s doing at your words. “Betas are pretty useless for heats.”

“I don't think you're useless,” you say. “And you always do a lot for me.”

Your voice is so small. It reminds Zanka of that one time where things had gone really sideways for you—stranded and alone in the desert due to a trash storm, weak from an early preheat. You were an impossibly good find for the traffickers who came across you: there's nothing on the market more valuable—or vulnerable—than an unmated omega in heat. Zanka, Enjin, and Gris had found you locked up in the trunk of a car, curled into a ball and trembling in pain. Your entire body was burning with fever and fear, and you screamed when Enjin and Gris tried to untie you. You’d been too delirious to recognise their faces or even their scents: all you knew was that there were two alphas trying to grab you, and they could have done whatever they wanted with you.

It was Zanka who'd helped you in the end. He hadn’t had a choice: he was the only beta among them, the only person who didn't smell like a threat. He took you into his arms—carried you, because you were in too much pain to walk—and delivered you to the clinic, your scalding tears pressed into the crook of his neck the whole time. Please don't go, you'd begged, crying against his pulse. I’m scared, I'm so scared, please don't let them touch me. But his mother’s words rang loud and clear through his head—It’s dangerous for an omega to see anyone other than their alpha during a heat—and Zanka had left, in the end, trying not to listen to your wounded pleas.

You hadn't held it against him. If anything, you trusted him more coming out of the whole ordeal: that's when you started getting all touchy with him, clinging onto him because it made you feel safe despite being constantly surrounded by alphas. But he feels shitty about it to this day, and he’s only been thinking of it more since your latest heat.

He thinks that's what’s gotten him into such a bad mood lately. Your heat’s finished up and you're perfectly healthy now—but Zanka feels agitated, somehow, whenever he sees you.

Specifically, he feels agitated when he sees other people near you.

Now, Zanka considers himself pretty friendly with everyone, unless your name is Rudo and you steal Lovely Assistaff and call it a dumb stick. Then Zanka might try to beat your ass. But otherwise, he's never felt badly toward any of his fellow Cleaners. It's confusing, then, how he gets antsy when he sees you talking with Semiu. How he catches himself frowning when you light a cigarette for Enjin. How his eyes narrow when he watches you and Tamsy sparring and you're clearly on the defensive, brow pinched, breath short. He stares at the two of you, hawklike, every muscle in his body tense.

Please don't go. I'm scared, I'm so scared, please don't let them touch me.

You're strung up by Tokushin, wailing at being bound, and suddenly Zanka’s staff has the other Giver trapped against a wall, its spikes dangerously close to his body. Tamsy seems unfazed, whistling—as if impressed. His eyes lose their golden glow; you yelp a little as you fall to the ground, and Zanka’s gaze snaps to you as you land on your feet.

“Zanka?” you ask, running up to him. “What's wrong? What happened?”

Your eyes dart between him and Tamsy. Tamsy shrugs, nonchalant. “Beats me.” He tilts his head, his keen eyes roaming over Zanka’s form. “Did I do something to offend you?”

Zanka realises that he has no answer. He tries to retrace his thought process, but can't come up with anything concrete—it’s like he blacked out between the time you got strung up and this moment, when you ran to his side.

He remembers being worried, though.

“You were bein’ awful rough with her,” he says, voice tight. “Sounded like she was in pain.”

Tamsy hums. “But we’ve sparred a million times, and she always screams like that. You've never gotten so worried before, Zanka.”

There's nothing he can say to that. He feels like a crazy person. He had no reason to attack Tamsy, but he doesn't want to release him—not until you’ve gotten away from him. I'm scared, Zanka keeps remembering. I'm so scared, please don't let them touch me. You weren't just saying that about the traffickers—it was also about Enjin, and Gris, and everyone else in the Cleaners who tried to crowd around you and nearly suffocated—

“Zanka?” you say softly. You touch his arm, and all the tension leaves his body. Anima and rage drain out of his vital instrument; Lovely Assisstaff returns to its original form, fragile and benign. Zanka tracks Tamsy’s movements carefully in his periphery, but stays turned to you.

“Were you worried about me?” you ask, peering at him curiously.

He shifts, uncomfortable. “Yeah. I know it don't make sense, but—”

“That's alright,” you dismiss. “No harm’s been done.” You give Tamsy an apologetic look. “Honestly, I was kinda tired from my heat anyway. Zanka probably just noticed. Let's call it quits and get back to it tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Tamsy says neutrally, then inclines his head to Zanka. “As long as Zanka’s fine with it.”

I'm not, he nearly says, for some reason he can't fathom. Now that he thinks about it, he also can't fathom why Tamsy would ever defer to him in the first place. It's strange, though Zanka's feeling some of the tension leave his jaw, hackles receding. Weird.

He tries to ignore it, turning to you. “Whatever ya feel comfortable with. I just don't want ya tirin’ yourself out.”

“Tomorrow, then.” You tug on Zanka’s arm, leading him away from Tamsy. “Let's get out of here.”

Zanka watches Tamsy the whole time as the two of you leave, tracking the movements of his feet, his eyes, his hands. It's only after the door swings shut behind the two of you that he finally relaxes. He tastes something in the air as you pull him close—sweet, fleeting, foreign. It's gone before he knows it.

It takes Zanka some time to realise that you've started to wear perfume.

“It’s nice,” he compliments you once he does, sitting next to you as the two of you do maintenance on your respective vital instruments. His staff is shiny with linseed oil; its earthy scent layered with your fragrance is pleasant. He finds himself watching you work, his eyes lingering on your nape as you bend over your desk, biting your lip in focus. “Where’d you get it?”

You blink at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, where's your perfume from? That stuff’s real pricey, right? S’hard to make.” That's what Enjin told him, anyway: his own cologne was terribly expensive, its ingredients imported from some faraway village. When Zanka asked what was even the point of using it, Enjin said it was just for polish. Then Bro ratted him out and said it was actually for picking up betas.

Zanka hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now it's making him uneasy. It’d be crazy of you to seek the attention of a beta when you have so many alphas around you, who are much more qualified to mate with you—but then again, maybe that's why you're always so curious about people's stances on mismatched relationships. Maybe you've found a beta you're interested in. You've always been a little unconventional, after all.

He swallows at the thought, thinking back to all the interactions you've had with him. The touchiness, the nesting, the way you seem to long for his presence during your heats. It really wouldn't make sense—not when there’s Enjin and Tamsy and Semiu, not when omegas never look his way, not when you should have been married long ago to an alpha who could take proper care of you—but maybe, just maybe—

“I got it in Canvas Town, from a specialty perfumer,” you say smoothly, watching him carefully. “Can you pick out any notes?”

Zanka frowns. “Not really. I'm not good with noticin’ that type of thing. It just smells sweet to me.”

“Give it a try,” you say. “I'm curious what you get from it.”

You offer your wrist to him, and Zanka studies it, swallowing. He's for some reason mesmerized by the sight of it—staring more openly than he ever has at your legs or scandalously low-cut tops—and his hand almost trembles as he takes it and gently angles your pulse toward his face. He reminds himself that you hug him and sit on his lap and hang off his arm almost every day. It’s not a huge deal to smell your wrist, in comparison. It should be a quick and casual thing.

But then he breathes in and his mind goes blank.

Your scent is fucking heavenly.

Zanka didn't know a perfume could smell so good. Enjin’s cologne is underwhelming to him, as have been most other ones he's smelled. But yours is rich and soothing and beautiful—made from some kind of flower, he guesses. But not one he's ever known. It's strange and overpowering and it makes him feel fucking ravenous—like he wants to drink it all in. Or drown in it.

Zanka only realises he’s pressed his lips against your skin when you make a small noise.

He doesn't know how it happened. It's like he blacked out again—but now that he's awake, he jerks back, as if you’d just slapped him. “Sorry!” he yelps, mortified, because what the fuck did he just do? (Something that was definitely an HR violation, he thinks.)

But you don't look mad. You look… flustered. Your eyes are hazy; your lips are parted, breath heavy. Something shifts, and Zanka glances down to see you pressing your thighs together.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think you were aroused.

Zanka swallows, trying to ignore the thought. But it's hard when you're looking at him like that—eyes hooded by your lashes, pupils blown—and harder still, with how good you smell. You've tugged away your wrist but for some reason he can still practically taste your fragrance in the air—heady and almost cloying, now. Springtime bloom, fresh juice on his tongue. It's painfully distracting.

“It's okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “The insides of my wrists are just a little sensitive. There's a scent gland there, remember? Usually only a mate would touch that spot directly.”

Zanka is going to die. Or he's going to get sued for harassment.

“I’m real sorry,” he blurts out. “I dunno what came over me. I shouldn't have done that—”

“No, it’s really fine.” Your voice is gentle. His panicked breath evens out, and he takes in your new fragrance again: mellow, sweet. He feels himself relaxing, focusing on your questions: “What did you smell, though?”

“Flowers,” he says immediately, “and a couple of other things.”

“Like?”

“I dunno. Honey and fruit, maybe?”

“Citrus?”

He thinks for a minute. “Yeah.”

You give him another one for your long looks. He wonders what you're thinking, but you don't let it on, only nodding to yourself.

“I see.”

Zanka feels like he's going insane.

Whatever new fragrance you're wearing is overpowering. Ordinarily if a fragrance permeated everything like this, it would make him annoyed at best, nauseated at worst. But something about this particular scent—syrupy, heady, the memory of your skin against his lips, the sensation of your pulse beneath his mouth—is driving him toward some dangerous edge. He tastes the air and he thinks of you: fingers petal-soft, eyes citrus-bright, voice honey-sweet. The dip of your collarbones, the soft lines of your body. He feels like he'll fall off a cliff whenever you're around.

It makes him feel so, so scummy—like a real scuzzball. All you're doing is existing around him and it's giving him the worst thoughts about you—thoughts he has no business having.

The worst part is that your scent is ever-present, lingering even when you, yourself, aren't there. It's in the dining hall, in the common area, in the threads of his clothes. It's in the training room, when he's trying to focus on sparring. It's in his sheets when he's trying to sleep at night, hoping he's not gonna have some kind of filthy dream about you—waking up mortified when he does, his cock throbbing and leaking, aching to be inside you. It's even there when he's meditating, trying to focus on the weight of Lovely Assisstaff but thinking instead of how your weight feels on his lap—how it'd feel if you sat there, straddling his waist, moaning pretty in his ear as you ride him.

It makes me feel so safe when you hold me like this.

Man. He really is a scuzzball.

He thinks his guilt over this might be responsible for his bad mood lately. He snaps at people when you aren't in his line of sight. He flattened Rudo during training, the other day, after he spotted the two of you having lunch together. He saw you share a cigarette with Enjin—Enjin! His fucking hero!—and he accidentally crushed the glass in his hands.

Zanka tries to get your perfume out of his clothes, but it's not coming out no matter how much he scrubs things. He's forced to stop trying, because if he wears out the threads then your nests won't be as comfortable anymore. But it's driving him fucking crazy.

He's in the canteen, scowling and sleep-deprived, when Enjin comes upon him and whistles at the piss-poor state he's in.

“Alright,” he says in that knowing tone of his, pulling up a chair. “What's going on?”

Zanka can't respond at first. What the fuck is he supposed to say? I’m smellin’ my friend’s perfume everywhere and it's makin’ me so horny I can't focus? It sounds insane. He feels insane. So he ends up just saying, vaguely, that he wants to get your new fragrance out of his clothes, and it's annoying him that he can't figure out how.

Enjin blinks. “New fragrance?”

“Yeah. I'm sure you've smelled it—it’s everywhere, ain't it?” Zanka wrinkles his nose. “S’nice in small doses, but distracting as hell like this.”

“What do you…” Enjin takes a beat, studying him. Then he smiles. “Yeah, it is pretty distracting. But are you really sure you wanna get rid of it? Lots of guys would love it, you know.”

“‘course I do,” Zanka lies. “I don't want people thinkin’ I wear perfume anyway. Ain't my style.”

Enjin nods. “I get it. Well—perfume like this is hard to rid of, but it's doable. I've done it plenty of times before. You gotta take a really hot shower—scrub your neck and wrists especially. And your hair, obviously.”

“And my clothes?”

“You'll need to go shopping—or use bleach.”

Zanka feels nothing but despair looking at the state of his wallet—being disinherited means he can't spend the way he used to—but he goes to buy new casual wear anyway. He makes sure it's all nice—not only because he's still got the instinct of presenting himself like a noble scion, but also because he doesn't want to loan you anything of shitty quality during your next heat. You should be comfortable.

Enjin’s advice does work. Zanka still tastes you in the air wherever he goes, but at least it's not clinging to him. It's enough to stop his daydreams about you, at least. Most of them. He's still having ones at night, and he's still waking up with raging boners, but at least it's something. He finally has some semblance of nonsexual peace.

The next time you run into him, you freeze.

“Hey,” he greets, waving, “how’d your mission go? You went to Canvas Town, right? I heard that things got kinda—”

You march up to him, ignoring him completely. He squirms under the intensity of your gaze, the tightness of your jaw. You layered a new perfume with your usual one, he notices. The citrus is stronger today.

“Zanka,” you say, “has something been wrong?”

He flushes, because the answer is yes, but he can’t exactly say that his dick gets hard whenever he smells your perfume anywhere—and that he's been smelling it everywhere.

He lies—badly: “N-no…?”

“Are you mad at me?” you ask tightly.

“What? Of course not.” He frowns at the crease in your brow. You're distressed. “What's even makin’ you think that?”

You ignore him—again. “Then are you seeing someone?” you try, and his jaw drops.

“Huh? No! Of course not.” He pauses at his own words—’Of course not?’ Why would it be obvious to you that he isn't? Though it's plenty obvious to him, given that he's been fixated on the thought of you for the past two weeks, and smitten for nearly the past year—but you relax, and he lets it go.

“What’s wrong?” he asks earnestly. “Yer anxious about something.”

You seem to think for a little bit, and then you sigh. “I am,” you admit, voice small, and it sets him on edge immediately.

“What's wrong? Is someone botherin’ ya? An alpha?” He nearly pauses again, because what a weird fucking question. Why would it be an alpha? It's probably more likely all your paperwork for the collateral damage on your missions, which you truly suck at doing. No alpha with the Cleaners has ever given you any issues; Enjin, Gris, and Bro have always made sure of that.

You don't seem to question his suspicions, though. “No, not exactly,” you say. “I can handle it myself, but I've been feeling kind of stressed.”

“What can I do to help?”

You look at him through your lashes, pleading. He realises he'd do anything for you in that moment.

“Can you hold me?” you ask. “Just for a little bit. I just need a hug.”

“Of course,” he says immediately, and you loop your arms around his neck and press your face against his shoulder, hair and breath tickling his jugular. It’s oddly pleasant. He swallows as he's surrounded by that perfume again—pulled in, all dreamlike. He thinks about separating from you, but you take one of his hands and lace your fingers with his. He shivers when your thumb runs delicately along his wrist, lingering on his skin.

His mind feels halfway to fraying by the time you let go. You seem happier. Satisfied.

“Thanks,” you say brightly. “That made me feel better.”

You look content—refreshed, almost. Zanka feels himself relaxing as you wave goodbye, rounding the corner so you can run an errand for Semiu. It's only after you're gone that he’s realising the scent of you is clinging to him again, and he nearly holds his head in his hands.

Back to square one.

After another week, Zanka feels like he's getting close to his limit.

For nearly twenty-one days, he's been suffering from intrusive thoughts of you, most of them wildly inappropriate. And as if it isn’t bad enough to dealing with your new fragrance and the sudden, mortifying spike in his sex drive—he now has to deal with your new wardrobe choices. You have a sudden preference for wearing very tiny skirts, and it’s been giving Zanka catastrophically high blood pressure since you keep bending over and giving him a full view of your ass. He always scrambles to get you to straighten up so he’s not looking up your skirt—and also to stand behind you so that no one else is tempted to do the same.

It’s starting to become a struggle to exist around you—but he doesn't exactly want to avoid you, either. He likes being near you. And he's on edge when he's not. After all—if he, as a beta, is thinking about you this way, what are the alphas around you fantasizing about?

Still. He wishes, at the very least, that you'd stop sitting in his lap and squirming around. It gives him a genuine heart attack every time you do it: what if you notice his dick pressing against your ass? But you seem none the wiser, just rubbing up on him anyway.

It’s torturous. And wasteful. He's running up the water bill with how many cold showers he's taken lately—but he doesn't have a choice. He is not gonna be that creep who jacks off to the thought of his friend, who trusts him pretty much unconditionally even during heats. He’s not a total scuzzball, alright? It's a line he won't cross, no matter how good you smell or how nice you feel or how pretty you are when you smile at him.

Then you return his clothes—the ones you borrowed for your nest—and he finally hits his limit.

You're so nonchalant about it. A little careless, even. “Sorry I didn't get the chance to wash them,” you fret, placing your basket of laundry at the foot of his bed. “I've just been so busy since my heat finished, you know, all these missions and then the paperwork… but you must be running out of clothes, huh? You keep buying new ones.”

Zanka swallows. He hardly wants to admit the fact that he's been trying to smell less of your new perfume—it’d be a dick move, and anyway, it's really nice—so he shrugs and says, “I don't mind it.”

You frown. “I'll pay you back anyway.”

“Nah, don't worry about it.” He nods at the laundry. “Don't worry about this, neither. Won't be a big deal to wash some clothes.”

You smile gratefully. “Thanks. When I get back from this next mission, I'll make it up to you, okay? I'll take you out to dinner. My treat.”

Zanka thinks the last thing he wants to be doing is sitting in public with you, trying to hide his boner under some restaurant table, but he nods. “Let's do barbecue.”

You grin. “You got it.”

He signs in relief after you've gone: your fragrance is a little fainter now in the absence of your body. Just another cold shower later and he’ll be fine—he’ll do it after he gets the laundry started.

Then he actually starts sorting through his clothes, and he almost loses his damn mind.

His clothes are doused in your fragrance, flora and honey permeating every seam and stitch. So sweet it's nearly cloying. So strong it's almost like you're still here with him—breath sweeping across his collar, thumb trailing along his wrist. An omega’s body is everyone’s business—wouldn’t you agree?

He doesn't realise he's buried his face in his shirt until he’s closing his eyes and inhaling—groaning as he does. He nearly throws it on the floor as soon as he hears the noise he's making, because what the fuck is he doing? Zanka absolutely has to stop. But his whole body’s gone hot and his mind has gone foggy and he can't stop breathing in the smell of you—like he's some kind of addict, drunk on just the ghost of your presence.

Then he catches another scent layered into the fabric, and his eyes snap open.

It smells like sex.

He rifles through every piece of clothing in the basket; all of them carry that very specific, unmistakable scent. Like you lovingly built that nest with his clothes and brought someone to bed and let them fuck you in it. Except that doesn't make sense—you hate it when anyone other than Zanka comes near you during your heats, and anyway, he'd have noticed if you'd gotten a heat partner. You spend way too much time around him for him to miss it.

What do omegas do during their heats without a partner, anyway? People in Kamuatari District never talked about it; he’d always assumed they just slept through their discomfort and tried to ignore all the symptoms of heat sickness. He hadn't known enough, at the time, to realise that that wouldn't be very realistic. He hadn't known that heats were so painful until he saw you crying in the trunk of that car, sweating and trembling. Until he picked you up and listened to you whimper against his neck. Until you crawled into his lap two months ago, whispering into his ear: It always hurts so much because of how empty I am, but your scent always helps my body relax. Makes me feel better.

Zanka is a beta. He’s biologically incapable of giving you any kind of relief during a heat. But now he's putting two and two together, your words with your scent, and now he can't help the mental image he's forming: you, in a nest built with his things, panting and filling yourself up to chase away that emptiness. Wet and messy and getting slick all over his clothes. Warm and fragrant as you wear his shirts and take care of yourself with your fingers, crying into his fabrics.

Calling him afterwards, fucked to exhaustion and wrung out by countless orgasms, to tell him you wished he could hold you.

Zanka inhales sharply at the thought. Notices that his cock is fucking aching.

His sex drive has been unmanageable over these past few weeks, but it's still never been like this. His dick is pulsing and twitching and painful, and he can't stop breathing in your scent, and he keeps imagining the little sounds you must make in your nest while you touch yourself, and holy shit he is a scumbag for doing this, but—

—he’s unzipping his pants and freeing his cock.

Guilt wells up in him when he wraps a hand around his length. Shame burns across his face. He’s going to hate himself for this later; hell, he already hates himself. But he's just so hard, already leaking prespend everywhere, and it's only getting worse the more he presses his face into his fragranced shirt. Zanka can't help his reaction when he squeezes his cock and finally starts to stroke himself: he makes a noise that's halfway to a whine, his hips bucking toward his hand. Just the smell of you is making his whole body feel sensitive—almost possessed.

He finally caves with the fantasies. Imagines stuff that would make him die if he actually tried it in real life, but he's now convinced you've been intentionally making him think about: squeezing your curves whenever you sit pretty on his lap in public; rolling his hips against your thighs as you squirm on top of him; bending you over whenever you wear that little skirt around him and taking you like that.

It's confusing. Zanka’s not even really a fan of doggy style. He’s a missionary kind of guy, would want to look at your face and hold your hand if he ever did somehow get to sleep with you. But he’s been thinking nonstop about fucking you from behind lately for some reason, and he's thinking about it now as he fucks his fist and groans into his used shirt, as if drunk on you.

It doesn't take long to finish—he’s been pent up for weeks, after all. His cock is twitching and his hips are stuttering and now he's spilling himself into hand, his whole body burning with shame as he cums to the scent of you. But he's relieved, almost—desperate to be rid of the non-stop tension that's been plaguing him these past few weeks. Finally free of all his fantasies, which he hopes to tuck away and never think of again.

But as his panting subsides, Zanka realises something horrible:

He's still incredibly hard.

After his third orgasm, Zanka reasons that something must be physically wrong with him. He just can't quite figure out what. Did he accidentally ingest an aphrodisiac? Get hit by a weird vital instrument? Went too long without jerking off? He has no idea, and he can't really think well enough to figure it out. All he can focus on is fisting himself toward his next orgasm, face still buried in the shirt that you wore during your heat. He’s already dripping and messy with cum—it’s gotten all over his fingers, his length, and now his abs, after getting rid of his shirt—but somehow he still needs more.

His blood is scalding, his body is aching with tension. He feels like an animal. All he can think about is bending you over and fucking you, and he's glad that you've left on a mission with Follo or else he'd be at risk of going to your room and—

“Zanka?”

His eyes snap open. You're in his room, for some reason—eyes wide, jaw slack. Your gaze is darting between his lap and the shirt he's holding against his face.

Damning evidence.

“What are you doin’ here?!” he yelps. He finally drops his shirt, and fumbles to pull his pants up, face burning. “l didn't want ya to see—”

You do that thing where you ignore him again, opting instead to watch him intently. The door locks behind you with a click, and for some insane reason he can't fathom, you walk over to him and lean toward his neck.

Dread and arousal pool in his gut. His whole body goes stiff; he's trying not to grab you and pull you toward him, which is very hard when he can feel your breath on his neck and smell so much nectar in your hair. He almost can't process it when you look at him and point out, “You’re in rut.”

Zanka blinks. “What?”

“You're going through a rut, Zanka.” Your brow furrows. “Which isn't surprising.”

He gapes at you. “What do ya mean, ‘not surprising’? Of course it's surprisin’, it ain't even possible! I'm a damn beta—”

“No, you're an alpha.” You tilt your head. “You haven't noticed? Most people do, right before they present.”

Zanka’s mind goes blank. He can't be an alpha. He’s a beta—he made peace with being a beta years ago, at the same time he made peace with being untalented, pathetic, a disappointment to his entire family, the laughingstock of Kamuatari: the Nijiku clan scion who turned tail and ran away from the Academy. He’s even come to like being a beta—that’s who he is, even for all the limits it's brought him. And sure, it means he’ll never be enough for you, but at least he doesn't turn into some mindless, aggressive animal over your—

He breathes in your perfume again, and a horrible realization crashes through him.

“You really didn't know,” you say, blinking at his expression. “I thought it would be obvious. Your behavior’s been really odd lately. I wasn't sure if you'd turn out to be an alpha or an omega, but I guess we know now.”

His dick is so hard, he can barely think.

“But I've been a beta my whole life,” he protests—as if you can do anything.

You give him an apologetic look. “Some people just present late. I guess you're going through your first rut, now.” You look at him with those pretty eyes that he's been thinking about nonstop for the past month, and he swallows thickly. Realises that everything adds up. His bad moods, his antsy behaviour when he sees you with other alphas, his sudden fantasies about mounting you.

“Do you want help?” you ask mildly, and Zanka nearly jumps.

“H-help?”

“Yes. Do you want me to help you through your rut?” Your eyes flick downward, where the outline of his straining cock is visible through his pants. “I’ve never been with anyone during their rut before, but I think I could do it. It can't be too different from helping an omega during their heat.”

“No way,” he blurts out, panicked. “If I'm really an alpha”—something that still feels like a lie, even though it's getting harder to deny—

“it ain't safe for ya here, is it? Yer an unmated omega. You gotta get out before I…”

You raise a brow. “Before you do what? Something I've been trying to offer for a while now?” You sound faintly amused. “Besides—it’s not like alphas lose all sense during their ruts. You could turn me down now if you want. I'll leave and lock the door to my room, if you’re that worried.”

Zanka thinks he’ll die if you leave right now—if he's cut off from your scent, your smile, you. Still, he struggles—not only from the pain of his arousal, but also from the mad tangle of his thoughts. Alphas are dangerous for omegas, he hears his mother say. Omegas should be protected, his father echoes. There's nothing more dangerous for an unmated omega than to be near an alpha.

Please don't let them touch me.

“But we aren't mates,” he finally says, jaw clenched, chest torn.

Your eyes soften. “You’re so old-fashioned.”

“I just”—he swallows, suddenly aware of how clammy his hands have gotten and how much he's been sweating—“I just don't wanna mess things up between us. Or do somethin’ we’ll regret. I don't want ya wakin’ up tomorrow feelin’ horrible ‘cause I lost control and knotted you, or somethin’.”

“I don't think I'd mind if you did,” you say plainly, and he chokes. Feels himself going red, a full-body flush. Your mouth curls playfully, and now he's realising that you're a horrible tease. You still have a merciful streak, though: “But we don't need to go that far,” you reassure him. “I think alphas must be pretty similar to omegas—just a familiar scent would probably help a lot, right?”

Before he can reply, you're baring your nape to him, offering him the pretty slope of your neck. It obliterates all thought from his mind, leaves only hunger behind. He's been chasing the ghost of you through your fragrance for weeks; now you're here, in front of him, ripe and offering yourself.

It takes a moment for Zanka to realise that he's pressed his face to the crook of your neck, that his tongue is searing a hot path along your scent gland. You whimper, and the noise goes straight to his cock.

You tug him into sitting on the bed with you, giving him access to every scent gland in your body. He's torn between some animal part of his hindbrain that's screaming at him to pin you down and fuck you, and another part of him that’s too afraid to hurt you. Being rough with you is never something he'd thought of doing before all this. And even with his supposed new, alpha instincts, it feels wrong—this feels wrong. You aren't his mate. He hasn't even courted you a little. He should tell you to leave.

But he's also so horny he could die.

Zanka tries to spend time on your neck, not only because your fragrance is strongest there, but also because he can feel the way you shudder every time his teeth catch on your skin. He sucks gently and breathes you in; your scent blooms beautifully for him. His cock is painfully heavy in his pants, throbbing for you every time you whine.

At some point you must have pulled off your shirt—or maybe Zanka did, eager to access more of your skin. Faintly, he notes that you weren't wearing a bra, for some reason; he's too distracted to linger on it, kissing a trail down to your bare tits, his mouth hungry on them. You cry when he does, back arching as he sucks your nipples. The noise makes him groan, brings back his hindbrain instinct to pin you down and fuck you. But he’s just worried enough to stop himself: afraid of hurting you, knotting you, messing things up.

He starts touching himself instead.

He doesn't notice it until he's begun fisting his cock again, his hips jerking as he continues to mouth your tits. He’s leaked so much by this point—through his boxers, all over his hands, onto the sheets—that there's no point in trying not to be messy. Apparently you don't care much; he feels your hand gently touching his own, trying to palm his cock. He lets you, almost gasping when he feels your thumb playing with the head, teasing him. Then your grip firms up, warm and tender as you slowly start to pump his cock.

He whines.

It's embarrassing. Probably. He’s too desperate to finish right now to really care. Zanka focuses on your touch, on the taste of your skin, on the little noises you're making as his tongue swirls around your nipple. He ends up panting into the swell of your breasts as he climaxes—so hard that his spend ends up covering your fingers and stomach and skirt. He keeps mouthing at you as he cums, littering your honeyed skin with marks.

He only stops when he comes down from his high. Vaguely, Zanka notices that he finally feels better, but not by much. His cock is still weeping, balls heavy even though he's just had his fourth orgasm—his strongest yet. Even though he just got to touch you in a way he never thought he'd be able, something he thought he'd only ever experience in his dreams.

“Sorry,” he pants, “‘m so sorry, I dunno what's wrong with me.”

“It’s fine.” He feels your fingers run through his hair, comforting. “I’m like this during my heats, too. You don't have to feel sorry for what your body’s doing. Just keep going until you feel better.”

The words do something to him. Makes him give up on his self-control, or maybe it's just his alpha instincts winning out over his rational mind. Everything passes in a drunken haze: he's aware of you squirming and moaning as his mouth trails over your body again, as he presses his nose against every inch of you. He smells flowers and incense the whole time, tastes his cum on your skin, licks a path down to your thighs. Desperate to smell more of you, he pushes up your skirt, and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your pussy exposed and twitching for him underneath it. No panties. Without thinking, he closes his eyes and presses his face against you—nose flat against your clit, mouth salivating against your glistening cunt—and he inhales. Takes one deep, long ravenous breath, then groans. The scent of you goes straight to his cock.

He's not really thinking when he starts to lick.

He's too far gone to use any real technique, guided by pure hunger as his tongue works on you. You react immediately: body convulsing, voice squealing, scent blossoming. Vaguely, he's aware that you're grinding your clit against him, that his hips are jerking against the mattress—humping the sheets as you fuck his face, cock twitching and balls tightening just at the taste of you. He shudders as your fingers tighten in his hair and you pull him closer to you, drenching his face in slick. He licks and sucks at you, drinking it up greedily as be thrusts his hips against the mattress, and he's closer and closer and closer to—

—his vision goes white.

When Zanka comes to, he's vaguely aware of his cock spurting against the sheets, his abs growing stickier as he cums untouched just from the taste of you. There's so much of it. It's fucking unbelievable.

But it's still not enough.

Zanka needs more. He feels like he’ll die if he doesn't get more of you. He keeps eating you out through his impossibly long and messy orgasm, which he's not sure will ever end. He starts sucking at your clit—all instinct, not intention—and you whine and jerk your hips. Your body is so sensitive, pussy gushing with slick. Vaguely, he's aware of you crying his name, thighs squeezing around his head—I’m gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, Zanka, Zanka, oh—

Zanka only takes his mouth off you when you push him away, face pinched and exhausted. He's vaguely aware of you saying something about being overstimulated, but it's neither your words nor the strange quality of your scent that brings him back to reality—it’s the fact that tears have pearled at the corners of your eyes.

“What's wrong?” he says, leaning over you. He rests a hand over your cheek. “Did I—did I hurt ya? Did I—”

“No,” you reassure him. “No, I just—just needed a break.” Your eyes are still shiny, a little wet. Zanka’s never liked it when you cry, but right now it feels agonizing to see your tears, closer to a physical discomfort than an emotional one: as if it's hardwired into his body to fix whatever's upsetting you.

He crawls up and takes you into his arms, allows you to bury your face into his neck. You kiss him there—his scent gland, he guesses, from the way he shivers—and now he can smell the incense in the air changing, somehow. It shifts from sandalwood into something gentler.

“You don't have to worry,” you murmur. “I really am okay.”

“It’s still botherin’ me,” he replies, disconcerted. “I know it don't make sense, but it's freakin’ me out to see you cry even a little.”

“I know,” you reply. “Alphas instinctively can't stand to see their partners in distress. It's the same with omegas. But you'll get used to it. It gets easier to ignore over time.”

He makes a face. “Why would I wanna get used to seein’ you cry?”

You smile at him, looking sly. “Well, most of the crying I do in bed isn't ‘cause I'm sad.”

Zanka feels his brain short-circuit. His concern evaporates, immediately replaced by mental images that fill him with immense guilt, even with the mind-screw of his rut. He can't help it, though—if just his mouth was enough to get you tearing up, then what would happen if he were to use his cock instead? And he isn't going to—he really, really can't—but if he were to knot you—

Zanka inhales sharply. Tries not to let the mental image affect him, but of course he's been throbbing and leaking this whole time anyway. You evidently notice it, rolling your hips against his so his cock is pressed against your abdomen, smearing cum and prespend across your skin.

“You're still hard,” you murmur. “You need more, don't you?”

“I don't wanna bother you no more,” he says. “Yer tired enough already.”

You shake your head. “I'm fine.” Then you wrap your legs around him, adjust your hips and shimmy a little beneath him. “Let me help you, Zanka.”

He has a mind to protest, but his hesitation disappears as soon as you start moving—lining your pussy with his length. You don't push yourself onto him; you just let the head of his cock catch against your folds, warm and sticky for him.

Zanka shudders. He nearly thrusts inside you, but the last thread of his self-control stops him. There's so much cum coating his cock; he'd push it all inside you if he fucked you, and that would be terrible, given how fertile omegas are. Plus there's no way he'd last inside you: he'd cum almost immediately.

“We can't do this,” he grunts out, trying desperately to cling to his senses. “I could get ya…”

“We don't need to,” you reassure him. “We can just do this.”

Zanka doesn't have it in him to resist. He sits up, takes his cock in hand and starts moving immediately—dragging the head back and forth between your soft folds, smearing cum all over your clit. You're so wet that your pussy is making the filthiest noises just from this, squelching with each movement of his length. And somehow, you're getting even more aroused—you whimper as more slick starts to leak out of you, your body unable to control itself.

He can hardly process it. “Omegas really do need alphas,” Zanka says, dazed. “Look at how you're reactin’ just to this.”

You shake your head, voice breathy as you reply: “It has nothing to do with you being an alpha. My body’s just always like this around you.” You gasp as his cock slips inside you on accident; his jaw clenches as he feels your pussy twitching around his tip, and it's all he can do to stay still, panting. Nearly impossible, with how warm and soft you feel. “Even when you were a beta, I was like this.”

His breath hitches. “Y-yeah?”

You nod, looking a little embarrassed. “When I go into preheat and I sit on your lap,” you admit, “I always ruin my panties. And during my heats, when I'm wearing your shirts and smelling you, I end up getting slick everywhere. I can't help it.”

“But I’m—was—a beta,” he argues, even as his cock keeps running between your folds, even as he presses his face into your neck again.

“It doesn't matter,” you say through your panting. “You could have turned out an omega and my body would still act like this. I want you, Zanka—”

Your voice cuts off into a strangled moan. He doesn't fully understand why until he feels your walls squeezing around him, his cockhead pressed up against what must be your cervix. He groans as your slick drips all over his balls, which are now flush against your body.

“Zanka,” you whine. “Zanka, I’m gonna—”

You don't need to finish your sentence. Zanka feels you start pulsing around him, trying to milk him. And he's only been inside you for all of thirty seconds, maybe, but his balls are getting tight and his cock is starting to twitch—and he manages to pull out right as he peaks again, shooting cum all over your body. It splatters all over your breasts and stomach, his scent clinging onto your skin—now stronger than ever, incense and musk—but you hardly react. You're too caught up in your own orgasm, shaking beneath him, covered in his marks and spend.

He's made such a mess of you. He'd be mortified if he weren't being driven mad by his rut—which Zanka is now convinced won't ever end. He's still hard, still throbbing, still needs to be inside you. You look like you're no better off, thighs rubbing together, a puddle of slick beneath your ass. You’re just as delirious as him.

You act on it, too. Zanka’s widen as you roll onto your stomach, then stick up your ass up for him. He doesn't know much about mating rituals but he knows enough to understand what's happening: you're presenting yourself, offering your pussy to him. It's some kind of omega breeding instinct, he faintly recalls. And suddenly he's thinking of all those times you bent down around him, skirt revealing your ass and thighs, lacy panties barely covering your core. It finally hits him:

You've been presenting yourself to him for the past week.

You turn to look at him, eyes glassy, pupils blown. “I want you inside me,” you whimper. “Please.”

Something tickles the edge of his mind. His brow furrows. “But—”

“You don't need to knot me,” you whine, “but I need you to fuck me. Please, Zanka, I'm so empty—I’ve been empty for so long, for so many heats, please—”

The crying does something to him. Again. He needs to take care of you, to make it stop. He’ll do anything.

You whimper when he presses against your entrance again, then moan, loud and guttural, as he pushes inside you. He can't think of anything other than his intense need to fuck you, suddenly: he starts mindlessly rutting into you, his cock splitting open your pussy, wet and filthy noises filling his ears as skin slaps against skin. Zanka’s convinced he's become some kind of beast—unable to focus on anything other than being inside you.

You keen when he noses your neck again, breathes and pants against your scent gland. He can feel your cunt tightening each time he mouths at you like this—your skin between his teeth, fragrance blooming under his tongue. Suddenly he realises he needs to sink his canines into you, his entire body screaming with an instinct he doesn't really understand. There's a distant, human part of him telling him that's a bad idea, but it's drowned out by the boiling pressure of his rut.

Zanka opens his mouth—and he bites.

You cum when he does. Gush all over him, your arms and knees giving out. You're getting tighter and tighter, somehow—almost as if you’re trying to push him out—and it's making him desperate to stay inside you, his thrusts getting aggressive, erratic. He groans when he finally manages to bottom out, cock deep inside you, your pussy impossibly tight. Relief floods him as he finally—finally—spills himself inside you. He collapses on top of you as he does, pumping you full of cum as he licks at the mark he's left on your neck.

Some faint part of him tells him to pull out, but he realises that he can't. Something’s stopping him from moving his hips back, keeping the two of you locked together as he fills you up. He’s got no choice but to lie there, letting his cock twitch and spurt inside you for what feels like forever. He's vaguely aware of you drooling onto the pillow, your eyes glassy, as you're made to take it all.

Zanka's panting and exhausted when he's finally done. Doesn't know much time has passed or how much cum he's given you, but it must have been a lot: his spend leaks out of your overfilled, twitching pussy as soon as he pulls out, and you whine as it does. He flushes at the sound and sight; he doesn't know what came over him, to leave you in a state like this. He’s going to miss being a beta.

Zanka’s so fixated on the sight of you, it takes a moment for him to realise his erection’s finally gone down. The haze of his rut is beginning to recede; he can hear his own thoughts again.

“It finally worked,” he murmurs, relieved.

“Figures,” you mumble. “You needed to knot me.”

This makes him freeze.

“W-what d’ya mean?” he asks, although he's already sorting through his memories of his last twenty—thirty?—minutes. Being locked inside you. His orgasm lasting as long as it did. His sudden, inexplicable urge to bite you: something he's never thought about before.

Then he blanches, looking at the mark on your neck.

“I—” He swallows. “Did I…?”

Every horrible thing he's ever heard about alphas suddenly floods his mind. The things they do to omegas in heat. Taking advantage of them while they're weak. Claiming them against their will. Knotting them and getting them pregnant. Locking them in the back of some trunk, leaving them tied up and crying.

Zanka feels sick.

You seem unconcerned though. You notice the line of his sight and touch your neck where it's still swollen and tender with his bite, wincing. “Oh, this? Don't worry about it. It won't take since I'm not in heat.”

He swallows, still not allowing himself any relief. “But… ain't you worried about bein’ knotted?”

“No—it’s also low risk, since I'm not in heat. And I take meds for this kind of stuff, too.” You smile at him, reassuring. “Promise you won't be a baby daddy in nine months. You can relax.”

But Zanka can't bring himself to, somehow. Now that his head’s clear and his body’s calm, he can't think of anything other than the fact that he's never had any business looking at you—and definitely no business touching you like he has. And it isn't like he hasn't been pining after you anyway—like an idiot—but even in his craziest dreams where he did have a proper chance at being with you, things didn't play out this way.

You must sense his anxiety—maybe in his face or his scent or his body language, he guesses—because you’re frowning at him, now.

“Zanka,” you say quietly. “Do you not like me?”

He stares. “What?”

The question feels absurd. Crazy, even. Zanka just spent a month chasing after your scent and the better part of the evening knotting you. He wonders if you're joking, but you’re looking at him with an expression that can't be described as anything other than hurt.

“You aren't happy about knotting me or biting me,” you observe. “And you've been ignoring my signals for months. Is it that you don't want me?”

The air is starting to change. He tastes citrus now, sharp beneath the sweetness of flowers and honey. Zanka swallows. “That ain't it,” he blurts out. “I—I only didn't say anythin’ for so long ‘cause I thought there'd be no way you'd be interested in someone like me… I mean—you'd be better off with an alpha, wouldn't ya?”

“But you're an alpha now,” you point out, voice small. “Shouldn't you be fine with giving us a chance? Or are you just going to make up some other reason that you aren't going to be enough for me?”

Zanka goes quiet. His first instinct is to argue with you: But you could be doin’ better for yourself. You're surrounded by people who are stronger than him, more talented than him, more than him. You're so sweet and kind. And you're an omega. You could get yourself engaged to any alpha of your choice—not the disappointment of the Nijiku family. Not the noble scion who turned tail and ran away from Kamuatari District. Maybe it'd be different if he’d already overcome all that, like he's trying to do. But as he is right now? Zanka’s got no right to be looking at someone like you.

His jaw tightens. “I ain't makin’ anything up… it’s the truth I gotta be better than what I am. How am I s’pposed to ask you to give me a chance before I make somethin’ of myself?”

You frown. “Is it so hard to accept that I simply want you as you are?” you ask, and every retort that Zanka had lined up dies in his throat.

The air is thick with the scent of oranges; you've pulled your knees to your chest, and you're staring at the door. You're trying not to let it show on your face how sad you are, but Zanka knows every dip of your brow and twitch of your mouth: your heart must be hurting bad.

Zanka sighs. He truly is a scuzzball.

He pulls you in, holds you the way you like during your preheats—with your face close to the crook of his neck. You breathe in deeply, and he feels you shuddering against his body.

“I've been real unfair to ya,” he says.

“You have been,” you agree, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I just don't wanna do things half-assed with ya.”

“I know. That's why I was okay waiting for as long as I did.” You look him in the eye, uncertainty in your gaze. “Are you turning me down?”

“No. I'm askin’ if I can court ya.”

Your eyes go wide. You actually look a little flustered: a proper role reversal. “You want to court me? Like—for mating?”

Zanka flushes, probably going bright red. He didn't think this would be such a big deal: it would have been the typical order of things in Kamuatari District. “...well, yeah? You're an omega, ain't ya? And I really like ya. If we do this, I'd be serious about it. I'd make you my mate, if you'll have me.”

You give him a long, disbelieving stare—and then you smile.

“You really are old-fashioned,” you say, sounding endeared. Then you lean up, glowing, and press a chaste little kiss to his lips.

His heart nearly gives out.

Zanka’s eyes go comically wide. His face burns; his pulse ticks up. You blink at his expression, then start giggling.

“Why do you look so flustered?”

His mouth opens. “You just kissed me!”

“Yes—after you fucked me and spent half an hour cumming inside me,” you point out dryly, ignoring the way he chokes. “I thought kissing wouldn't be a big deal after all that.”

He almost splutters. “You know I wouldn't have done that if I weren't in rut!” Zanka frowns as he tries to piece together his scrambled memories of the past couple of hours; the more he recalls, the more he wants to crawl into a hole. The bottom of a well would work just fine.

“...I did this all backwards,” he groans. “This ain't how I wanted things to go.”

You hum, watching Zanka with a glint in your eye that makes him feel wary. You lean toward him, breath sweeping over his mouth, a playful little smile on your lips: “Guess we’ll need to make up for that, won't we?”

For the next twenty minutes, you and Zanka make out like you're teenagers, which actually remains fairly tame until Zanka’s cock starts twitching back to life. He then learns the hard way that ruts can last anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours, and the relief that you can get from knotting an omega lasts maybe thirty minutes, tops. A full hour if you're lucky. His first rut lasts around fourty-eight hours in total; he spends most of those two days inside you, your pussy eagerly warming his cock.

“I'm just trying to give you some relief,” you tell him at one point, voice innocent, and even with his mind absolutely blitzed by rut hormones, Zanka does not believe you in the least.

But you are very good at taking care of him. You make him drink plenty of electrolytes and get Follo and Eishia to bring you both meals. You tell his alpha friends to keep a wide berth from his room, saying vaguely that he'd caught a horrible flu and doesn't want to be disturbed. You drag him to the shower even though all he wants to do is keep you pinned underneath him in bed; you wash his back and hair, trying to kiss the tension out of his shoulders and neck as you do. You take his temperature frequently: it's unusual but not rare for alphas to get fevers during ruts. Zanka dodges this risk, but maybe only because you're letting him knot you so frequently.

Apparently as soon as you’d figured out that Zanka’s presentation was about to change, you’d started “researching” how to care for an alpha during their rut—that is, you asked Enjin and Bro point-blank what you should do. This is probably why, the morning that Zanka returns to work and enters the canteen, Bro gives him a thumbs-up and Enjin mouths a ‘congratulations' at him. Or maybe it's because you're absolutely covered in Zanka’s scent and everyone in HQ can tell that the two of you had marathon sex and that he didn't bother pulling out even once.

Somehow, he manages not to die from embarrassment. But he does come close.

It's not all bad, though. Zanka doesn't mind that people know that he's yours. It calms him down whenever you pass him by and he catches his own scent clinging to you; he'd otherwise be worried about alphas giving you unsolicited attention. When he mentions this to you one day, you blink and give him a little laugh.

“But everyone's always known that,” you giggle. “I've been scenting you for ages. Why do you think omegas have never shown any interest in you?”

Zanka isn't mad about this, exactly, but he’s still surprised. “Did everyone but me know that you were wantin’ me to court ya?”

“Pretty much.”

“Even Enjin and Gris?!”

“The two of them before anyone else.”

His mouth opens, then closes. “Why didn't they tell me?”

“Well, Gris thought we should be left alone to work things out for ourselves, like proper adults,” you say mildly. “Enjin just thought it was funny. And he was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”

Zanka feels like he might die from embarrassment, after all. This doesn't stop him from going to Enjin for advice when you go into preheat though—and Delmon, too, because he's one of the few Cleaners who's been married. The two of them give very good instructions for how to take care of an omega during their heat, and Zanka is endlessly grateful for it. (He does wish that Delmon hadn't yelled it at the top of his lungs, though.)

For several days, he prepares for your heat—the first one you'll ever spend together.

He thinks it'll be fine. Probably. It shouldn't be a big deal. You've had plenty of sex and he's knotted you plenty of times before. You're both on medication so there's no risk of pregnancy. He’s bought enough electrolyte drinks to last a full week. All your favourite snacks, too. He’s also prepped several days’ worth of meals for you—apparently omegas have a weak stomach when they have heatsickness, and the canteen doesn't have any good options for you since HQ is so dominated by alphas. You burst into tears when he got you to taste-test one of his meals, then asked him to claim you once your heat started up.

Zanka is 99% sure that was just your preheat hormones talking, but it still made his entire face go red.

It'll probably be fine. There's no way Zanka could screw this up, right? Taking care of your partner during their heat should be the simplest, most intuitive task in the world. He can't be such a fuck-up that he'd fail you at a time like—

“You don't have to be so nervous,” you say, and Zanka nearly jumps. “It's just a heat. I'll live.”

“Who said I was nervous?”

“I can smell it on you,” you point out. “You smell like cedar-leaf incense when you're upset about something. Sandalwood otherwise. Oh, except when you're horny. Then you smell like agarwood.”

“You can tell when I'm horny?”

“Of course. If not by your scent, then because of your dick. You're really bad at hiding it when you're hard, you know.”

Zanka is going to die. This is one of those moments where he deeply misses being a beta, though not even that would apparently save him from the way his blood rushes to his dick every time he sees you. Truly damning evidence.

He expects you to tease him, but you ignore his mortified expression. Instead, you take one of his hands in yours, your thumb lingering on his wrist.

“It’ll be fine. I promise. I know you'll be a good heat partner.”

You stare at your bed, then, where Zanka has meticulously set up your nest—half made of his clothes, half made from sheets and blankets. He scented every piece of it, of course. He's certain that he did at least this much right, so he's confused when you give him a dubious look.

“Did you make this?” you ask.

“Who else?”

You blink. “But how did you know how to make a nest?”

“From the last time we did it together. I was still a beta, remember—so I couldn't figure out what made for a good nest. I just memorized what yours looked like.” His brows knot up. “I still don't have much of an instinct for buildin’ these things, though. Guess I ain't the best alpha, but I'm learnin’.”

Zanka doesn't expect it when you laugh—nor when you fall into your nest and drag him down with you. You're curled up in his arms, rubbing your face into his neck, when you explain, “That's because alphas don't make nests, Zanka. Alphas can help by scenting fabrics for their omegas—but only omegas do the actual building.”

“Oh.” He runs a hand through his hair, hoping his scent isn't giving away his embarrassment. “See—I still ain't the best alpha. Bet I fucked it up real bad. Let's remake it.”

You shake your head, then place a long and chaste kiss on his mouth. He tastes tuberose and honey in the air, blooming sweetly just for him. You're cradled by cotton and incense, and his heart swells when he studies the lines of your expression: safe, loved, happy.

“No,” you say. “You’re perfect.”

end

thank you for reading all the way to the end, you are truly god's strongest soldier <3 extra notes:

some thoughts on a/b/o and the worldbuilding/themes in this fic

FYI tamsy is actually an omega; he is just pretending to be an alpha. he actually noticed, before everyone else, that zanka's presentation was about to change lol

tuberose is a very commonly used perfume ingredient and is thought to be very sensual

I AM VERY RUSTY

“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.

Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.

Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“Mm. Bold claim.”

“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.

“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”

“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”

You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”

“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.

“Barely.”

“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”

“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”

“That’s most people, though.”

“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.

It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.

You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.

“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.

“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”

You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”

“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”

“That’s not better.”

“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just casually dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.

The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and tumber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.

“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satoru says idly after a moment.

You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”

“Hey, I’m off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”

You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.

Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.

“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do—”

“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”

“Shame,” you say.

Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.

“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”

It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.

Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”

“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”

The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”

Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, like he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.

Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”

“Not my dragon,” you remind him.

He winks. “Technicality.”

With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.

You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”

“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.

He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.

You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”

“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”

You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”

He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.

You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”

“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, as if he’s happy to escape the awkwardness, leaving you alone with the silence, the incomplete map, and the lingering scent of ozone and dragon scales.

You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him. You can’t help but wonder if you’re a little bit relieved that he used his dragon as an excuse to see you.

A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.

He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs, as if he’d flown through the crown of a tree. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry as old leather. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.

“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.

“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.

He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”

“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”

“The hair is secondary to the ecosystem, of course. Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”

“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”

You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”

Sukuna, who had been contentedly nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.

“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”

“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”

You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”

“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.

Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.

“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.

You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.

“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”

You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.

“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.

He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”

He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.

Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.

“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.

“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.

“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”

Sukuna huffs happily in response.

Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”

Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo had disappeared.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”

Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.

“Satoru!” he bellows.

Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.

“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.

“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”

You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”

He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”

The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.

Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.

“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.

“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.

You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.

“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”

“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.

“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”

You sigh. “You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”

He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.

Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”

The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind. It’s the whole reason why Satoru has made it his life’s mission to annoy in every possible way; it’s his way of thanking you for finding him in the woods all those weeks ago.

“I’d rather not,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.

The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.

You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.

At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.

“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”

You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”

“Sure, you did.”

Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.

“I’m working.”

He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”

“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.

“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.

“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.

You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.

You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

“You did good,” Satoru says.

“So did you,” you say.

He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.

You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”

“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.

You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.

You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.

You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. He’s trying to tell you that there’s more to him than the smug grin and the witty remarks. He’s trying to tell you that there’s a place for you in his life, in their life.

You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.

“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.

Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.

“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”

“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragons wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”

You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.

“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.

“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”

“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”

“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”

You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.

He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”

“It’s just a rag,” you say.

He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”

He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.

“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”

“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”

He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”

“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”

You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”

“That’s because I have a working brain.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”

You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”

“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”

Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.

“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”

“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.

You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.

“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”

“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”

You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.

Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, as though he’s silently grading your balance.

When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”

He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”

“Your continued survival.”

“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.

“Show-off,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.

You focus very, very hard on the roof.

When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.

“Done?” Satoru asks.

“For now,” you say.

“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”

At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.

You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”

You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.

“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”

Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Sukuna lowers his massive head as you apprach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so fast, so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.

You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.

Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”

“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.

“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”

You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.

“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”

“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”

“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”

You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”

“Souhtern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”

The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.

“But then?” you prompt.

“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Grimborn steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole schlong.”

Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Grimborn steel?”

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”

Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.

“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“And by we you mean…”

“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual suspects.”

You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”

“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.

“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.

That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”

It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coind and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.

You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”

“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”

You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.

An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.

“You should be more worried,” you say finally.

“I worry plenty.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”

“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.

“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”

Your stomach sinks. Already?

Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”

The Night Fury rises in a smooth, terrifyingly graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.

“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”

“You don’t know that.”

He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”

“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”

“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”

You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”

“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”

You make the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me—me, a humble mapmaker who values being alive—to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”

“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”

“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.

“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”

“He’s effective,” Yaga says.

“He’s insufferable,” you say.

“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”

You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.

“Did somebody say my name?”

Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.

Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.

“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”

“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”

“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.

Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”

You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.

“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”

“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”

You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”

He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”

Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru says. “Wingspan, firepower, mood swings. Got it.”

“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”

“Of course, boss.”

Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.

“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”

It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.

“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”

You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.

“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”

Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.

You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.

Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?

You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”

It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.

Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”

You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.

Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.

You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”

“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”

“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”

The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.

“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”

“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”

You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”

Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.

“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Eighty percent sure.”

You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.

Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.

“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”

Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”

You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”

“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”

You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your spine.

The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.

“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”

“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”

Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. You scream is swallowed by the wind.

Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. That Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and that Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.

The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.

Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.

You feel hands.

Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.

You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”

“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”

With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boost you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.

You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”

“I saved you,” he says.

“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”

“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”

Your jaw locks. You want to scream, the punch him, to shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.

Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”

“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”

Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.

You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.

Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.

“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.

“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”

“Before you hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”

“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”

You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”

“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”

“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. Best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”

You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”

“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered like constellations, lean muscle shifting as he moves.

You pointedly do not stare.

“You’re ogling me,” he says.

“I’m glaring at you.”

“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”

“Die.”

“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”

Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.

Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.

“Not one word,” he promises, then adds, “Plenty of thoughts, though.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”

“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.

“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.

You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs like gravity. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.

“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.

“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”

You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.

You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Oh, my Gods.”

The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizone, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.

“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.

“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”

The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”

You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.

“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.

The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”

“Stolen?” you ask.

He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”

You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.

“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.

The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”

You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.

Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.

You want to believe him. You don’t.

“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.

“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”

You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.

“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”

The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.

You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”

You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.

Later. You’ll think about it later.

The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.

Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.

Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.

“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”

“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”

Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”

You open your mouth—and instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.

“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”

Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.

“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”

Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”

“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”

“It’s meant to.”

Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.

“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”

“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”

“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”

Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about this maps?

Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safe. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”

“Go,” Yaga growls.

Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.

“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”

“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.

You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infurating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.

The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.

The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.

Instead, you find the apprentice.

He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.

“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.

The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”

“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”

He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”

You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.

You slip inside.

The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.

It’s empty.

You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.

Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.

The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.

Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.

You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.

The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.

Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.

A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.

Sukuna.

The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.

He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.

He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.

He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”

Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.

The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”

Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.

Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.

Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.

The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.

Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.

You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.

In the centre of it all: Yaga.

The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.

Satoru.

He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, even gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.

You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.

“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”

Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.

Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”

“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”

“He’s not yours,” you say.

Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”

Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tried to spit out.

“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.

Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.

“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”

“You set them on us. You set them on him.”

A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, maybe more, their movements practiced, circling.

The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.

“You’re working with them?” you say.

“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”

You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.

“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”

“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”

Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough—tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.

“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”

Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin, and you know the shape of those words even if you can’t hear them. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.

You almost laugh.

Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.

You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”

“He will be.”

The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.

The Night Fury roars.

The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.

You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.

“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.

He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.

“Miss me?” he drawls.

You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.

Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and wheels his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.

A horn splits the night.

It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above. The kind of sound that makes your chest tighten because you know it: Berk’s call to arms.

Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.

The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.

“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”

“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.

The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru—only to freeze.

Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.

“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”

Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.

Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me—or you’re gone.”

You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.

Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.

Satoru’s lips move.

Eight percent.

You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.

Eighty percent.

Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.

The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.

You make the choice first.

Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.

The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the bacl water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.

The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.

Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.

You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.

“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eight percent.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You also want to scream.

Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”

Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.

Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.

It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying sticky on your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.

Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.

He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.

You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.

“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”

“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”

You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“Nearly. Keyword.”

Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.

You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”

“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”

“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”

Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.

Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”

“He is not,” you say flatly.

“He definitely is,” Satoru insist. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”

You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.

You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.

Yet. The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the rops cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.

Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.

It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, hate how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.

“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.

You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns hot. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.

The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.

It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.

His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.

Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.

The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.

You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”

You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.

Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.

He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.

His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.

You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.

Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.

“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.

“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”

He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.

“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.

He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.

Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.

“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.

The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.

“Was that—” you start.

Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.

Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”

Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”

The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.

You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”

“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”

You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”

Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”

But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”

Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.

“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.

“Step in? He barged in. He ruined history in the making.”

Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.

Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”

Even more gorgeous than you’d been during those brief formal interviews, between clans and council members who nudged each other at the fact that he had finally chosen a bride. 

You’d swapped out your wedding robes for an actual robe that was much…riskier. Stuck to your skin, glistening in the faint candlelight. You were semi-sprawled comfortably across the bed, having patiently waited for their ‘team meeting’ to have finished. 

And Sukuna would’ve yelled at any of them for gaping stupidly from the doorway, he should have - if he wasn’t gaping stupidly himself, that is. Lips parted, crimson eyes bulging. 

This was the clan leader rumored by some to be a monster, and rumored by others to fight like a monster: now fully frozen at the sight of you. 

It takes about seven different council members and Itadori Wasuke poking Sukuna’s muscular back with his wooden cane to make him move. “Ryo-” Jin hisses in slight concern, fingers starting to itch towards his phone, namely in the sequence of the emergency number he’d memorized for tonight. “Ryo move- you- oaf-” 

Respect for the head of the household be damned, they were deadset on bullying him inside the romantically-decorated room. Finally making him move one foot. Two. 

As soon as he staggers through the entrance, the towering mahogany doors then slam shut behind him. Somewhat snapping Sukuna out of his little reverie - somewhat. He shakes his head free of that vision of you, gaze dropping to the floor- anywhere but where you were sitting, so beautiful and unbothered. 

An heir.

Right, an heir. What was that nonsense about six heirs? Right now, he felt he’d be lucky to get to not faint.

“I uh-” You lean closer with a smile when he starts to sputter out, and the act itself nearly makes him take a step back. Heart rushing to the surface of his tattooed skin, “Ah, I mean-”

He gulps. And almost as if they were sensing the tension inside the bedroom, the group outside abruptly starts up the distant saxophone of a George Michael. It filters through the slight gaps of the doorway and into the thick silence inside. 

You were looking at him with a raised brow, clearly waiting for him to speak first with his interesting reaction.

Which is exactly what Ryomen Sukuna does - exactly why he clears his throat gravely. All seven feet of his figure straightening, toned chest puffing out. Jin had told him to smile before he smoldered, and right now Sukuna does neither. Only asking in grim seriousness-

“So are you uh…open-minded?”

“What?”

“What?”

BANG!

He’d removed himself from the honeymoon suite before you could even blink. 

And as you sat up on the bed in genuine confusion, the clan leader outside - your husband - was crouched against the now-closed bedroom doors. Knees to his pecs, all four palms coming up to cover his face- though, they do nothing to hide the scorching red flushed at the tips of his ears. 

The elders can only gawk; they’d known Sukuna since birth, and never had he acted in this manner. Never had he been so flustered, blushed so bright that it looked like he was steaming from his very skin. Flinching at the touch of his brother, he groans once the older one starts punting him with questions.

Jin squawks, “Is your wife okay- are you okay?”

“Yes- no.”

“Do I need to call the fire department?”

“No.”

“The exorcist-”

“No no no- fuck! She was just so…” Sukuna finally manages to string together more than one coherent syllable, running his hefty fingers down his features, like he wanted to scrub the embarrassment off of him. And the tail end of his response rings out as nothing but a whisper. So small, so shy. “…beautiful.”

He looks up at the circle surrounding him like he was pleading, “So, so beautiful.” Baritone dropping into an even lower volume, he scratches the back of his head like a child recounting a crush. “And she- she smiled at me, heh. What’d I do to end up with a wife like her?”

The elders and family members look at each other. 

Silence.

At least, as much silence as you could get in the Itadori Estate. Because, before long, Wasuke clutches his aged heart and gasps, “No!” Only once every pair of eyes has turned to look at him- “My son has no game.”

The emergency services were called that night. 

Though, it’s more for a health check on his father’s heart than for anything gone wrong with your honeymoon. And Jin thinks that’s pointedly to do with the fact that you don’t have a wedding night - at least, not in the sense of the word. 

After he’d offered Sukuna a general health check-up too (he’d vehemently denied) and a heart check-up in particular (he’d considered) you’d finally ended up walking out of the bedroom. Barely getting through one word of their overlapping explanations before you’d held up a hand. 

“It…actually might be better if I don’t know.” You’d sagely remarked, and quite smartly. Before turning to your new husband, who’d all but cowered at your gaze, “But you need to get some sleep, mister. Don’t think I don’t know about how cranky you get otherwise.”

“Hell yeah, ma’am. So true, ma’am.”

And Sukuna had sauntered back into the marital suite of his own accord, for a night of sleep. Nothing but sleep - though, Jin thinks he caught Sukuna fist pumping in celebration when you insisted he didn’t have to sleep on the couch.

There seemed to be no hope for an heir that night. Or, ever, at this rate.

And the trusty council of elders that were present would later retell the story in the morning after, with varying degrees of humor - some cackling about the fearsome head’s one weakness, others grieving the lack of heirs that the Itadori clan shall now have.

But most had been left with quite a different impression. They eyed each other during breakfast, when you’d come down with no marks, no signs of lost sleep. Surely, there was no other explanation - Ryomen Sukuna was impotent. 

He might not be the sweetest clan leader, or the most empathetic, or clearly the most savvy with the ladies, but he was their leader nonetheless. 

And they had to do everything in their power to help.

.

.

.

“-and then the ol’ man starts playing fuckin- I mean, freaking ‘Careless Whisper’ and then I make a fool of myself-”

“Mhm.”

“-but she was oh-so-sweet about it. Which makes no sense, how can one be beautiful and sweet? I mean, look at me- I’m a right bastard-”

“Mhm.”

“-not that I’m complaining. And then when we shared the bed, heh, she told me ‘goodnight.’ Can you believe that? Goodnight? Obviously, she’s into me.”

“Mhm.” Five-year-old Itadori Yuji looks up from where he’d been playing with blocks on the archery dojo, “Uncle Kuna, can we go play hide-and-seek now?”

But the older man lets go the taut, tough string of his bow- hitting the bullseye of his target dead-on. “You’re right! She’s totally into me- heh, ten points for Sukuna.” It was already nearing sundown, and he’d been cooped up in the Estate’s dojo for hours after the fiasco that was his wedding night a few days ago. 

Nothing else had occurred between the two of you since. For which he was equally as grateful as he was disappointed - obviously you didn’t want to spook him. And obviously he wanted you.

But it wasn’t his fault he’d been trained in the arts of commandeering rather than communication. 

Which is how he found himself with that lil’ nephew of his as a therapist, shooting away arrows with the specialized bow designed for Sukuna’s four beefy arms, and fourfold strength. As if that would help ease the tension.

The clan leader opens his mouth again and it’s enough to make Itadori throw himself back onto the polished wooden floor. Starting off- “And did I tell you that when she told me ‘goodnight’ it was in a tone of like-”

“Ahem.”

If there was anything that could make big, bad Sukuna quieten down, then it certainly wasn’t his advisors, or his older brother, or anything else but you. 

And all you had to do was clear your throat once to signal your intrusion, having wandered your way through the massively sprawling Estate. You’d somehow led yourself straight to him.

You bow politely, “I hope I’m not disrupting.”

“C-course not.” To your surprise, your husband speaks first. “We were just-”

“Talking about you-” You giggle as Itadori instantly runs to cling onto your arms. Excitedly squealing at a mile a minute, “Uncle Kuna says that- that he has a huuuuge crush on you and-”

“No!” Sukuna interjects in panic- that traitor. 

“And- and he liked the way you say ‘goodnight’ and-” 

“Itadori Yuji, I will pay you to stop talking.” 

You’re watching the situation like a tennis match, and Yuji does stop - for about three seconds, that is. Until his voice drops into a conspiratorially low whisper, hands cupping his mouth- “Did you know he also called an exorcist-”

“What the f- I did not?” Husky bass damn near cracking, he rips the little boy away from you. “Scram, gremlin.”

Pushing at his back to make the toddler waddle away and give the two of you some space, Sukuna hastens to straighten up and puff his chest out. Making sure that the loose fabrics of his training yukata would slip aside to flash you with a sliver of his toned pecs, glistened with a thin layer of sweat. 

And when - only when - he catches your eyes dipping downwards, he clears his throat—smooth, Ryomen Sukuna. You’ve made people disappear, you can do smooth- “H-hi.”

His vocals crack.

Nearly passing out from the shame - but you don’t seem to mind. “Hi to you, too. I see you’re working hard?”

“Yeah- I mean no.” As you raise a brow, “Who needs ta work hard when you’re just good?”

“Is that so?” It’s a blatant brag, but one that didn’t go unsubstantiated. Your eyes drift to the side to where targets had been lined along the distant wall, each of them punctured right through the middle with a sharp arrow. “Oh, that’s impressive. I don’t think I could ever-”

“Would ya like to try?”

You’re nearly as shocked as Sukuna at the words that escape his mouth, before he can mull and chew over them first. But that swiftly melts into a look of eagerness once you nod- being handed his hefty bow.

“It’s heavier than normal.” Before you know it, he’s sidled up behind you. Leaned down so close that his warm breath blankets your neck- pointed chin hitting somewhere by your temple, tense core pushed up against you. 

So close. Easily, two of Sukuna’s hands help you hold the weight of his massive bow, and another two fall down to your waist to guide you. “Easy there, mama.”

“Th-thank you-” You’re find yourself stammering from the pure intimacy. And it was just so unfair how pliable he found you - heart racing, mind spinning at the thought - angling you bodily to face the targets. “So I just pull and release, then?”

“Mhm. You pull reeeal hard.” Deep, throaty. You’re noticing just how warm his hands were when they’re on yours, helping you pull, pull, pull back on the feathery edge. “Breathe in reeeeal slow.” You do, and you feel him match yours. “Position it.”

His honed strength helps you find the target, and his hands- oh, but his hands were nearly making you lose sight of the bullseye. “Aaand-” Two of his rough palms draaaagging down your sides for stability for him to tower over you, and then two more gently rubbing over your hands for reassurance as you- “-shoot.”

Schwing–!

It lands dead-center in the bullseye.

He grins, “Hell yeah.” 

“Yes!” You’re hissing, bow still in your arms as you leap into Sukuna’s. It was a brief embrace, just the quickest few seconds - but your husband nearly melts.

With your face tucked into the crook of his neck- his eyes nearly bulge out of his sockets, four massive palms hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with himself. In a flash, you’re reaching ‘round your body to let him rest them on your back, and he gasps, “O-oh-”

“Oh?” With a slight chuckle, you pull back, and he nearly whines in agony. But this was the Ryomen Sukuna, of course he can hold it back…to merely a slight grunt of pain. “Thank you for teaching me.”

“Thank you for being my wife-”

“Pardon?”

“Nevermind- I uh-” All four palms come up to cover his face in utter horror- it had been going so well if it wasn’t for the clan leader’s big mouth. Everyday was seemingly an unfortunate reminder that he was related to the blabbermouths that were Jin, Yuji, and…

Speaking of, where was Yuji?

Little did he know that a certain pink-haired toddler was holding a certain group of elders hostage behind the screens that led to the dojo’s entrance. Their bodies, formerly leaned over the doorway to spy on the couple, were now crouched on the floor. 

Disappointed- how could their revered clan leader not take the bait? Impotency strikes again.

But, right now, the masterminds were slightly more occupied with something else. Fingers to mouths, voices in whispers- begging the little boy standing in front of them to remain quiet.

But Yuji only smiles, standing proudly in front of them. He whispers, “Do you wanna play hide and seek?”

The council of the greatest minds in the household look at each other, “Uh…no?” Unsure of what else to say to the boy.

Before their ears are pierced by the most noisy child-like shriek of Sukuna’s name—“Uncle Kunaaaaa—it’s the exorcists!”

An arrow shoots their way. And by the way it strikes precisely into the wooden panels between the elders’ heads, precisely where it didn’t harm anything but their motivations, their egos, and perhaps slightly their heart conditions - they’re guessing it was their loving clan leader that shot it.

.

.

.

Sukuna always did hate stuffy clan meetings.

The ones where documents were piled into columns taller than himself, council men and women spoke over each other to try and earn his attention, and he had to act for hours like he actually tolerated the guest invited that day. All in the name of ah- politics, or whatever. 

And today was much the same - except for one shocking, sudden surprise. You. 

You, seated directly opposite him on the large round table now that you were officially part of the clan. You, perfectly positioned for him to take in every pretty inch of you. You, who he’d give anything just to have beside him and chatting his ear off, or helping with his papers.

And, honestly, with a view like that he wouldn’t even complain about being forced to discuss- what was it again-

“The socioeconomic impacts of clan bonding activities and how they-” Choso - who’d recently started attending for education on the clan - drones in such tired monotone, shrugging at their two-toned guest, Zenin Naoya, without looking up from where he was doodling on some contract. “-could really benefit from those.”

“Tch- don’t talk like I didn’t know that, brat.” Sukuna narrows his eyes down at his eldest nephew.

Only to get a withering eyebrow raise in return, “Well, did you?”

“Yes…” No-

And almost as if he could read the pure lie on his uncle’s face, the middle-schooler has the audacity to put his pencil down and grin. More interested in the happenings of the meeting than he had been in four hours now. “Oh really? Well then, dear uncle of mine, would you care to explain to your nephew who comes up with these bonding activities?”

“The fuck do I look like? Stupid? It’s…Jin.” It was a guess, no one else would do something like that. He turns his face away from Choso and towards you. Politely laughing at something that the person next to you had said-

“And why is it important?”

He grumbles, this damn kid. Absent-mindedly- because oh, how was he expected to focus when your lips move to talk so prettily. As if in slow motion, like in those sappy movies Jin loved. “Uh, socio-something or the other-”

“And what do we hope to get out of today?”

“Erm-” Furrowing his brows, laser-focused on wracking his brain when- you turn his way. All you have to do is look at him for Sukuna to blurt- “Six kids, a summer house, and pets of her choice.” 

In stunned silence, Choso only gravely draws a tally count. 

You: 3

Sukuna: -478

“Oi- I’m at least in the double digits-”

“I think you have bigger things to worry about.” He muters, jabbing a pencil in your direction. “Your wife’s about to get stolen.”

And oh.

Ryomen Sukuna didn’t take kindly to snapping his head over and recognizing that slight glint in Naoya’s eyes; the way his mouth curled up meanly, body leaning just a tad closer to yours whenever you pulled back. Not kindly at all. 

Worst of all, he’d just been hit with the realization that it was that rat bastard who’d been making you laugh while he’d been stuck with duties. 

Simply on opposite ends of the room, and yet, it feels like an eternity until the hulking clan leader rises from his seat. Feet pounding their way over to where you were, your eyes raise instantly-

“Oh, there you are.” You start to smile - only for it to falter, coldly, at the shadowed expression on Sukuna’s face. He looked like he’d just seen a raging ghost, and his expression was downturned as such. 

You couldn’t pinpoint whether it had been the stress or the fact that the future heir to the Zenin clan couldn’t take a hint. But you’re trying to soothe him, “You looked quite busy-”

“I was, ah-” He was always weak to anything you said, “-bonding…activities…socioeconomics.”

Sarcastically, “How riveting.”

“No need to worry, I kept her company, though.” An annoying, grating voice bursts through your bubble. And before you can do anything to stop him, Naoya has his arm thrown ‘round the back of your seat. Around the room, one by one, the elders were starting to turn in their own chairs. Discussions dropping to whisper- “And my father always does commend my networking skills, clan leader Sukuna.”

And you think Sukuna might burst. You think he might just rip into him-

But, no. Instead, he breaks out into a smile, “Ah, young master Zenin, huh? Didn’t notice ya there.” A smile that was just slightly jarring, slightly…dangerous. “I see you have met my wife. Quite charming, isn’t she?”

“Yes yes, quite beautiful.” Naoya waves off with a chuckle, elbowing the taller man where he could reach. Huffing, “Though, I must say, it’s quite smart to let the wife inside a clan meeting. Gives you something to look at, at least.”

You seethe, brows furrowing, “Pardon-” But your husband already has a hand signalling you to seat yourself back down comfortably. A commotion was starting to stir by now, and if anyone was going to make a mess of clan politics and reap the consequences, it would be him.

He could and would take the fall for you.

“Young master Naoya.” He declares in a booming voice, “The Itadori clan has decided that we would so ah- love to indulge you in a practical example of our very own bonding activities.”

As you tilt your head in slight confusion - this certainly wasn’t part of the meeting agenda, and the council seemed to notice it, too, Naoya hums. “Oh?”

“Right now. You’re welcome.”

“What? Now? But-” 

As the lanky man scrambles in his seat, Sukuna grasps the very back and topples Naoya right out of it. “No no, let me.” And all it takes is one hand to lift their guest straight into midair and march him out of the room. 

The door slams shut behind the duo.

And you didn’t need to hear the yelps, or the punches, or the begs for mercy to know exactly what your husband had in mind as a ‘bonding activity.’ 

It seemed the member of the Zenin clan would be leaving here bruised for his words, and it seemed that the elders were strangely…excited at the notion? Buzzing impatiently, tittering to each other. 

It only increases twofold as Sukuna re-enters the meeting hall - knuckles suspiciously bruised, and notably without a pompous heir behind him - and you find yourself fighting back a smile. Muttering some half-hearted lecture about treating guests well, which he seems to lap every word of, you end it off by reaching upwards and kissing the side of Sukuna’s cheek. 

Fleeting and innocent.

But the elders gasp-

“Oh my god- oh my god, it’s happening—”

“My money’s on a girl child being the firstborn-”

“-maybe he’s only half-impotent-”

Keen eardrums catching the whispers and congratulations, you only have the time to catch the tips of his cheekbones smearing bright red - before the clan leader stumbles back out of the meeting room.

“Oh, I think I jinxed it-”

Choso, meanwhile, crinkles his nose and reaches for his eraser and pencil once more. 

Sukuna: -477

“Gnarly.”

.

.

.

“Uncle Kuna—-!” It was inevitable that every single person inside of Yuji’s cute lil’ kindergarten would end up knowing when his father wouldn’t be able to pick him up, and his uncle would arrive instead.

For one, it was all he would talk about the day beforehand. And two, they’d all hear his shrill squeal- except, most students and teachers used to this little ritual were probably shocked at the scream that followed after. “Mama—!”

And you were just as caught off-guard. 

Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin fistbump one another. All those lessons, not gone to waste!

“Ah- Yuji?” You’re fighting the way your voice wobbles in surprise, and it felt like a tiny cannonball had been shot at you with the way he runs straight to you. “What did you say, baby?”

Somewhat confused, two large eyes peak up at you. And his voice is tiny, “Mama?”

Ruffling the curly pink locks of Yuji’s hair, you just-so-happen to glance at the boy’s uncle. Your husband. Who was currently steaming from his ears and flushed bright crimson, veins bulging at his forehead, mouth opening and closing stupidly. “I- you- who-”

He was speechless.

Barely even breathing- honestly, you’re hit with the slight urge to reach forwards and feel for Sukuna’s pulse before a calm voice breaks through. “Ah! I see Yuji’s favorite uncle is here today.” A soft, bowl-cut man claps his hands as he walks up. Your eyes drop down to his nametag and read ‘Haibara.’ “And you must be-”

“My wife-” Sukuna spits out, before another word can leave Haibara’s mouth. “My wife, Jin could never pull anyone like-”

“Excuse my husband.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With yourself properly introduced - this time with names - you find yourself laughing along to one of Haibara’s anecdotes of Yuji, something to do with a dare and attempting to eat a terribly finger-shaped stick. He smiles breezily at you and hums, “He’s a good kid, and seems to be very fond of you. You should come visit more often.”

“Well, I hope to.” Grinning right back, you squeeze Yuji’s squirming body as Sukuna takes off his tiny back-pack. And you can’t help but think that it all felt so…domestic. 

Evidently, the cozy atmosphere had been obvious. Haibara ponders out loud, “Forgive me for asking, but do the two of you plan on having children soon? You seem like you’d be wonderful parents.”

Oh, you look at Sukuna. And Sukuna doesn’t meet your eyes, though, with his face turned straight ahead- what you could see was the way the tips of his ears were slowly starting to redden.

It seems like ages, it seems like he was waiting for your answer just as Haibara innocently was. And your mouth opens-

“Mister Haibawa, Yuji’s uncle can’t be a parent, he’s already an exorcist.” What the f—the trio of adults snapped their heads down to see that a black-haired boy - another Zenin, confound it - had just tugged on his teacher’s sweater. Butting into the conversation- Sukuna thinks he could recall this boy’s name, something Gummy? Megumi?

“Oh?” Then it wasn’t an orange-haired girl on his other side, “My mommy says he’s unemployed.”

“That, too.”

Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin facepalm. All those lessons, gone to waste!

“Well I don’t think he can be a parent because he looks stupid.” This time, one burly boy with a buzzcut enters the scene. And he was sparing no punches, both metaphorically and literally - he knocks out a good few backhands against Sukuna’s core. 

“That, too.”

“He doesn’t look stupid, Todo.” His nephew whines at him- that’s his boy! 

Sukuna could almost shed a tear, oh, how proud he was. So proud, in fact, that he’s hoisting the babbling boy over his shoulders without a second thought. 

Maybe Jin hadn’t completely failed as a father, after all. Maybe the boy wasn’t a hopeless case and had actually come to appreciate the strong, kind parental figure that was his uncle- “He just looks sorta stupid when he thinks he’ll embarrass himself in front of his wife. Because he does that a lot. That’s all.”

“Like the time with the exorcist.” Megumi nods, sagely.

“Like the time with the exorcist.” Yuji agrees, smacking the top of Sukuna’s head. 

“There- there was no time with the exorcist.” The clan leader tries to clarify to an extremely confused Haibara. 

And the girl - Nobara, according to the nametag on her glittery back-pack - points up at him, accusing. “I like his hair. He also can’t be a parent because he wears wigs.”

Sukuna growls, “You’re just jealous, bob-cut-”

You furrow your brows, “Do you wear wigs?”

“No.”

Yuji giggles, “Will you wear wigs?”

“No-”

“When will you wear wigs?” 

“Never!” Honestly, children these days. He damn near pounces on Haibara, who’d asked that last question.

Megumi - honestly what was this kid’s problem - seems to pipe up for the sake of piping up, “And he steals candy from babies.”

“That was one time-”

“Hey hey-” Without warning, Todo was tugging on Sukuna’s trousers to gain his attention. Snickering as the older man looks down with the most weary face in existence, “You wanna learn how to actually impress fine shyt?”

“What is…fine sh-”

“That’s enough for today. I think.” Their teacher claps his hands, “And Todo Aoi what have I told you about using certain words? Don’t think I won’t have a talk with your guardian again, young man.” Flustered, he throws an apologetic look your way before corralling his tiny students inside. “Now- inside!”

You can finally breathe a sigh of relief - finally, finally. 

Though, you don’t know what bewilders you more - the fact that they listen, or the fact that Todo was the only one that didn’t. And it was all because of the fact that he had Ryomen Sukuna kneeled down to match his height, mouth snarling, but head nodding intently to whatever Todo was whispering in his ear. You look at Haibara, and he shrugs just as helplessly.

“Umm…mister Haibara?” Another one. The pink-haired man’s soul damn near leaves his body as another teeny, toddling monster starts pulling on the teacher’s sweater. 

Likely expecting an encore of the chaos just prior, his smile stretches thin. “Yes, Toge?” And you, too, start praying that it wasn’t any more love advice, or choice words about Sukuna’s character.

Pale hair cut into severe bangs, the boy mumbles in a small voice, “There’s some old men in the bushes.”

Ryomen Sukuna has never run up to a bush to kick it so fast. 

And, later, with Jin left explaining to the teachers and the elders still walking off their bruises, he found himself walking down a softly sunlit road with you. Yuji now fast asleep on his shoulders, and you by his side.

It was a perfect day. Made only more perfect by the gentle tugging of your husband’s fingers towards yours, in midair. In all his years, it’s perhaps the scariest thing he’s done. They hesitate, and then they reach - the slow curves of his digits gliding down your wrist, before interlocking with yours. Warm. Firm. And yet, softer than his palms have ever felt. 

He thinks he catches you smiling, and Sukuna thinks Todo’s advice might not have been so bad after all. 

And from a nearby bush, Itadori Jin pumps his fist in success. Impotency or not, not a complete waste, then.

.

.

.

One night a week later, the elders decide, push should come to shove.

Literally; cold towels were thrust into your hands before you’d been shoved through the damp wooden gates of the Itadori household’s bathroom. It was the largest one, special in the way a large portion of the room was occupied by a steaming hot spring.

And from your position at the very edge of the humid chamber, you could see the toned shoulders of Ryomen Sukuna. Back turned to the door, just the upper half of his body was peaking out of the water. Glistened with dampness, deltoids flexed as he leans his elbows back against the floor.

You’re semi-glancing behind you at the members of the council that had all but thrown you inside- something about ‘marital bonding.’ Which was really just a way for them to take care of their head’s little ah…rumored problem. 

To them, it was perfect - your gorgeous wife comes up to you in a hot spring and…helps. What more could he want? After all, there’s nothing wrong with impotency - there was just something wrong with their clan leader.

You’re game either way.

And you gently knock against the wall to denote your entrance, before walking up to where Sukuna was gawking from now. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“Helping.” You reply simply, wringing the towels before folding them over his heated forehead. “Do you wish for me to leave-”

“N-no!”

It comes out faster than he’d have liked, more hitched than he would have liked. Honestly, the sentence barely even leaves your lips before Sukuna sits up straighter. Letting sploshes of scalding water drip down his abs, he leans further back against your touch. “I mean- stay.”

“Mhm, I heard you had a long day.”

“The worst, mama.” And part of his response is half-grunted with the way you’ve now situated yourself properly behind him. With your lap now a bed for his damp head, fingers weaving through those coral pink locks. “Had to refurbish the dojo, then take care of the problem with that damn Zenin brat…then donate to Yuji’s…kindergarten, then…promote a few elders… and one I had to…” Heavier and heavier, he was sinking into you with each nimble movement of your fingertips. “-fuck.”

“You fucked an elder before you fucked me?” You raise a brow in humor.

“Huh- no!” He’s growling, steam curling from the water. And as you’d briefly halted your ministrations to tease him, he guides your hands back to move. “I would never…eugh. Shit, can’t even imagine doing somethin’ like that with anyone but you.”

Suddenly, it’s silent. Except for the slow curdle of the water, and the soft grunts that Sukuna was oh-so-desperately trying to bite back. 

Fuck, he was so handsome.

Such naturally chiselled muscles, and dark circular tattoos on just about every joint he had. 

You massage his burning temples, slipping down into the longish length of his hair. “Oh, is that so? And do you imagine it often with me, clan leader Sukuna?”

“Stop being such a fuckin’ tease.” Hissing, Sukuna’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he practically begs. And he looked so pretty when he was begging; brows upturned, mouth unintentionally pouty. “How can I help myself?”

“And am I doing anything to stop that?”

“Yes-” Forgoing the massage, Sukuna now stops your right hand. Holding it tightly as he turns his head and presses a kiss to the tender inside of your wrist, hot with water and his blush. “Just existing is enough.”

“Sukuna…”

Your mouth parts, and it’s like a string being drawn- your lips are on his. It’s messy, with the way he’d angled himself from upside down, tilted up just to sliiide the plushness of his mouth across yours. It’s light, like he was holding himself back.

And you knew what he was capable of.

Which was likely what made you reach for the back of his head, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. Gasping, your mouth just barely parts for his hungry maw to clasp ‘round your sugary tongue. Sucking—before-

Before a button clicks, and suddenly the bathroom walls are trembling with lyrics singing ‘I just had sex—’

You could’ve caught whiplash with how fast you’re both staring at the entrance: meeting with the sight of the several elders, Wasuke, and a ridiculously large boombox. Piled onto an embarrassing heap on the floor, they’d seemingly fallen over- likely from their spying over one corner of the door. 

‘And it felt so good—’

“Wrong one dammit- this is what Wasuke was on music.” You’re catching one of them murmur. Just about the only thing they have time for before scurrying away - leaving the boombox very, very behind. And you don’t have to look behind you to know that Ryomen Sukuna was likely seething enough to make the spring water itself bubble. 

Sukuna growls, “Fucking George Michael.”

“Actually I think that’s Akon.”

Sukuna slams his open palm against the edge of the pool, and you have to open up your palms to stop yourself from being splashed. He murmurs, more to himself, “All because I didn’t wanna fuckin’ scare you- not that they’d-”

“Wait, why’d you think you’d scare me?” You ask in confusion.

To which he looks at you in genuine bewilderment, as if that wasn’t even worthy to be a question. “You’re beautiful.” He states, like there were no truer words. 

Before gesturing at himself- those naturally rosy locks, the four arms, the faint slash across his abs where they said his second mouth was to be. Cursed with strength, cursed with power, cursed with looks that defined him as something more than human. “Look at me- just fuckin’ look at me. And that’s not all- how shall I be expected to live a normal marriage when I’ve been cursed from birth? I only ask for forgiveness that I’d been selfish with my choice of you, my wife-”

“Well, I don’t forgive you.” 

It’s silence, and he looks torn between hanging his head in understanding, and taking your words head on.

“Because I think you’re beautiful, too.” You say it honestly. “My beautiful husband.”

And, for not the last time that night, the big, bad cursed Sukuna blushes.

‘Felt so good~’

.

.

.

“Sh-shit—” Your back arches lewdly, allll the way back until your naked, puffy core could reach as much of Sukuna’s mouth as possible. “Think I like it better when you’re like- ngh, this.”

Just a few minutes and one rapid trip to your bedroom later found you with your previous clothes in a heap across Sukuna’s bedroom floor. Your thighs shakin’, hips bucking wildly as you straddled his mouth—no, not his first. 

You were riding his second mouth.

The wildly monstrous one slashed across the middle of his stomach, large and hungry. He’d gaped it open immediately once you’d clamored up his washboard abs, letting the curled tip of his second tongue slide deftly between your inner thighs.

Playfully flickering in patterns straight up to the target of your cunt-

“Haaah, so you’ve decided you like- mmm, this mouth more than me?” One of his four hands teasingly dips downwards to grace your pussy with a solid spank. 

So loud, so wet that it makes his cursed mouth lick its lips in greed. “Really not gonna talk t’me now then? Not even through these lips?” Another one. And it’s letting off the rawest slurp that muffles your own squeal- “Though, I think she disagrees, huh, baby?”

Through gritted teeth, you somehow manage to force out, “Shut up-”

“Alright alriiiight.” Sukuna trails off, seemingly back to focusing on the ministrations of his tongue. 

Your eyes are dangerously on the verge of criss-crossing as he glissades it up every bead of slick escaping you. Laid flat n’ draaaaagging across every inch of skin he could reach, the flexible tip of his tastebuds were just barely touching your treacly folds when-

Spank!

Even harder this time. And your mind whirls stupidly at the stinging sensation that just felt so good- “N-ngh, fuck–”

You were bending so cutely on top of him, and Sukuna can’t help but lean his hulking figure further down the king-sized mattress. “Atta girl.” Bucking up so that you’re fully seated on top of his second mouth now, slick dribbling all down his obliques, his cursed tongue glued to your clit. 

Sticking between your folds, his pinkish tastebuds rover ‘round and ‘round that fat nub where you were most sensitive. Just barely gurgling out, “And here I th-thought you were shy-” 

“And here I thought you were dumbified, hmpf.” With a roll of his eyes, your husband chuckles. “Guess not yet.”

It was as much a warning as he would give you - and it wasn’t a warning at all.

Before the fat girth of his finger is rudely pryin’ apart your pussylips and shoving the first few inches inside. Until you’re being spearheaded by him, he’s trying to scope every inch of you. He’s trying to snake his muscle in until he’s probed into every nook n’ cranny.

“F-fuuuuuck—” Sukuna groans out, watching through half-lidded peripherals at the way your tight hole was trying to suck him up. So thick, he can count every throb of your walls around him, one-two-three-four- “Are we sure yer not dumbified- hah, already? Look how fucking wet ya are, mama.”

“N-ngh, Kuna—”

Your whines are botched with pants, after each time his finger is swabbing its way inside. Fitting in two- moving in the slightest half-ruts just to fit inside- again. And again and again.

Each passing second had him probin’ into a new corner of your pussy - and yet, it still wasn’t enough for the clan leader. Which is why Sukuna finds his tongue slithering back and forth your folds, pushing them apart until he was given a front row seat to your depravity. “See? A damn- fuck- waterpark. Are ya always like this or m’I just special, huh?”

“You’re not gonna be special if you- mmpf, talk so- ngh, much-” The stretch is so incredible that you’re forced to bite down on the gummy insides of your cheek. A necessity if you didn’t want to wake the entire house up tonight.

But Sukuna had other plans.

Rose brows raising in slight surprise, “Ohhhh? That good, huh?” The edges of his sleazy grin twitch once he’s tuggin’ on your dripping wet entrance even further, pumping in the expanse of a third lengthy finger. “M’just gonna take that as a sign m’special~”

“Kuna-”

Oh, you were just so pretty huffin’ and puffin’ atop him like this. It’s enough to make his second mouth slobber with greed, edging dangerously towards the circle of your stuffed hole. “Alright alriiight. Brace yourself, baby.”

“Brace m- wha- oh.”

Before you know it, his fat fingerpads are pushed oh-so-deeply inside. So deep that you think he’s filling out every drivelling orifice, pumping furiously. 

Sukuna fucks you with his fingers like he’s trying to make you remember. Like he’s trying to hook into all of your sweetest spots, the ridges of his joints brush up slightly against your g-spot. You mewl, “It’s so- oh, I’ve never felt so full-”

“Yeahhhh- those fingers of yours can’t do this, huh? Poor thing.” Fauxly cooing, he’s rovering you so open. Your husband’s fingers were so big that he didn’t even have to try to leave you trembling- to leave you whimpering as he pulls out in a quick split-second.

Wordlessly despite your disappointed cries, you crack your teary eyelids open to find that Sukuna was slipping off the silver metal wedding ring off of one of his left hands. And pushing it down onto his slick-glazed right hand- before thoroughly thrusting. “S’gonna be a stretch- gonna be a biiig stretch. You can take it, mama.”

“C-can I?” Your thighs twitch stupidly at the frigid feeling of his ring scraping your soft insides. 

This way, you could pinpoint the exact way he was moving inside of you: in and out in and out, curling to hit your g-spot. 

And Sukuna can tell the exact moment his stirrin’ fingers target your most sensitive spot- because you’re panting, you’re bucking. You’re throwing your head back once he plunges his slick-glazed fingers out to do it all over again and again, until his knuckles hit your pussylips raw. “Hell yeah, ya can. How’re you gonna, mmm, take all of me if you can’t even- oh, take these, hm?”

You’re pouting, “I-I can…”

“What’s that?”

In an effort to prove it to him, you bounce your hips right back into his sloppy cadence. “I can-” And it only makes your cunt squelch even louder the closer you are to his slippery tongue. 

“You can?”

“Y-”

His hips jerk upwards roughly, grazing that ridged texture of his tastebuds from the very bottom of your pussy, up, up, up to the tip of your slope. And it’s loud. “You can?” Your heart races, it’s only then that you realize he wasn’t talking to you - he was talking to your other pair of lips. “Then take it- take- ngh.”

Harder and harder. His probin’ mess was reaching a fever point and you’re rubbing yourself pathetically on the prolonged muscle of his tongue. 

And the more ravenous his cursed mouth became - edging his globular tip nearer n’ nearer to your stretched-out hole - the more ruined he was becoming. Bucking himself up animalistically, two hands of his control the grindin’ of your hips- manhandling you down just enough so that the wetness of your cunt just barely touches his rock-hard cocks. 

“F-fuck!” You’re whining at the feeling of two thick mushroomy tips touching your skin. 

And Sukuna doesn’t touch himself- no matter how many hands he has. Having you on top of him like this would be a sure-fire way to cream himself in his pants before he even started. His pretty lips wobbling, eyes scrunching closer the harder his aching erections throbbed. 

He was so sexy. And you can’t stop yourself from staring- something he notices even when he’s in this state. “Wh-what?” Flinching at the sheer intensity, “The fuck are ya looking at, huh?”

“I’m just th-thinking…” And you have to stop yourself from moaning as he pulls out his plump fingers in punishment. They were glistening, dripping with so much of your juicy sap that Sukuna sucks clean in front of you. 

Before slipping back in—“That I’d- oh- love to make you, mmm, shut up.”

Rolling his crimson eyes, “Oh, you’d love to make me shut up, huh?” And he was so smug. So sure of himself…until the leader catches onto the way you’d been rutting against his second mouth. Riding. And, slowly, those hazy peripherals of his widen- “Fuck…don’t tell me-”

You only nod.

“-you seriously wanna be fucked by my cursed mouth?”

Nodding drunkenly again-

“O-oh.” His head falls back into the satin pillows as you’re slipping it in, the slimy tendril of his tongue finally scouring into where he’d wanted to for so long now. 

It feels incredible. 

Finally hooking ‘round your tight entrance to push in, in, in—he’s just so big that once Sukuna’s unfurling his greedy tongue, it feels damn near never-ending. And you felt so tight pulsing around him, squeezing him inside once, twice, thrice. “Ya- ya really are gonna be the death of me- fuck!”

You start to ride him and it makes the big, bad Ryomen Sukuna mooooan, twitching his way inside of you. Since you were already softened up by his fingers, it was easy work for him to pull out and immediately replace himself with those rude tastebuds of his. 

Straightened out so he can probe around your walls, the length of his cursed tongue was pumping n’ pumping.

You’d never felt anything like this before. And you swear you see the mouth on his belly chuckle darkly as he fucks you like he would with his cocks. Salivating. Sploshing your poor insides until you have him memorized. 

Sukuna’s tongue swerves along your walls until he brushes the very back of your cervix, softly mushing it in. Again. And again. And again—“Fuh-fuuuuck—” You’re gurgling out, wet wads of saliva dribbling down each side of your lips. “Who’s the one dumbified now?”

“Wh-what- ngh-” His eardrums were popped from the pure pressure, barely able to make out your words.

And through the constant rams of his tongue, you manage to string together- “I-I said, who’s the- oh, dumbified one n- oh!”

“You.” In that very moment, he has his bumpy tastebuds glued to your g-spot, his hips arching right off the tense bedsprings, core tensed. Sukuna slashes his cursed mouth into your favorite area and grooooans, “Still you.”

Mouth prattling nonsensically, “Th-that’s cheating-”

“Nuh uh.”

He squeezes your perked clit with the tips of his rude fingers, still with the ring on one of them. And the backs of your eyes explode with white-hot pleasure at the dual pleasure - his tongue fucking you ferally, his digits teasing your clit. “Yes it is- hngh, because it’s gonna make me…”

Cum.

You were so close, you could feel it in each swab of his tongue. Gaped open even wider for the most maximum movements, each thrash is angled just right against your g-spot.

Just right to stretch out your glistening walls until they’re taking the shape of him. And he hums, “Yeahhhhh— all over.” Your clingy slick is drenching his abs by now, like a waterfall that he’s scooping up with a fourth hand. 

One on your clit, two on your hips to move you pliably up n’ down his length, and his final one getting absolutely soaked. Sukuna brings them up to his primary mouth to suck off the layers of candied slick, smearing it all over his lips like some delicacy. “Yeah, allll over now, mama. Make a hah- mess of me.”

Your jaw unfastens as you watch him clean himself off, every single drop. “Oh my…hngh.”

“What? Mmm, jealous?” Ruder, harder. It was just so sloppy how his mouth rovered all over your cunt, slippin’ and slidin’ back and forth at a constant pace. “Maybe if you were, hah, patient, you could’ve gotten that.”

“As if I’d want that…” You’re huffing, stubborn.

“My wife, you’re just- about- to cum- on me.” The space between each word is slashed with a push of his rovering fat tip, and a thorough squeeze on your clit.

To which you’re shooting back- “And you were about to cum- ngh, untouched.”

And you think he’ll tease you back. You think he’ll bully you until you’re driven mad - but Ryomen Sukuna was moaning in agreement.

Speeding up the pace of his velvety tongue, he’s slithering it with a deep bash against your g-spot. Grunting, “Can you blame me?” Harder. Something at the back of his throat cracks. He begs, “Such a pretty, oh, fuckin’ wife like you and- and I’m expected to stay calm?”

Hiccuping, “I- I don’t- Kuna, I’m not gonna last-”

Faster. “M’expected not to get pussydrunk? Expected to not fucking- lose it. F-fuck-” Sloppier. 

And you don’t get to hear what the tail end of his sentence might have been. Because with a few more vulgar strokes, you’re breaking apart—cumming. 

Lids cracking with tears, lips wobbling out whines.

His name, over and over again. Your cute noises are so loud that he has half the mind to wonder whether those damn elders will hear, “Cum—ing-” You announce, belatedly. Body shaking with each peak of your high, “Feels so- so good, oh.”

“Does it, now?” He babbles away, drunk on your honeyed pussy. The sheer primal clench of your walls almost made it hard for him to fuck you through your wave of bliss. “Good- good, atta girl, cream all down my t-tongue now.”

The curvaceous tip of his tongue was constantly pricking your g-spot, and it only drags out your orgasm even further. Until you were nothing but a sobbing mess, “Am- oh, I am.”

“Mhmmm— go ahead.” Your thighs twitch, head dropping backwards as the last few dredges of your high are pounded away. “Go ahead- take it. Take it all out on me.” With a few twinges of electricity that zap down your spine, you can finally manage to crack open your eyes. 

But you notice that just as you’ve reached your high, Sukuna did, too. 

Or, at least, he was trying oh-so-desperately not to.

As your pace lazes, his two hands on your waist glide down to his plump, aching erections. Both sets of thumbs rover on top of his leaking orifices, squeezing just so he won’t leak out in cum. Stopping himself from cumming untouched. 

And that makes you huff, “Kuna…” Your newfound nickname for him makes him flush, and you instantly swat away his hands. “Want it now.”

“Cheh-” Those hazy, blood-red eyes of his narrow, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the tight snap of his underwear being pulled. “What a spoiled lil’ wife…”

But that wouldn’t stop him from indulging you, of course.

Sukuna breathes in heavy puffs, and you barely even have the time to catch yours before he’s immediately clawing onto the right side of your ass cheek with one hand.

Usin’ that sinful leverage to manhandle you straight down onto one of his plush tips, the thick circumference of his shaft throbs against your hole and you moan. Head snapping down- “Fuck.”

Oh, fuck.

He was so…big.

And that was being humble- you’d come to learn that not only was Sukuna gifted with extra height and limbs, he was gifted with extra size too. 

Two fat, veiny lengths laid between two meaty thighs, they were colored the prettiest tan flush on their tips. Dribbling down heaps of precum that puddled between the two of you. By now, the curly pink hairs at the bottom of his bases were already drenched, and his ballsack was so tight with need. 

 Sukuna was so hard that every throb was visible. So big that it made your thighs squeeze together.

Mentally, you’re calculating just how it might be possible for him to fit inside you. Before his rough tone cuts off your thoughts, “Ah ah- we can count together, mama. Say it w’me now-” 

“Wha- one!” Almost laughable, he’s then bullying in just the thickened front of one cock. They were stacked vertically, and as you get pierced by the lower one, his upper one was rubbin’ primally on your front. 

Sukuna’s mean fingers draw an invisible line from up your treacly slit, measuring. “Mmm- s’more like two inches.”

“Two-” You blabber, “Then how much more-”

“Guess we’ll just have to find out, heh~”

And he meant it.

Before long, Sukuna was fucking up into you furiously. Ferally. Thrust after half-thrusts just to fit his incredible size inside, “Tha’s about four…mmm, more three.” He’s drunk on your pussy, counting away how many solid, sopping inches managed to be squeezed in each time. In a split-second, your poor pussy’s being spanked. “You too, baby.”

“It’s just so- ngh—” Your head throws back for the nth time tonight, singing in synchronization with the creaks of the bed. 

It’s like he was jackhammerin’ you, mazing your slick-filled insides with the globe of his cockhead. Sukuna was so long that it was easy to massage your every sweet spot- again and again. “Whaaaat? Can’t take it? Fuck, wee’re only about-” On your tummy, he measures out how far he’d slid inside by now. “S-six inches, still. About halfway?”

Your eyes bulge—halfway?

It’s a shock so large that the rest of your body loosens up, weakened. Just perfect for him to grab onto your hips, your thighs, one hand on your neck to jostle your cute body up n’ down his cock.

“S’it too much for my, mmm, good wife?” Mercilessly, he’s spitting between your ajar mouth. “Took my tongue but you can’t even take one of my cocks- aw, c’mon now, mama.”

“I-I-”

“I-I-I- whaaaat?” Octaves higher. Your husband leans in until his heated breath burns the shell of your ear, whispering, “Gonna hafta speak up, y’know? Unless ya want me to- fuck- it out- of you-”

And you always did surprise him. Because where the head of the Itadori clan expected to be met with a few sobs, a few pleas, you’re only straddling his toned hips tighter. 

Swervin’ your hips down in a dizzying figure-eight to help him stuff your cunt full of him. And even though it still wasn’t enough to bottom out completely, you look up at him through teary lashes. “I want both, Kuna.”

Sukuna’s pink lashes flutter, his breath catches. “Wh-what?” And he stutters. Oh, you’d made him stutter - just as nervous and awestruck as he was on your wedding night.

“Both.” You can only repeat the word.

Because at that very second– before your response has even graced his very ears, he’s rutting up into you like an animal. Like a dog in heat, Sukuna’s crushing your front to his abs and his cocks to your cunt.

Pap!

“Fuck…” He hisses at the sting of flesh slamming on flesh, “Eleven. What was that?”

And you’re being dumbified by the sheer stretch, not only had he started kissin’ your puckered pussylips with his second cock - he was starting to press inside. No hesitation, no waiting around for you to get used to the stretch. Sukuna was hungry. 

You somehow choke through wads of your own spit, “More- both- oh fuck!”

“What? S-say it again-” He’s like a broken record at this point, and so were his plunging cocks. Deeper n’ deeper. Your drivelling entrance was now stretched out so widely over the circumferences of his bases, sobbing just as much as you were. 

“Bo-”

“Twelve- again.”

It was a damn wonder that he could still spit out coherent words. Stammering. Heaving.

The hand of Sukuna’s that’d been caressing your front was now slithering down to cup both his shafts. Guiding them upwards to press in—“Gonna have ya take it a-all until here-” You snap your head down to see what he was talking about - only to catch a lil’ you’d missed in your observations of his size before. 

Those two ring tattoos at the base ends of his cocks.

The sight itself is so lecherous that it has you moaning- “Oh, yes- both.”

“Yeah? So sit pretty and take it, baby.” They were glistening with your sultry sap, nearly kissing your folds by now. “Allll the way until m’tattoos- got it, girl? Alllll the way until…” Stupidly, you’re nodding. And he can only breathe through clenched teeth, “Fuh-fuck! Thirteen.”

Thirteen.

Thirteen entire inches - each.

You’d finally reached the tattoos. And they were stuffed pretty n’ puffily inside you. Throb-throb-throbbing away against your every tiny orifice, Sukuna didn’t even have to try to mold your gooey cunt to him. 

As you open your mouth to demand him to move, he plunges in two of his thick fingers. Messily dragging himself towards the back of your throat, “Tch- such a dangerous fuckin’ mouth. M’gonna hafta fuck that outta ya.”

You’re whimpering, your jaw dangling agape perfectly for him to spit inside. And then his second mouth—targetting your pussy with a thick glue of spittle.

At least he was nice enough to give you an actual semi-warning this time.

Because before long, two hands are clawing at your sides. Pinning you down so that his two shafts can prick your cervix neatly, bottomed out and yet still trying to go deeper.

When he finds that futile, Sukuna bodily bounces you up n’ down his upright erections. “Oh my god- o-oh my god.” One of his angular shafts was bashing in your sponged cervix, and the other was just below n’ cutely rubbing on your g-spot. “Fuck it just feels so- good!”

“Aaaaatta girl, enjoy it.” With a hand on your throat, he bends you back into an arch. 

The pressure is almost too much - so much. You find your body naturally torn between running away and yearning for more, more, more. Though, luckily, the clan leader’s there to help you make that decision. “Nuh uh, no runnin’, baby. Put your back into it- taaaake it, you see how much she likes it?”

“Can- can hear-”

“Mhm—”

And truly, your overfilling pussy was so loud. Every splatter of precum inside you made the most primal squelches- and the volume? 

The sheer sploshes of his gooey translucent sap was enough to bloat your pussy. But now with two plump, vein-covered cocks of his probin’ your innards, he was fucking a tummy bulge into you. You gasp at the feeling, “I d-didn’t even know that was- hck! possible-”

“Heh, course it is—And y’know how to make that cute lil’ tummy bulge of yours even bigger?” Sukuna beckons you closer, like he’s about to tell you a secret.

Even though, really, he’s manhandling you like a ragdoll. Reeling you in until his scorched hot lips were grazing your own, murmuring. “I just…hafta…fuck a baby into you, my wife.”

Almost on cue - like a little preparation - both of his strawberry-red divots stream out a few beads of precum. Splattered against your walls, they drip n’ cream down the sides of your pussy and make you see stars. “I would like that- oh, I would- I would like that.”

“Mmm— and what about you?”

Evidently, your needy cunt’s in agreement, too. Because the wettest noises suddenly let off from between your legs- and only later do you realize that it wasn’t just because of how damp your pussy was. No, it was because of his second mouth.

Tonguing down the shimmery sheen of slick upon each of your thighs, he licks up every drop of juice you were leaking. Flicking the curly end of his tongue at your clit-

“Ah ah- focus on me.” Sukuna snaps you out of your high with a light spank on your slope, and a literal click of his fingers. 

“B-but how can I when it feels so goood—”

“So goooood, huh?” He drags it out purposefully, pressing his thumping veins against the roof of your channel. 

Sukuna knew the effect he had on you. He knew how to target your favorite spot in strikes so precise that it left your toes curling, vision flashing with white. “Tell me-” Right now, he had one hand smearing apart your folds to better let his tongue slip between them. Another two hands clung onto your waist to help you move, and the fourth and final was grabbing your face. Pushing your cheeks together pathetically, “Can’t focus? Awww, my poor wife. Are that- oh, useless at focusing on anything that isn’t my two c-cocks right now?”

“N-ngh, Kuna—” Cute. How cute. Your dilated pupils were swirlin’ in circles inside the whites of your eyes, comically pounded stupid after each stroke upon stroke.

“S’that the case, huh? Is that why my mouthy girl is so- oh, fuck- quiet now?” He’s almost snickering- it’s so ruthless. 

Heavy hips pressuring up into you. He was pounding you in rough thrusts, all the way from the mazing curve of his cockheads to those tickling tufts of pink at his very bottom. And Sukuna has the audacity to spit—“Fuck, mama. Do you even know your name right now?”

Your brain was too hazy, merely sparking with twitches of pleasure. You’re left blubbering nonsensically for a few seconds, until his tongue slaps your buttony clit. Startling you into answering, “I-I…”

“Heh, do you even know mine?”

“K-Kuna—” You might not remember your own name by now, but screaming Sukuna’s over n’ over had permanently branded his into your mind. 

And so you look up at your husband’s handsome, leering features for any recognition. Only to find him tutting, “Now now, how disa- oh, disappointing. I thought you’d most importantly know who I am, at least.”

“Then…clan leader?”

“Nuh uh.”

Pouting, “B-but ”

“B-b-b-but-” He’s mocking, buttery tongue now rubbin’ your nub raw. You felt overstimulated enough to press your chin between his puffy pecs, like cushions. Sheening out drool all over his skin- “Say my title before you cum, baby.” You listen with bated breath, “M’your husband. And m’always gonna be your husband.”

“M-my husband?” Your mouth drops - and you’re unsure whether it’s because of his words, or the sudden increase of his tempo. Hot and hard.

His twin, rock-hard crowns plummet all the way until you swear you can feel him poke your lungs. Throbbing at a thunderous staccato, he breathes—“Gonna be your husband that fucks you like th-thiiiis—” Punctuated by a few sloppy drags of his vein-decorated lengths, “Gonna be your husband that eats you out like m’starved.” A few hearts that he’s drawin’ on your clit with his extra prolonged tongue.

“Fuck- fuck I’m gonna—”

As your sobs break off, his roughened hand dips from your throat to the slick n’ precum dripping down your thighs. And you faintly notice the way he’s using the moisture to write out his own name—

Ryomen Sukuna. 

Signed off with a little heart on your skin, “And m’gonna be your husband that…” And a second heart right above where your womb was, where he was jackhammering into your womb like no other. Flooding it with copious knots of cum like he was practising for something else soon. 

Sukuna leans down sweetly so that his lips trace your earlobe, whispering. “-breeds this pretty pussy alllll full.” Tapping the front of your pussy, like he was just imagining it.

And that does it for you. That does it.

Before long your head falls into the crook of his neck with a dull thud, so utterly dumbified on your sudden orgasm that you can only blabber. “Kuna- Kuna—!” 

Your thighs were shaking, cunt fluttering with each spasm of pleasure.

And if Sukuna was going to fuck you through your high, he was going to fuck you through your high. Every probe of his rovering cocks increased your bliss tenfold, exact hits to your g-spot. 

Sobbing, “Please-” You can only hold onto his flexed, tattooed deltoids for dear life. Clawing down his skin due to the constant stimulation, you bow your spine backwards and meet his ferocious thrusts. Riding out the euphoria- spark after spark that made your toes curl.

Grunting, he just felt so used right now. And he loved it. “Yes yes yes- let this entire house know. Let that whole council ngh- hear how good of a husband I am to you.”

It lasts until you’re gurgling on your own whines, zaps of electricity still shooting from your cunt. “Let them-” And Sukuna dares to smush your tear-wettened cheeks together to coo, “Fuck, what’s that–? What’s that pretty mouth hafta- hngh, say t’me?”

And you somehow manage out, “I-inside.” A shaky hand of yours snakes down to part your pussylips wider, helping his roverin’ tongue. “My husband…”

Ryomen Sukuna’s eyes widen, his kiss-bitten lips part.

You could almost hear the deep, trembling gasp that he’s inhaling. Letting out only five words—“I l-love you, my wife.”

You aren’t granted the time to formulate a response- before his thick, battered cockheads start spilling out. Flooding your cunt in mere seconds, you’re just dripping down your thighs in thick clumps of his seed.

And his cursed mouth is more than happy to indulge in all the miry ribbons of sap, lickin’ all upwards until a thin, ivory gloss coats its lips. Sukuna looks down and groans, “Oh fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck fuck-”

His flush was scorching, face scrunched in pleasure. You’re purring, “You’re so pretty, baby—”

“Ah, m’so glad I married ya.” He can’t stop the lil’ confession that leaves his mouth. Heart too full- your cunt too full. And if you saw one of the strongest, most vicious clan leaders in existence smile through a fiery blush n’ his pussydrunk tears, then you mercifully don’t comment.

“M’glad I married you too, Kuna—” 

And you’d felt nothing like this before. Having his gluey cum splosh around inside of you, both of his lengths were shoved in so deeply that they were constantly coating your cervix in white. Your womb.

Your deepest orifices that leak out as Sukuna plants a hand on your tummy and presses, watching with bated breath as his seed gushes out of you like a waterfall. “Fuck- didn’t think it would be like th-this, ngh.” He was hypnotized, making an even bigger mess of you. “Didn’t think that it would be s-so…” Addictive.

He doesn’t finish his sentence. For now.

Red eyes teary, Adam’s apple gulping. You’d completely sucked him dry by the time that Sukuna was pulling out of you. The matching mushroom tips of his shafts twitching, reddened and sensitive. 

He hisses as they bob in the air for a few seconds, before-

“Kuna- oh, fuck.”

Before you were flipped over and pressed deep into the mattress. Your legs on his shoulders, your knees near your tits—and his mouth over your overstimulated cunt. 

Letting you cream all down his chin, Sukuna has to swat away his cursed mouth just to get a taste of you himself. And the moment his plush lips touch your glazed folds- you’re trying to run away. Failing. 

“Now now, my wife.” Being draaaaagged back down by all four of his big, beefy arms. Sukuna pecks exactly six open-mouthed kisses on your sloppy hole, his lengthy pinkish tongue coming out to sluuurp—“I remember something about…six heirs?”

Oh. 

.

.

.

“Y’know, there’s really nothing wrong with impotency.”

Wasuke grunts, a few elders nod. “Agreed.”

“But maybe he’s taken a vow of celibacy-”

“Maybe his dicks fell off.”

“Choso Kamo!” It was never too early in the morning for Itadori Jin to squawk at his sons, especially when they were in the middle of what was undoubtedly an exceptionally important subject of conversation - the two of you. 

He wags his butter knife like a weapon, “We do not say those words in front of Yuji, and especially not in front of our toast.” Before reality sets in and he drags a hand down his face, “But yes…that is possible…”

Wasuke deems it to be the perfect time to chime in, “Bah! I don’t care if they fell off or if they multiplied- I just want grandkids.”

“Father, might I remind you that it was you who decided to interrupt their little moment last night?” A vein pops out beside Jin’s temple, and in his periphery can see the other guilty elders shift in their seats. 

The old man does, too, but still in denial. “Slander! That is propaganda that I will not be falling for-”

“Father, we have multiple eye witnesses. I am an eye witness.”

“And what were you doing spying with us?”

“…”

As Itadori Wasuke rests his case, the winding table falls into perhaps the first quiet of the morning. Somewhat tense. Somewhat anticipating. That is, until an oblivious Yuji nearly upturns his bowl of cereal to chime in—“Exorcist-”

“What? Choso, did you let him watch your-” Jin starts- and then stops. Because then he’s seeing exactly what his youngest son was looking at - you and Sukuna.

Well, more like you in Sukuna’s arms. It seemed that you were having some trouble waddling down the Estate’s multiple flights of stairs, painstakingly taking it one at a time to enter the dining room. And he has half the mind to nearly ask what’s wrong, perhaps even get up and help you himself- until he sees it.

Oh, it was hard to miss.

He sees it, and so does everyone else within a five mile radius: the bite marks, the bruises, the slight weariness in both your eyes from lack of sleep. It almost looked as if you two had been thrown to the wolves.

And his younger brother often did forgo a shirt for breakfast, but now he’d haphazardly thrown on a yukata. One that showed off such feral scratches disappearing down his back, his neck, fuck- maybe even his thighs?

Jin drops his butter knife, Choso exits the table, and Wasuke…was he even breathing? Hell, Jin was sure that a few of the surrounding elders had honest-to-heavens fainted right then and there.

Nearly everyone knew what happened.

Except for a beaming Itadori who was the first to gain your dual attentions, squealing out a “G’morning–!” that you both reciprocate in hushed, hoarse voices. Fuck, he even swears he heard Sukuna’s gruff baritone crack.

No one comments, of course, for the dark glint in their clan leader’s eyes promised sure death if they did. Though, Jin does roll his eyes at a few of the whispering council members—

“What a glorious, wonderful day it is. I truly do believe in miracles-”

“My bets are on a girl- but a boy would also be-”

“Akon worked?”

He doesn’t think he can judge, though. Not when he’s immediately pulling out his phone to text Yuji’s teacher, Haibara, about the salacious new updates. Ah, can you blame him? You two would make the prettiest lil’ babies. 

Finally, you and Sukuna finally take your seats at the clan table. Grinning. And by the looks on your faces, Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t impotent. Not at all. 

Though, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

The Itadori family sips their tea.

A/N. *Also sips tea* Hope you have a lovely week!

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.

.

“Fuck-” Geto sighs between his clenched teeth, one hand gripping onto his scribbled sheets. The other runs through his hair until it’s all unruly. A few bystanders swoon- it almost makes him feel better. 

He’s pacing through the corridors of campus, solely because his bandmates had banned him from pacing inside the practice room. Long legs taking about five normal steps a stride, he absentmindedly nods at all the starstruck passerbys, the fans. 

Being in the midst of writing a new song usually does get him this way - for about a day. Two days. Maximum. 

But it’s been weeks and he hasn’t been able to jot even a single verse down, hasn’t scrambled together anything for the upcoming gig. Gojo said it was alright - that they could scrounge up something off the old EP - but Geto knew it rested on him, as lead guitarist, and vocalist. 

Imagine, an opening act with no fresh songs. 

If only he could just write—but what about? Heartbreak? Love? He’d rather write about Yaga.

“Fuck!” He spits again- just in time with your very own startled profanity. A pretty voice. 

A cute bump! before the two of you stumble backwards, colliding into each other. A plumage of papers burst into the air, and start showering the smooth tile below. Geto’s down at the mess and internally groaning; all those half-written, mostly-crossed songs mixed in with what looked like your lecture notes. Perfect.

Without looking up, he’s bending down to rifle through them, when-

“Oh, you’re in a band?”

“Yes?” Geto snaps his head up, somewhat shocked that you’re speaking to him, even though he knows he shouldn’t be. And then Geto Suguru - campus heartthrob, gets a laundry list of numbers after every concert, the untouchable - catches a glimpse of you and just…stares.

With his raven brows slightly raised, and the shapely curve of his mouth parting. Ever-so-slightly. 

“Hi.”

You have to fight back a smile, “Hi.” Was that seriously the red tint of a blush crawling across his handsome cheekbones?

Oh, he can’t stop staring.

It’s long enough that you’re clearing your throat, dropping your gaze as you pick up your own papers. “I should have probably started off with that. Sorry I uh- I just see you’ve been writing songs.”

“Trying to,” he huffs. Half-joking. 

And then the intricate metal of his ring brushes your own fingertips as you hand him one of his sheets; less song lyrics and more ugly caricatures of Nanami. He lingers the touch. It’s electric. 

It makes the forefront of his fingers twitch. Almost jolt. And they itch towards you as if trying to prolong the skin-to-skin contact, as if trying to hold onto a pen. 

It suddenly hits Geto - he needs to write. 

“Hey uh- do you have a- thank you.” His voice trails off as you catch his drift and quickly hand him a pen, Geto then rapidfire scrawls down a few words. Phrases. Not even entire sentences, just an explosion of feelings that pulsed like the thumping of his own heart. 

And then someone calls out his name - perhaps in greeting, perhaps in a yell to move off of the middle of the hallway - and his hand stops writing. Fuck- what was that? He looks at you again, and hands you back the pen, “I promise I’m not usually this unsmooth.” Holding out his hand for a handshake, your palm fits in his and he hears nothing but melodies in his head. “The name’s Geto, Geto Suguru. But you can call me Suguru, all my friends do. I’m in the band ‘Sorcerers.’”

You’re introducing yourself with your own name and he almost has the urge to write that down, too. Humming, “It’s alright, band stuff, I assume?”

“Band stuff.” You were walking with him now, side-by-side.

“Keyboard?”

“Guitar.” It made sense - the tattoos that crept all over his strong, beefy arms, those twinkling piercings. What didn’t make sense was just why he felt the need to show it all off for you; like the minutes before a big concert, his fingers trembled. But he grins, and it’s something devilish. “And vocals.”

Walking backwards now so that your gorgeous, gorgeous face can face him. You slow down your walk and he’s realizing that you’ve arrived at your class. 

He’s realizing that he just might not see you again.

And he wanted to see more of you.

A lot more of you. 

A few of your classmates throw the two of you looks as they pass, walking inside the class. Geto was a bit of a campus legend; and for as popular as he was, seeing him talk to someone outside of his band - especially during his song-writing blues - was rare. Exceptionally rare. 

So he bites the inside of his cheek, “Actually…you think you’d wanna see it in person sometime? Like—tonight?”

“Oh?”

.

.

.

“Man, a grown-ass man should not be giggling like that.”

“I would hate to remind you that you do nothing but giggle.”

“I’m just special like that, Nanamin~” Gojo winks at the blond-haired drummer, who makes to throw down his drumsticks before paying attention to the concert setlist instead. Anything but him.

Unfortunately, Gojo does not have that willpower and was entirely too invested in whatever had his best friend acting like a middle-schooler with a crush. Bright-eyed. Flush-faced. Glued to his phone since before rehearsal started. Skipping around the corners of the practise room—skipping, he swears.

He throws a wadded up ball of paper - yet another one of Geto’s failed lyrical attempts - at the back of his head. It hits. And he doesn’t even notice. 

Shoko herself looks up from her phone, “But in all honesty, what is up with you today?” 

“Did a new type of guitar drop or—” Gojo grumbles from his other guitar station, looking above the metal rim of his glasses. Yes, the ones he wore indoors. 

Geto pulls himself away from his glaring screen with a low, mindless, “Huh?”

“For fuck’s sake what’s got you so-”

“Hi, sorry- I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Just then, you walk in. Door opening; there’s no way you could’ve gotten in without invitation. And there’s no way you weren’t invited by Geto.

Because, immediately, your eyes meet his deep, amethyst ones. Like two ships at sail, you’re beaming a smile at all of them - but the brightest one for him. Going to stand at his side as he plunges his phone back in his trousers. And then he gets it.

Oh, they get it.

Nanami blinks.

Haibara waves.

Shoko takes a picture (with flash, of course.)

Gojo whistles.

And then Gojo promptly gets smacked upside the head - by two different hands, two different people. Geto makes a note of wiping off his palm before introducing the rotation of amateur musicians and visitors to each other. 

“Now what she’s really here for isn’t your dumbasses.” He’s rolling his eyes, pulling on the lightning purple guitar of his. “It’s for the music-” He tilts his head with a smile, “-and me.”

You were here for a few demonstrations, after bumping into Geto and exchanging numbers - to which they gladly pump out the best of their best for a pretty girl. Hell, Geto thinks he even sees Nanami and Shoko putting in a lil’ extra effort, and can’t help but strum even louder. 

Letting the electric twang of his guitar take over.

It still rings in the air after they finish a runthrough of their first three songs. And you’re clapping fervently by the end of it. 

“That was amazing.”

“Why thank you, sweetheart-”

“Why thank you, gorgeous.” Geto quickly takes over, silently glaring at Gojo to leave. He gets the message - albeit reluctantly, and soon enough is being dragged by Nanami, Haibara, and Shoko out for some fresh air and a brief break outside the room.

Leaving the two of you alone.

“So…”

“So.” Geto’s scratching behind his neck, where there was a massive inky tattoo of a dragon. Snaking. Fuck- when has he ever had this much trouble talking to…well, anyone, really?

And he’s clearing his throat, not letting the silence drag out for much longer before the thick fabric of his guitar strap loops over your own neck. Safely swaddled. You’re looking up at him with such adorable confusion as he snickers, “Wanna learn how to play?”

“Hell yeah.” And before long your fingers are twisting over a few chords - tangling. He’s attempting to teach you about the G chord and the E major, and you’re attempting not to fall to your knees. 

After a few unsuccessful tries, he’s catching onto your desperation and gesturing for you to sit on the carpeted floor. Perhaps to teach you hands-on, perhaps to make you relax- but whatever it was, you certainly didn’t expect him to sidle up behind you.

For his toned pecs to press up against your shoulders, you could hear Geto’s gravelly breath graze the shell of your ear. He leans over, his lengthy hair tickling your neck. “Like…” Much larger hands covering yours, “-this.”

And then he’s just so gentle.

You’re not sure what exactly you expected, but he holds your hands in his like glass. Oh-so-softly helping your fingerpads prick at the strings of his guitar, “S’easier this way.”

“Yeah–” you’re breathing out, practically in his lap with the way that his long legs were curling underneath yours, nowhere to go. And his tone core presses against your back, weight leaning slightly on you so that he can see what you do. 

You don’t know what you’re doing.

You grin once your hapless chords actually start to formulate into something that sounds like it’s part of a song. Something slow. Almost sensual. “It’s beautiful- what song is this, I don’t think it’s one you played?”

“Because it’s not.” He’s purring from behind, piercing catching the light as he grins. “You really like it~?”

Something was dripping darkness in his voice, and your breath catches. “Y-yes.” He was taking over completely. Guiding your hands with his experienced ones, they slide looooong and slow down the neck of the guitar. 

From the back of Geto’s throat, he’s murmuring a barely-audible few words. “Come and get it now. Come and get it now.” Lowered eyes gliding in a feline manner to you, “Baby show me what you’re doing- hm.”

You snap out of your little bubble as he stops abruptly.

Looking somewhat sheepish, “It’s a work in progress.”

“I think it might be my favorite already.” You admit. And you don’t know whether it’s your imagination - you don’t know whether you’re projecting - but you could’ve sworn that his heat does a thunderous ba-dump–! from where his chest was plastered to your body from behind. 

You’re yelping, jostled as he pulls you in even closer. “That so? Maybe you can help me write it then?”

“Me?” You balk, “How-”

The plump end of his lips curl, sinfully. It was almost unfair how he could look so attractive without even trying- “Just by sitting there. Just by being here. It helps.”

“By being here with you?”

“Being here with me.” Confirming. And by the way he was gazing upon you through his peripheral vision, fingerpads still tracing your digits, your knuckles, even though you weren’t playing anything. “S’that a problem?”

You find it hard to swallow. “Not at all.”

Close.

You two were too close.

And that wouldn’t have been a problem if you were moving away—but the fact of the matter is that you were moving closer. Your lashes flutter, and his own dilated pupils alternate in a triangle between your right eye, your left eye, your mouth.

Closer.

Until-

“I’m coming in and you two better not be fucking in there- ouch! What was that for Nanamin?”

“You’re a bad wingman, Gojo-senpai.”

“Sorry, Haibara.”

Before the Sorcerers can bustle their way through those soundproof walls once more, you’re hastily scrambling off of Geto’s lap. For now.

.

.

.

“I heard you’ve tamed the cult leader of Tokyo Tech-”

“The who?” You squint at Utahime, trying to figure out whether she was simply trying to raise your blood pressure so early in the morning. No. She was dead serious.

“No need to hide it, Shoko already told me everything. So- about the cult leader of Tokyo Tech?” she repeats, as if that was enough. And when you look dangerously close to an aneurysm, she’s sighing. “Geto Suguru? Tall, tattoos, piercings, dark hair, devastatingly hot- you know who I’m talking about, I can see you fantasizing about him already.”

“I’m not fantasizing.” You’re insisting, though it sounds as if you’ve been caught. Any louder and Yaga would give up on glaring at the two of you, and instead send you out of the lecture completely. Only just started, but already the gossip was hot in class. 

You just couldn’t believe it was about you and him.

With your pitch slightly back to normal, you try to sound as civilized as possible as you say, “I am not fantasizing. Nor will I ever.”

Utahime puts her face in her open hand and shakes her head, “Right. Nor will you ever. So that means you completely, totally wouldn’t fantasize about him walking into this class right now and sweeping you off of your feet?”

Well, you had to admit that class was getting a bit droning…but you had to stick to your claim. It was the principle of it. “Correct.”

“And so that means you completely, totally wouldn’t care about the fact that he just did walk into this class?”

“Corre- what?” Your desk rattles, just a little bit, as you turn your body around to face the entrance. And you find that Utahime hadn’t been lying: not the part about him coming to class, or the part about him being ‘devastatingly hot’ from prior.

He saunters in with such confidence, Yaga himself doesn’t point out that he’s just about fifteen minutes late. And he stands at the foot of the lecture hall, eyes scanning the seat and- you don’t think you’ve moved faster in your life than at that very moment. You’re throwing both yours and Utahime’s bags onto the floor from where they’d been placed on the empty seat beside you.

Ignoring her half-hearted ‘hey!’ you let Geto spot you. Like his eyes were drawn to you. 

It’s then that you’re noticing he’s wearing glasses. You think he should wear them more often.

And he’s gladly taking the seat, his dark, skin-tight arm-cut pressing against your side. “Thanks, gorgeous.” Noticing all the stares, perhaps even a few whispers that erupt. He leans in real close to mutter in your ear, “They’re just jealous.”

Somewhere in the distance, you think you hear your friend gag. After some brief introductions, you ponder, “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“Never attended.” He slumps in his chair, making himself look almost too lanky for it, almost too big. In front of you, you think you see Yaga’s bushy brows raise at the interaction - and the fact that Geto Suguru was actually here. “Yaga doesn’t count it. Only reason I’m topping the class—” He smiles, showing off his lip piercing. And if you didn’t know any better, you swear you could see that he had a tongue piercing, as well. “-second place.”

“Braggart.”

“Sore loser.”

“Nerd.”

“That I am,” he chuckles. Geto shuffles through his backpack, patch-worked with various pins and decorations of bands—you think you can make out Green Day, Nirvana, The Garden, and a few more that he’s more than happy to show off. 

What he pulls out isn’t his laptop, or a textbook of any kind - it’s his lyrics notebook. And he spreads it open between the two of you, to a page with a few half-written verses. 

Met each other just the other day.

But you got me feeling some type of way.

And then past an empty space where you assume he wanted to add in some more:

I wanna hear you…

I wanna see you…

With your own pencil, you’re making a few tweaks. You finish off that second-last sentence that he seemed to be stuck on—I wanna hear you confess. 

Geto’s pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip, and he toys with the chunky rings on his fingers for a few seconds. You’re unsure if that meant he was hesitating. If that meant he was thinking. Considering.

Before he leans over and finishes the other line—I wanna see you undress now.

Something zips down your spine, your thighs clench- and you find that he follows them with his own. Bumping his knee against yours. And you push right back against his, following the quiet scritch-scratch of his graphite starting to jot down a few more lyrics.

You got me down on my knees.

It’s getting harder to breathe out.

You always did seem to pull that out of him.

Utahime pinches you as the two of you continue, whispering in your ear so that only you could hear. “What was that about not fantasizing?”

“Shut up.”

.

.

.

A party.

An open bar. 

And the thrumming music.

But you and Geto weren’t anywhere near the dance floor, or the lengthy drinks table, or where the couples sneak off to make out- actually, scratch that. Because you two might just be occupying a lil’ alcove in Gojo and Geto’s penthouse apartment.

With the heady college party raging around you two - one that the band had been the one to invite you to - somehow, you’d found yourself with him. Shoulders against shoulders. Skin against skin. Your hands brushing against his when you pick up the pen from his hands–

“Oh, I like this one better than the last-” You circle the lyric that he’d just jotted down, with a few notes of your own that he always loved to read. Something about ‘churning his gears’, whatever that meant. He was almost done with the song now, it seemed. 

“Mmm, that’s what I was thinking.” He hums, thoughtfully, dark bangs falling across his face. It was no wonder that half the party was split between waltzing past the alcove merely to get a glimpse of him.

And the other half was on the other side of the penthouse, out of pure shyness. 

The thick pads of his fingers scratch out some more writing on his notepad, messy and masculine. His rings glint as he’s scrawling, “If I can figure…it out. I’d take you…back to my house and—” He halts, unsure how the rest of that sentence would go. With his tongue still rolling on those words, he’s glancing at you sidelong.

As you tilt your head in confusion, he’s smirking. “No, s’just funny. You’re already in my house.”

“Mhm, and what are you suggesting?” You raise a brow.

“Ohhh, nothing. Just the song.” And he raises one right back, teasingly. His cherry-vodka laced breath wafting across your features, “And what are you suggesting, gorgeous?”

“Nothing, just the song.”

“Are you sure?” He’s tilting his head down at you, even in the cramped space he somehow seemed to tower over you with his hulking frame. Sheer size. And his deltoid pushes against the side of your body, “You’re awfully close, y’know?” The way that he was leaning even closer. 

And you can only sputter at his audacity- “Are you sure?”

“Oi! You two—” Gojo Satoru always did seem to have a penchant for interruptions. You don’t know if you’re maddened by it or grateful- the air was thick, and you couldn’t seem to breathe as well as you might have. 

Directly in front of you, from the other side of the room right opposite, Gojo’s waving his hand frantically. His booming voice echoing all across the house, “Stop flirtin’ in there and take a shot!”

Oh, you could imagine the rumors that were taking root already.

Geto flips him off. With a deadpan expression that told his best friend that he’d be staying here with his work (and you, mostly just for you), thank you very much.

Gojo trills, “We’re doing body shots~”

“Let’s go, gorgeous.” Instantly, he looks at you.

“Wha- huh?” You don’t know whether you’ve sustained whiplash by how fast he’s changed his mind, or by how fast he’s moving. With his fingers smoothly replacing the pen in your hands with his own set of digits—big n’ warm.

Geto holds both his lyrical notebook and you as close as possible as he’s meandering through the party. Through the slightly taken-aback gasps, the flirtatious waves, and the grinding bodies. 

Gojo looks smugly accomplished by the time you’re making it through the whirlwind party in the middle to reach their table of alcohol. There’s a small group forming now already, cheering on the reunion of the main duo. 

Geto looks at him, and there’s a small flicker of understanding that passes. Invisible but existing.

“You two go first-” The white-haired man then thrusts one full shot glass of tequila into Geto’s hands- then immediately grabs ahold of you and cricks your head side to tap out a line of salt down the column of your throat. A wedge of lime between your teeth, pulp side out. Without any adhesive surface, it was messy, scattering nearly up to your jawline. It tingles on your skin once you realize just what was about to happen.

As Geto’s mouth tightens at Gojo’s rough handling of you, the other finishes off. “-I’ve gotta find Nanamin first so he can do one with me.”

Shoko groans. “You’re a lightweight.”

“Exactly.”

“Kento ran out of the building I believe, senpai.” Haibara beams.

And as Gojo whines his protests, Geto can only shake his head- partially because of his band’s antics, partially to clear his fuzzy brain because of you.

You. You. You.

Oh, what gave you the right to present that sensual neck up at him like that? Your teeth worrying your lower lip as if you were nervous. He catches the way your gaze slightly tracks towards the cat-calling crowd, and one roughened hand of his cups your cheek.

Tilting your face ever-so-carefully to look at him instead of the audience.

His pinkish tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he leans in close- as if he was going to whisper something. As if he was going to kiss you.

Before Geto immediately downs the acrid liquid in the glass, barely even reacting. Barely even finishing his swallow before his long, flexible tongue glides up the salt lining your throat. And then where he didn’t hesitate before, didn’t even slow down: he takes a look at the sour lime between your lips and grins.

Slowly, agonizingly.

He’s moving his greedy maw forwards, the plump edges of his mouth hovering above your own. You feel the pressure on the lime as he lightly sucks—and as your knees weaken, he’s easily taking it into his own mouth.

With just the lightest graze of his lips on your lips.

An indirect kiss? A direct kiss? You didn’t even know at this point.

Geto stares at you through his wispy bangs, dead-straight in your widened eyes when he sucks on the lime. Easily ridding it of all juice, he takes it out. 

Then, like a gentleman, the fat crown of his thumb wipes away the stray salt that dusts your jawline. Somewhere near the edge of your lips that you’re sure wasn’t coated in salt at all. But you weren’t complaining.

Your ears were ringing, and only too late do you realize that the half-drunk students around you were in uproar. Gasping. Fanning. Staring. 

Gojo himself gapes slightly speechless. 

“Meddle about.”

“What?” You startle, it had been thick silence in your little bubble until now–like an extension of the alcove. But Geto was the first to break it.

He’s smiling down at you like he knew something you didn’t, then taps the song notebook in your hands- when did it even get in your hands? “If I could figure it out-” Smoky breaths, like he’d just run a marathon. Pants. Heaves. His eyes draaaag down your body, that special outfit you’d put on just for the party. “-I’d take you back to my house, so we can meddle about.”

Oh.

Oh.

It takes you far too long to recognize he’s talking about the song. The song.

Even if he’s looking at you in a way that shows otherwise.

“Just get a room- honestly-” Gojo whines, but then promptly turns to Shoko. “Tell me you got that on camera- please tell me you got that on camera.”

“I did.”

It was palpable. To just about everyone in the room—including a gruff Nanami Kento who walks back in after a few urgent calls from Haibara, then immediately blanches as he looks around the room. At the two of you.

He turns to run.

And as the three others turn to run as well (towards Nanami, in order to catch him), you turn to Geto- only to find that he’s already looking at you. He takes a long lick of his lower lip, lapping up the remnants of liquor. Something glinting in his dark eyes, as if he was trying to figure something out.

Something.

.

.

.

“Hey, let me try something.”

It was the day of their concert, just before. And you’re looking on in slight confusion as Geto taps away the last few notes of his rehearsal, in the green room. The other quartet had slipped out for last-minute drinks beforehand, it was a somewhat dingy hole-in-the-wall bar, but Geto had told you that the music here was legendary.

You trusted him. So you don’t question it either when he’s dragging you by the hand to sit upon one of the big, boxy speakers they kept in the corner of the room.

Making sure the cable connection with his electric guitar was alright- before he strums.

You gasp—the vibrations were tingling all the way at the tip of your feet, and up to the very crown of your scalp. And everywhere in-between. Especially between your legs.

You gape, and Geto snickers like he knew exactly what you were thinking. He hums, low in the aftermath of the guitar screech. “Pretty nice, huh? D’you wanna sit on one of those while we play up there?”

“A-are you sure?” Could you even handle that?

“Mhm. And I think it’ll help to have you so close, too- when we play our new song.” He’s helping you hop off the speaker and stand on your slightly wobbly legs. Arm still helping support you as you teeter your way towards the green room sofa. 

It was covered in a blanket of parchment. Sheet music, papers, lyrics.

As you silently look through all the different versions of that song he’d been writing, Geto sits beside you. Arms against arms. Thighs against thighs. Bodies against bodies. Shuffling through all these papers, it almost reminds you of the day you met.

“So many rewrites,” you giggle. Looking through all the infinite crosses and scratches on the papers as he wrote, and rewrote, and rewrote. All day and all night, it seemed. And yet he’s found that everything, words especially, just seem to flow easier around you.

“I wrote it for you.” His dark lashes lower, confessing. “They’re all for you.”

Your heart races- a part of you expected it. A part of you still can’t believe it. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He turns to face you, properly, now. With his predatory gaze making a beeline for your mouth, “S’that a problem?”

“Yeah.” You swallow, “And I like it.”

And then your back’s splayed out across the couch, draped all over Geto’s toned front. He’s got one of his knees wedged between your thighs, and you’re yelping at the sudden movement.

You were just so cute- he’d barely even done anything, and yet you were starting to drench those poor panties of yours already. If he grinded his knee any harder, then he’s sure he’d have a splotchy dark spot that all the audiences would see once he’s up on that stage.

But right now, he didn’t care.

Not at all.

One tattooed hand of his pins down two of yours somewhere by the armrest of the couch.

And your cunt twitches when his face starts looming closer. The shimmering tip of his tongue toying with his lip piercing for a few seconds. Eyes partly-closed to watch you through his lashes, and his mouth greedy to taste yours. He throatily whispers, “I think I just finished the entire song right now, gorgeous.”

Like this, you’re raising your head to meet Geto halfway with a whine. Fluttering your gaze shut as you ready yourself to kiss him—

“Hey, d’you wanna shot before we head ou- ohohoh?!”

“Oh.”

“Congratulations, Geto senpai!”

Nanami leaves, the only one out of the four that seemed to have some inkling of respect for your privacy. Though, to be fair, this was the common green room. And as you try your very best to block out Gojo’s screeches, and Shoko’s constantly shuttering camera, Geto dips down. 

Not to kiss you - not right now - but rather, to whisper in your ear. “After the show, m’gonna take you back to my house so we could meddle about.”

.

.

.

After that, it wasn’t just meddling about. 

Hell, after that, the two of you didn’t even make it to his damn penthouse. 

The minute the concert was over to roaring cheers and quite a few bras thrown on-stage- Geto’s meaningful eyes had locked straight with yours. Seated upon the speaker, and dripping wet from what he could tell from your face. 

He doesn’t think he even debriefed with the band or said his goodbyes. 

Just a hand on your wrist, the other on your waist. Attached meanly so that he can give the side of your ass a good smack- Geto’s pushing you into the back of his 2018 jet-black Dodge Demon, parked outside the dingy bar. Thank fuck he didn’t decide to take the bike today.

Slamming you into the leather backseats, pinning your hips down.

You’re fucking them back into him already, just as he cups your drivelling pussy through your panties. Whining, “P-please, Suguru. Don’t tease.”

“Fuck-” He’s hissing, taking his hand off of your cute cunt as if it burned. And it did - not to have you in his mouth and around his fingers, that is. First, he’s letting his dark leather jacket drop to the floor, right along with his undershirt. 

And you take the time to admire how sexy he was.

From the detailed tattoos that trickled down his neck, to the dragon on his back, to the side of his hip that was decorated with one of a sting-ray. Right on his v-line. 

Then he’s moving to take off his fat, silver rings—but you stop him right there. And the look on your face must say enough for you, because just then you’re seeing his features split with such a brilliant smile. Oh, he knew what you wanted. Geto huskily spits, “Alright then, naughty girl. So take it.”

You’re letting off a sudden yelp once he plunges his cold, ringed fingers between your spit-slicked lips. 

He’s swabbin’ them all around like an animal, letting your maw suck on him like your favorite lolly. And, fuck, he can’t lie- watching you drool and whine around him like this might just be the hottest thing he’s ever seen. 

With two glittering rivers of spit dripping down either side of your mouth, you’re moaning once you catch sight of his hand snaking down to his pants. “Mmm, gorgeous, I wanna make you sing.” With only one hand, he’s undoing his chunky belt and the rest of his buttons. 

He looks you right in the eyes - not even the slightest bit shy - as he pushes down his dark pants so that you can see the bulging outline of Geto’s erection through his boxers. Rock-hard. 

And just as you gasp—his fingers reel back from your slobbery mouth, and slightly teases down your slit. You gush with the drag of his thick thumb, all around him till his wrist was all wet with sweet syrup. 

You hold onto his flexing shoulders, “O-oh.” Your hips rutting directly into his hands. 

“Oh- oh, gorgeous.” Geto doesn’t even want to speak too loud, not when your pussy was echoing out the most lewd squelches. “She’s reeeeeally happy to see me, huh? Haven’t had a warm welcome this nice since- ever.” His fingers swirl ‘round your tight hole and watches as you just keep on pushing out wave upon wave of your juices. Swirl upon swirl.

Until his digits were just so glazed in all your cream that he couldn’t help but carnally yearn for a little taste. Just a little - you can’t blame him.

Glistening rivulets of slick travel down his pale forearm as he lifts his hand up- you were just that wet for him. And then Geto sucks—then his eyes widen. Then he pants. Then he almost flinches at just how cloyingly good you tasted on his savoring tongue.

Looking you right in your eyes, Geto licks up every last drop from his fingers. And he gusts out the most primal slurps as he does so. 

“Oh, gorgeous,” he’s repeating, like before. But there was something different this time. Something faintly…wrecked. As the last few dollops of slick disappear down his throat, he groans. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, “Oh, fuck- that’s not enough.”

It all happens at once. All of a sudden, he’s on his knees on the floor of the backseat. Knees digging into the carpet below, your upper half being more or less propped up on the cushion. 

It’s giving you whiplash how fast it happens, and you’re staring at Geto in slight shock at his strength. To which he catches your cute, bulged gaze and answers, “M’not playing around anymore, gorgeous.”

Skirt, panties—everything is torn off of you with only one of his hands. That lacy lil’ underwear of yours in particular catching his interest. He makes sure to put it in his back pocket - then turns on the backseat light. Uncaring, because his windows were tinted pitch black.

Right now he just smears apart your pussylips with his two thumbs. He’s never seen a prettier fuckin’ sight; how glittering and wet you were, with your folds so swollen that it looked like you were pouting up at him.

Geto plants one sweet lil’ peck right in the middle of your cunt and lingers, just smelling the sugary whiff of your body wash. And that primal scent of your pussy—

“Mmm, y’know what they say about guitarists?” He’s murmuring wetly, right against your sex so that you’ll squirm all cutely. 

“Wh-what?” You puff out, a heady breath.

He doesn’t answer- that’s because your wettened pussy is answering for you. With a great, upheaving squeeeeelch he’s sinking inside his lengthy tongue. Past your folds n’ all the way to spearhead into your gooey insides. Muffled, “That.”

It’s barely even registering in your mind, because then Geto’s thrusting his ridged tastebuds in n’ out like he’s gone insane.

In and out, in and out.

With such vulgarity, he’s pressing himself nose-deep against your cunt and breathing you in. Letting the sharp edge of his nose just press on your clit, Geto’s jaw works overtime to prod his bludgeoning tongue. 

Slapping against the roof of your pussy, he’s prolonging his muscle into spots you didn’t even know you had. “Oh my n-ngh, fuck!” And so thick, just stretching out your damp hole until you see white.

You gurgle on your own spittle at the sloppy drags of his tastebuds, and pathetically attempt to push back on his clammy scalp. “W-wait, I can feel a- ngh, don’t tell me you really have a…”

“Have a what, gorgeous?” Just to tease you, Geto jerks his head back- letting his tongue flop out of your pussy for just a second. And you’re missing his size inside you, but most of all you’re awestruck by the cold metal piercing right in the middle of his pink tongue.

And he was proudly stuffing it straightly back into your entrance, this time spitting. He smears the line of saliva that glues to your sultry folds, “A piercing- yeah. S’that a problem?”

“N-no…” Your head starts to drop backwards at the sudden usage of his piercing now. You could feel that circular orb poke into your soft innards, like a cold finger almost. You’ve never felt anything like this. “I like it- oh! I like it, I really do—”

“Mhm, glad we cleared that up, baby.” Geto purrs, and he lightly smacks the front of your pussy in adoration. Watching as specks of pearly slick spurt all over his hand, “Now, how about this?”

Before you know it, he’s squeezing in the crowned tip of his finger past your hole - two of them, in fact. And your elastic entrance stretches with the most rawly wet noises, ones that he leans his ear closer to hear even better. Even louder.

Geto snickers meanly once one of his rings catch on your snug hole, and you flinch. “There we go-” He eases them in with repeated pumps, “Theeere we go. Hah, told you I wanted to make this pretty lady sing.”

“Fuh-fuuuuck, I can’t help it, ngh.” Your entire body breaks out in trembles, and the bottom one of your lips starts wobbling.

Oh, he could write songs- fuck that, he could write an entire album about you at this very moment.

But right now, he had more important things to do. Namely: you. And Geto plucks apart your sticky folds to take a good, long look at your cunt swallowin’ in his fingers. Push after push. Probe after probe.

The knobbly, scouring ends of his fingers delve in deep and send you spiralling. “You don’t need to mmm, help it, gorgeous.” He’s continuing where your conversation had trailed off. “You just need to…”

And he’s gulping wet wads of saliva that just slide down his throat. 

His thick Adam’s apple bobbing, Geto’s flaring his nostrils- making sure to focus his entire aim on exactly hitting that one spot he knew you’d love. That one spot he’s thrusting in with a rough jackhammer and pushing—“-to project.”

And you were projecting that pretty voice alright.

You’re screaming almost feverishly at the sensation of him scraping your inner lining, your walls cling onto him maddeningly. Gobbling him up as he hits your g-spot at a frenzied pace - once, twice, thrice. 

“Please-” Babbling out stupidly, tears cascade down your cheeks when he manages to shove your wet orifice apart. You’re drip-drip-driiiiping gummy wetness once he pushes in a second fat fingertip, the globular edge of his swipin’ each nook n’ cranny of your cunt. “Please please please- I need ngh-”

“Yeahhh, who do you need, gorgeous?”

“Y-you…”

Geto cups his ear with a mocking smile, and he’s crushing your throbbing clit between his front teeth. Just gnawing. “Mhmmm—?”

“You-” You’re sobbing out - squealing. Your back hits the seat of the cushion as you slump over, and he’s forced to push down on your stomach with one hand just to stop you from rovering about. Pinning you down.

“Babyyyy, you know I love to hear your- hah, voice.” He’s drawling out, and his words were just as sloppy as his mouth. Just salivating all over. “I have a feeling you can be louder though.”

“Sugu-”

“Louder~”

Putting all the pressure on your lower body when he sliiiiides every inch of his long, knobbly fingertips inside. The doughy pads of them push into your g-spot just right, until you felt all battered n’ bruised by him. “Please- you- ngh, you, Suguru.”

“There- what did I tell you. Fuck, I wish I could h-have this on speaker.” Groaning. Panting. “Yeahhhh, you like that, huh? Want my tongue, t-too? Oh.”

But then you’re clasping his sweaty forehead and shoving him down between your legs. Where his curving tongue was sloppily zig-zagging all over, and you’re trilling. “K-keep going, mmm.” Cock twitching. Rutting so hard that his damned muscle car jostles.

He couldn’t even catch his breath - and he didn’t want to. “Well, I hafta make it up to my muse in some way, yeah?”

His tongue is so expert, too. You’re easily getting louder - even more than you first thought possible. Partly because of the way his pierced tongue was resting on your overstimulated nub. Flicking your ruddied clit until it felt all raw, again n’ again—you were so far gone by this point that Geto can feel each pulse of your hot core on his mouth.

And he counts it - one, two, three, four. Like the beat of his favorite melody- fuuuuck, he was so pussydrunk right now that he might just memorize it and write it as the next beat of his song. 

“Y-you’d- hck! what?” You’re hiccuping in pure disbelief, unsure if those words had actually (accidentally) fallen from Geto’s mouth, or if he was makin’ out with your cunt so good that you were hearing things. You wouldn’t be surprised.

“Exactly what I jus’ said.”

And Geto isn’t, either. 

Of course, he was bound to be fucking stupid on the sultry taste of your pussy. Especially when you were streaming out wet ribbons of slick with each rovering push of his fingers. 

He vulgarly wets his lips a lil’ in the liquid leaking out, and then promptly plops his open mouth over your sopping hole. Geto had lapped up all the slick stuck to your folds, your thighs, your clit - now the one place left was inside. 

And he was still hungry.

His pierced lip draaaaagging over your quivering orifice, Geto starts to push his tongue in eagerly. Uncaring for the way he was already barreling his fingers inside. Uncaring of the absolutely incredible stretch that was making your back arch. 

N’ he’s so dexterous. Alternating between wet whacks! at the front channel of your walls, and then licking over your clit. He was plastered to your pussy in a way that felt maddening- “Sh-shit, I don’t think m’gonna last, Sugu—”

“Sugu, huh?” He raises a neat brow at the nickname, “I like that.”

And if it was possible, his narrowed strikes are accelerating. More honed, more precise to your g-spot, it’s like a cute lil’ bullseye that he can’t stop hitting. All because it makes you shake and whine like that. 

“Mmm, yeah, just like that. C’mon, gorgeous girl- come and get it-” Geto gruffs now, the back of his throat all hoarse. His baritone voice was on the verge of breaking at this point. “Ride my mouth, would you?”

You’re whimpering, because Geto’s then opening his pretty mouth even wider for you to ride him - but you’re so weak. 

Your limp knees struggling to keep on rutting- only for Geto to then shift a free hand underneath you. 

Feeling all his firm biceps n’ muscles bulge as he keeps you up, just so strong- fuck, was it all those guitar sessions? He gurgles out, “Upsy daisy. Lemme help you cum, baby.” Dragging; he’s just moving you like a ragdoll, push and pull of his slippery tongue. 

Just babbling nonsensical syllables. 

And he’s gluing his upper lip to your clit, to your folds, to your weepy hole. Everywhere and anywhere that you’ll be feeling the most pleasure, then he’s twirlin’ the pointed tip of his tongue inside like he’s reaching for your g-spot with that.

Like he’s fucking you with his cock. Craving to. 

Again and again, it makes you squirm.

Your syrupy goodness starts to drip down his forearm at the sheer pressure, showing him that you’re close. And with each bash of his three fingertip circumferences, Geto grunts. “Lemme help you- let me- ngh, you have to cum, okay? Cum alllll over my tongue.”

“Yes-” Being moved. And soon enough, with a few more vicious thwacks! your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. “S-Sugu, I’m…”

It’s the only thing you’re able to intone at the moment. The only thing that you can even think of - your heavy orgasm. You’re being manhandled, with your hips gyrated onto his face through every burst of pleasure. 

Somehow, you start to wonder whether he doesn’t need to breathe.

And he’s the one who doesn’t care about it. Doesn’t even care if he suffocates just as long as his mouth can remain plastered onto your pussy. Eating you out till he’s feeling dizzy.

And you? You’re seeing white, before it’s a kaleidoscope of color because of the tears.

You hiccup, your chin dropping down to your chest to stare at him through comically swirling pupils. Practically heart-eyes at this point. “Ngh, it feels so g-good, Sugu-” Your thighs start to twitch, feeling his orbed piercing spank down on your clit. Your very own tastebuds water at the stinging euphoria, the way he was scraping your innards. “M’so sensitive.”

“Mhm, and you’re not tapping out now,” he’s challenging. Looking up at you through shaggy bangs, Geto grins around your thoroughly puffy folds. “Because my throat is parched after the concert.”

You squeeze, so hard that he can feel his rings pushin’ against your sultry walls. Oh, he won’t be giving up so easily.

And by the time that Geto’s popping himself off of your treacly cunt - with a wet noise, with a few more kisses to your silvery slope, with a final bite on your clit - you’re run rightly ragged. You can barely even speak, occasionally tremoring at the shockwaves still bubbling through your veins. 

“P-please—” You’re running your fingers tenderly through his dark locks, pushing them away from his face. And luckily for you, what a sight it was. 

Because Geto’s high cheekbones were just cherry red in color from all the blushing and lack of air. From the way he was so pussydrunk on your cunt that it was starting to make him look oh-so-ruined. Eyelids heavy. Lips swollen. 

He had a sheen of your slick splashed from his pointed chin, all the way up his cheeks. His jawline. And his lengthy tongue pops out once more to stretch n’ lick up those clingy wads. Making sure you see.

Bit by bit, your mouth grows more agape. “Please, I wan’ your cock now, Sugu…” And you wanted it badly - that glimpse from before was enough to get you all antsy on his seat.

Slowly, sensually, Geto reaches out his fat thumb - the one from his left hand, that wasn’t covered in your shiny juices - and wipes off the slobber trickling from one end of your mouth. Putting it in his own maw, he sucks it up like he sucks up the slick all over his other set of digits. 

“Anything you say, my muse.”

He sounded husky, even more so than after the concert.

And you barely even have the time to touch whatever was left of the rest of your clothes - before Geto gently repositions your hands away and onto hold his slim waist. He undresses you himself, as if he was opening up a cute lil’ present.

Then he’s patting a thumb down onto the hem of his boxers, where black curls of his happy trail rested. Teasing. 

“Don’t tease.” You have half the mind to take them off yourself. Before Geto finally puts you out of your needy misery, and rids himself of those boxers.

And you were right - his bulging dick-print was huge, but the real thing was even more massive. 

And hard. Rock-fucking-hard. Geto’s plump, puckered cockhead was a bright red that looked angry, and he was flushed all the way down to his heavy balls. All twitchin’ and tight at the thought of being inside you. 

Hell, you swear you could even count the mere throbs of his veins, so far-gone that they seemed to make his decorated cock twitch in midair. But what you were gazing at the most wasn’t all of that - even though it did catch your eye - it was the small, circular piercing that rested underneath the slit of his tip. A Prince Albert’s piercing. 

Geto’s feeling the intensity of your stare and and leaks out a wad of buttery precum, a few droplets of it making it down his shaft. He wipes away the rest of it with the front pad of his thumb, and then pushes it between your gawking lips. “Shut that hah, pretty mouth, gorgeous, don’t wanna catch flies.”

You moan at the slightly salty taste, and it only makes your cunt grow even wetter. Only made you lean in even closer without even realizing - and Geto lets it happen.

He lets your pouty mouth slip all the way across his furiously weeping tip, pressing just one wet kiss in hello before a hand at your throat wrenches you away. “Don’t even worry about it, baby—” He uses his chokehold on you to lift you up.

To flip you around and then smack the side of your asscheeks. You were on all fours now, with him pressing his muscular weight into your arched spine.

Geto gutturally groans out in your ear, “Tonight’s—” And you feel something poke at your entrance. You feel something hard. “-allll about you.”

He rests a hand on the side of your hips, attaching, and then uses the force to drag you back into him. All filling up your gooey orifices with his erection, he’s squeezing himself inside like he’s gone feral. 

Oh, he’s squeezing himself inside like he’s trying to make you feral.

That flared, mushroomy tip of his pryin’ apart your sticky walls, Geto uses his honed shaft to push n’ push n’ push. Too big to completely bottom out for now, but still making your mind spin with rapid, hard half-thrusts. You whine, “Oh- oh!” Voice reaching a fever point. “Please, a-all the way in, Sugu.”

“Mmm, want it all the way ngh, in, huh?” Doing the exact opposite, Geto then slows. He then stops. His cute, orbed piercing rubbin’ the roof of your cunt frigidly back and forth. Ever-so-slightly. Teasingly. 

It’s only once you start huffing and puffing in disappointment that he’s chuckling, thinking that delirious expression was just too adorable on you. And in a low bass, Geto purrs out. “Come and get it now.”

“You’re not seriously–”

“I am, show me how you do it-” His hand on your throat twists your face backwards - all tear-stained and fighting the urge to let your eyes roll to the back of your scalp. The moment he catches sight of your face properly, you feel his blistering hot cock twitch inside you. “-fuck, turn around.”

And he was urging you to fuck your hips back into his. Goading you into it, practically.

Firstly, you start off with a few tentative bounces. Just gyrating your hips, almost shy of his size. “L-like this?”

“Nuh uh, baby.” He’s tutting from behind, other hand scraping down your tummy. He wants to feel himself as he sinks in. “You n’ I both know that you can do muuuch better than that.” And even though he wasn’t moving, his cock seemed to be growing even bigger. Swelling. Elongating.

One of his curly veins rub up near your g-spot and you trill, “But you’re just so…”

“So?”

The most shallow, wet grinds. Not enough to take him entirely, not enough to satiate you. “Big.” 

And then you’re blessed - well, more like punished - with a semi-rut, swabbin’ his thickened tip even deeper. You can’t help but squeeze your plush walls around him, expecting more. “Wan’ it that bad?” Swatting your ass, the force is enough that your flesh jiggles and he grins. “Take it, then. M’all yours.”

So you’re raising your ass up even higher, arms wobbling limply in front of you. You use up all the energy left in your shattered body to perk your waist up just a bit, then slam down the rest of Geto’s length. Hitting his hard v-lines. Bottoming-out. 

Taking him all the way from the fat, split-ended tip- down, down, dooooown till his hairs tickle your slope.

Geto raises a brow at the way you’re mewling uncontrollably by taking all of him, then his right hand starts to push n’ pull you with the restraint at your neck. “S’it that big? Hah- ya like it thaaaat much, gorgeous?”

“Yes- oh, f-feels so good having you like this.” You moan, every time he was elongating his words, Geto made sure to glide the cold metal of his piercing down your spongy cervix. “Fuck, can barely even ngh! take it.”

And you have the feeling that if he could reach even further than that, then he would in a heartbeat.

“But you are.”

Before you know it, a wet splat! of something strikes your cunt folds. You’re turning your head over your shoulder to find out that it was Geto spitting on your already-dripping pussy, an invisible string of it still connecting his mouth to your entrance. 

“Because m’proud of you, my muse.” He drawls out, and he sounds drunk. Geto swerves around the tip of his thumb all over your pussylips, just like he was stirrin’ around his cock by now. 

Circle after circle. Prodding into hidden spots you didn’t even realize were there- he then catches the slightly pouty curve of your mouth and coos. “Awww, what’s the matter, baby- fuck.” In response you only clamp down on him, the textured ridges of his shaft so sensational that it leaves your mouth ajar. His lip curls, “Oh, I get it.”

“H-huh?”

Just then he leans over, and it leaves his curvaceous tip poking in even deeper. Melting his sweaty abs on top to the back of your spine, Geto purses his lips and spits. Straight into your mouth, then he smiles all handsomely like he’d just done you a favor.

You look at him with bulging eyes. He’d read your mind. 

“Fuck, you’re getting even w-wetter.” He’s sputtering out- fucking up into you. Chasing your pussy. Every hard thrust of his left you shoved forwards a few inches, and Geto’s reeling you back in just so he won’t lose you.

Just so the feeling of your pulsing, velvety walls won’t be lost- soon enough, he’s wrapping his beefy left hand over your neck to hold you in a headlock. “Gonna hafta give me a show- we can do that, ngh, can’t we, gorgeous? Gonna drive me wiiiild w-with that pussy, huh?”

“O-oh my god-” you’re blabbering out. A sparkly sheen of saliva forming down his forearm, trickling from the front of your mouth. “I think you’re doing the- driving wild- oh.”

You could barely even string together the sentences.

Your entire body twitches at the sudden change in angle; with him bent over and leaning his weight into you like this, you felt like you were being crushed in the best ways. Geto’s constant pummeling reaches deep into the back spots of your cervix, leaving a cute lil’ bruise of his circumference. 

He kisses the side of your head sloppily- and you’re realizing that Geto had forgotten to take off one of his silver chains. Or maybe he didn’t want to. Because there was just the rhythmic, cold bang-bang-bang of his jewellery that was greeting the back of your neck in time with his furious ruts. 

All the way from his hard, globular tip n’ dooooown to where his shaft was the thickest. His drilling pace left your plush insides being all straightened out on his length. His girth. 

Just fucking you like an animal.

You can feel your head start to slowly tip forwards, too heavy and filled with cotton. But Geto would never let you get off that easy, “Hey, hey—look at me.” Pulling you back in with his headlock.

Geto’s tone was firm, he meant it. 

You struggle to blink your lids open properly, all sticky with the residue of your tears. Yet once you look at him, you can still make out the sultry twinkle in his eyes. 

He lifts his right hand up to your bleary line of vision, “You see this?” And you have to take a few seconds to note that he’s talking about that tattoo that slithers across his entire arm - a snake. With its fanged maw wide open where his thumb separated from the rest of his fingers, “Mmm, nice, huh?”

Absent-mindedly, you nod.

That’s when you register what’s happening - the snake. With its mouth wiiiide open, creeps down to your pussy, and he’s cupping your delicate folds. Almost as if to swallow. As if to strike. 

Geto’s pounding you into the expensive backseat of his car like he’s devouring you. Pinpointing each n’ every leaking crevice with his buttery precum, letting the mound of his palm slide back and forth down your slit. 

You gush out a wet splatter! of syrup straight into his palm and he grins, “Really- oh, ya really are drivin’ me wild, baby. Look into my eyes now.”

He wanted to stare away into your beautiful, stupidly dilated eyes as he mazes his entire length inside you. The forefront of his piercing acting like a searchlight, you can feel the exact moment that Geto smears apart your walls n’ precisely bashes your g-spot.

“S-so unfair that you have a- hck!” You can’t even finish your sentence. You’re choking on so many whines n’ copious amounts of drool that wash down the front of your chin like a fountain. 

Geto himself finds it adorable how you’re cockdrunk already. And it almost feels like that night at the party when he leans in, parched tongue licking up your web of drool - why waste it? “I don’t hear her complaining.”

“M-maybe she is-” You insist back stubbornly, just for something to say.

And at that very moment, one of Geto’s long fingers extends so that he can drag them down the dribbling crevice of your pussy. The edge of his middle finger slide-slide-slides between your slit with the loudest, most primal slurp. “Mmm, I don’t think she is. Not when she’s- ngh, singing f’me.”

His words are enough to make your eardrums pop at the filth - but then again, so is the way he was driving his hips into you. Repeatedly, like a train. And so was the way the crowned tip of his ringed fingers start rolling over your clit.

You prattle out, just when he uses his large index to draw a heart on the very tip-top button of your nub. Just the pressure felt too good. “S-sooooo cocky–”

“Damn right n’ you’re full of it- literally.” 

Perhaps it was the way he said it - reminding you of the thick, solid inches that were filling you up - or perhaps it was his newly-drawn patterns on your clit, but you’re growing even wetter. Dripping in thick, glittering wads of slick that trickle down Geto’s own legs.

Feeling the sloppy wetness, he’s looking down- and then immediately grinning to himself. He whispers, “Wonder if I can…”

“What are you-”

“Shhh, told you tonight was all about- hah, fuuuuck- you, my muse.”

Oh, you don’t know how well that boded for your poor pussy. Or your walking abilities for at least the next week. 

In a mere few nanoseconds, Geto has his hips churning out an interesting angular cadence. Not only was he pumping his red, swollen cock into you- he was also shiftin’ his hips in grinding movements so that the edge of his Prince Albert’s piercing would swab its way ‘round and round.

Sticking his glazed tip into each spot, the icy circle of his piercing was just driving you wild. Making your toes curl and your feet anchor- almost in an effort to run–

“Ah ah-” Only for him to pull you back in with his constraining headlock, flexing so that his sexy biceps are squeezing your neck even tighter. “We’re getting- ngh, doooown and dirty, girl. Don’t run.” Then he’s repeating the scrape-scrape of his decorated crown down your walls, red n’ rude. 

“F-fuck, could you feel that, gorgeous?” Geto’s voice breaks at some point, after a particularly drawn-out drag of his rovering tip. And he has the audacity to giggle, “That one was a heart.”

Your eyes snap open, mouth plummeting out a low- “Oh, fuck.”

Because Geto wasn’t just fucking you with his pierced cockhead anymore; he was using that orb at the beginning of his slit to draw on you. Right at the very end of your sponged cervix, in ravenous strokes, he was buttering you up. Painting you.

Next, he glissades a swooping motion that makes his veins push up against your roof. Uttering a low hiss, “Mmm- my- hah, my name’s a bit harder…”

“L-let me help.”

And that makes Geto’s heart skip a beat.

He slides his hand up n’ down your slit, prodding at your clit lovingly. “O-of course, my muse.” Letting you push backwards in a figure-eight, until his dark happy trail was rubbing your ass cheeks raw. “Harder-” A vulgar spank to your ass. “Harder. Show me how you can d-do it.”

“M’going- ngh, fuck. Wan’ more, Suguru.”

Anything you say. Anything you do- fuck, he almost thinks he could cum right here, right now. That’s why he’s instead focusing his attention on manhandling your body back in ruts, to hit his massive girth with such rough recoil.

Again. And again. And again and again—

Until you’re feeling his pulsing mushroom tip glue up against your womb, carving along a whalloping bruise. And you swear - with whatever frenzied brain cells were left within your skull - it formulates the zig-zagging motion of an ‘S’

“And thaaaaat was my n-name.”

Maybe he got lucky. Maybe he was just that good.

Sobbing, “F-fuck!” You don’t get to find out whether he’s able to finish off the rest of his name - whether that was even possible - because immediately you’re bucking back n’ forth. “Oh my god- i-it’s almost- ngh, too much.” That lecherous action sending sparks of pleasure to your brain. Having him try n’ claim the very back spots of your pussy. Those hidden crevices. 

“Easy, eeeeasy there, baby. What did I say—don’t run.” Pulling you back with his headlock, “Don’t make me- ngh, choke you like that- gorgeous-” Even though he already was.

You’re getting easily dumbified as he repeats those movements a few more times. Needily moving faster to chase those sparks he’d erupted before, “Please- please want it- ngh, close-”

“Nice try.” Body so weak that he was the one predominantly in control now. He’s matching your pace- surpassing it, all with a thumb that tweaks your clit until you see white. That snake. Maw ajar. “But you’re the one that’s gonna, mmm, cum first.”

You whine. Geto was just so mean- was he always this mean? Because he surely was fucking you like it; now three different points of pleasure. From your throbbing clit, to your g-spot being massaged by his decorative veins, then that lewd lil’ pattern he drew at the back of your cervix. So much. Too much. 

You’re so close that you’re slobbering out in waves at this point, and he has his mouth slipped to the side to lick up any n’ every sap you were leaking. 

Pierced tongue slimily slithering allll the way down the side of your lips, you mewl. So filthy. “Fuck- y-you’re right-” His blushing red tip twitches at those words. “M’gonna- gonna…”

You can’t even finish your sentence. 

With a few more sinful strokes, you’re falling apart on his creamy cock. Letting the heatwave of your high take over you- you throw your head back, resting upon Geto’s collarbone, toes curled, mouth shrilling out his name. 

After each and every sloppy drag of his vein-covered cock, he was fucking you through your high so perfectly. The frigid tip of his piercing pushin’ into your g-spot, that makes you last even longer.

Even more. 

And Geto himself was just as drunk on your pussy- “F-fuck, m’gonna cum.” He moans, tonality hollow in a way that made him sound so wrecked. Just then, you’re feeling something warm and gooey fill up the nooks and crannies of your cunt.

Webbing you up from the inside. It sticks to you like a second skin and he’s overfilling you to the point where you can feel a sheen of white drip down the insides of your thighs. Gluing them together. “Shit- don’t even have enough, ngh, space.”

“Oh, you will.” Through labored pants, Geto looks down where you were taking him - and he doesn’t think he’s seen a more heavenly sight. With your damp folds glazed in ivory, glistening after each pump of his hips. It’s forming a ring around his bulky base, soaking his happy trail.

He smears the droplets of cum that are part of the spillage, layering them onto the padded top of his thumb. Then, immediately, you gasp as you feel the stretch of him pushing those knots back inside. “Listen to that-” The loudest wet noises. “Wonder if I’ll be able to hah- sing as good as that at my next concert, hm?”

“Shut up.”

Geto doesn’t stop just yet. 

Not until his ravaged, red cock feels raw—oversensitive. Not until he’s properly fucked you through the hazy peaks of your high and you’re left merely trembling. Not until he’s squirted every ounce of pure white cum inside you, n’ you can’t do anything but perk your hips up from the seat and take it. Take it. 

He has tears in his eyes by now. The rockstar pulls back his hand from your clit after you start wriggling with overstimulation. 

And then makes sure you watch - make sure you can see his looooong, pink tongue slither out to suck up every sullied dewdrop of slick and cum from his digits. From his rings. Lastly, he slaps his cleaned, moisturized fingers against your ass. Groping. 

“I could write albums about that, gorgeous.” You still haven’t gained the ability to speak since being completely dumbified. 

And Geto sets you free from that headlock, finally. You’re dropping to the plushness of his car seat like you’re boneless, barely even able to look up as he seethes. Through labored pants, he smiles, “So…still wanna go back to my house so we can meddle about?”

Not even pulling out of you yet.

He throbs from the inside. Plump n’ probing. Awaiting your answer- you start to wonder whether he’ll be able to write out the entirety of his name on your cervix.

“Fuck yeah.”

.

.

.

It was no surprise that Meddle About topped the charts. All of them.

Someone had recorded it back at its debut concert, to which it had gone viral overnight. Then came the record deals, the studio sessions, and the official album launch (of which Geto claimed that all those love songs were about you.)

And it was also no surprise that that was what launched the Sorcerers from being a regionally famous band, frequenting the local bars and gigs, to being internationally-known. To touring all ‘round the world. 

But what did come as a slight surprise - a pleasant one - was when he’d asked you to join him.

Somehow, some part of you had imagined that once Geto got a taste of the high life, the fame, the music, the travel; that meant he’d simply indulge in it. Without you. Without even a thought of you - little did you know that you were all Geto Suguru could think about.

Seriously. It did endearingly irritate his bandmates. 

So when Geto asked you to join him, after some arrangements with your life back at home, you’d said yes. Of course.

And then there was another surprise. At the very first concert that you’d attended with him- and then for each one thereafter (it grew to be a little tradition, you see) there was this…

“And tonight- I have someone very special in the crowd for me- yes, Satoru, she’s here for me, not for you.” The crowd buzzes, peering over each other’s heads for a glimpse of another collaboration act, perhaps. Some even waited for one of the band members to stage dive. 

But what happens is that Geto Suguru - rockstar, worldwide heartthrob, lead guitarist of the Sorcerers - smiles. A slow, soft smile that they don’t think they’ve ever seen on him before, not this sort. 

And he’s pointing somewhere to the VIP seats, the closest ones at the very front row. Where there was you; you could feel the stares now. The whispers. The phones recording. Surely, this was about to end up on just about ten different social medias- just when you had gotten used to the campus teasing. This was about tens of thousands of more eyes. Honestly, having a rockstar boyfriend was not for the weak.

But he did make it so easy. So, so easy.

Geto continues on, a gentle chuckle leaving his mouth at the way you squirm under the spotlight. He says your name, “My muse, my lover. I love you. This one’s for you, just as they all are.” 

There’s a tumultuous wave of ‘aww’s’ that ring out, and screams, perhaps a few faints.

“Let’s meddle about, shall we?”

A/N. FHSJHKS I NEED HIM SOO BAD NGH-

“I’ll require so much merch, in fact you’ll have to come to the con with me – all dressed up as one – if you want a kiss before I have to.”

“You’re so bratty, Satoru Gojo,” he exhales when you pull back, realizing he’s now throbbing under his damn jeans in a coffee shop with his best friend. “Fine, we’ll wait until we have to.”

“We’re staying three days, right?”

“Yes, mom and dad love you anyway.”

“How will you break it to them when they find out it’s not real?” You wrack your brain, sighing then.

“I’ll think of something, but at least for this wedding, I'll be in your debt forever.”

“That’s tempting, I can’t wait to take advantage.” You both laugh, and Satoru tries to figure out just how he’s going to handle ‘pretending’ with you. 

*****

“I’m never letting you drive again.”

“I wasn’t that bad!” Satoru pouts at you, damn near running out of the car when you all step out.

“Horrible, god how’d you get a licence,” you glare, and he snatches your keys up, holding them high. “Hah! Can’t reach?”

“Who can, you giant!” You’re hopping while he laughs, but then your tits just bounce too much, so he falters, letting you tug his arm down. “Got 'em!”

Satoru tries not to focus on that, quickly looking away and rubbing the back of his neck, the last thing he needs to do is let his gaze linger longer than it should. “You really almost killed me, I’m driving back.”

“That’s fine, eight hours sucked anyway,” you stretch just a bit, and so does he, turning and avoiding how your shirt lifts just a bit. “Are you ready for this?”

You walk up next to him, he’s snatched up your bags on one shoulder, you hold his other hand, feeling it tense in your grip. He pauses, looking down at you then, gripping your hand just a little tighter, memories flashing of all the times he’d snatched your hand and run out of class when you were younger. Why does it feel so different now that you’re both older?

“Make it look real, remember? I have the merch all picked out,” you wave your phone around just a bit, earning him squeezing your hands just a bit. “There you go, we got this yeah?”

“Yeah…” You both walk up and are greeted with your very surprised parents, the house just full of your entire family, all bustling and fussing over your sister and all the planning. “Hey there.”

“Satoru Gojo!” Your mom tugs him in for a hug, your dad snatches the bags and sets them down in the living room. “Look at you, you’re taller!?”

“I know,” he laughs a bit, slipping up his black shades to rest on those snowy locks, while your dad hugs him too. “Hey pops. Ah, hey sis.”

Your sister comes out, hugging you tightly, then peeking over at Satoru. “Gojo, you finally admitted you’re in love huh?”

“What!?” He pulls back, your dad and mom are laughing behind their hands, and you mouth to Satoru silently.

Remember!?

Digimon!

“Oh, hah – yeah I guess we really have been in love,” he snatches you up, arm wrapping around your shoulders, smacking a kiss on your cheek. He feels it warm under his lips quickly, the little breath catching in his ears. “Aren’t we, pookie?”

Pookie, huh?

You wanna laugh at that, but you instead put a hand on his chest and tiptoe, giving him a kiss on his chin. You wonder if you’re imagining the blush that decorates his cheeks for just a moment, but it’s distracted by all the commotion.

“You’re finally dating someone!”

“Mom!?”

“I’m just so happy baby,” you want to fall into a hole, as aunts, uncles and cousins all come to just express their surprise. Satoru’s snickering so you decide to ‘accidentally’ stomp his foot, earning your six foot four friend hopping one one foot.

“Oops, sorry baby.” Satoru’s so gonna get revenge later on you, with your bratty little smile.

“It’s fine, sweet sugar bear!” You almost snort out loud, he smacks a kiss on your cheek and damn near slobbers on you.

It’s a flurry of action while everyone sinks their teeth into Satoru and you, all nosy and curious, many of them making comments like you’re an old maid when you’re still young. Your family is a little too traditional, and they’re all in love with Satoru so much you’re damn near ignored, he eats up the attention like he always does at these sort of things.

You can’t say anything about it, Satoru’s parents have been so distant his entire life, you actually love that your family is so close to him.

“Do you wanna freshen up before dinner?” Your mom asks, you nod gratefully. “Perfect, we set up a room for you two.”

“Um… one room?” You ask, seeing Satoru chuckling, slinging an arm around your neck.

“Show us the room, mama.”

“Of course Toru!” You roll your eyes a bit, no one loves Satoru as much as your mom does – aside from you.

But you can’t admit that.

A part of you starts enjoying just how easy it would be to make this a part of your life, at least this aspect, your family, and likely all of your friends. Yet you know fully that it’s a bit of a show, yet it makes your mind drift off – imagining too much, so much so you almost bump right into his back when you all come to a stop in front of the stairs.

“Oof!”

“Clumsy,” he teases, catching you before you tumble back with ease, one arm shooting up and wrapping around you. “Clumsy little pookiekins.”

Oh jesus.

Does he have to feel this good?

Your mom leads you up the stairs, their new house is still a little unfamiliar, you’ve only been there a couple of times since they moved. It’s a pretty room you’ve slept in before when you stayed, cream colored walls and perfectly clean, even the little throw pillows are all arranged. “Do you need extra pillows, Satoru?”

“No, that’s perfect, I appreciate it.” Your mom doesn’t ask you if you need anything, but then she’s always loved Satoru – you joke that it’s more than she loves you all the time.

“The shower is right in there,” she points to where the room connects to a little bathroom. “Get washed up for dinner, I’m ordering your favorite Satoru.”

“Um, hi? What about me?” Satoru is snorting practically.

“Honey, you know I’m just excited, I haven’t seen Satoru in a year!”

“I see how it is.” You narrow your eyes, earning your mom kissing you on the cheek.

“I will order your favorite dessert.”

“I’m an afterthought.” She laughs and shuts the door, leaving the two of you alone, Satoru sobering up just a bit as he sits on the bed, you turn and look at him then, suddenly feeling so nervous.

He’d spent plenty of nights on the floor or couch at your childhood home, but not in the same bed, taking it over when he lays down, crossing one ankle over the other. “Nap time.”

“Nap time, huh?” You sigh and scooch his big body over, lying down next to him, yawning just a bit when you snuggle against the pillow. “I’m tired too.”

“Are you?” You nod, eyes fluttering shut, leaving Satoru to study you carefully. “You think they bought it?”

“With ease,” you snuggle a little too close to him, making his heart race in his chest, fingers itching to caress your cheek. You look at him with sleepy eyes, breath right against him, tickling his neck. “They were convinced I had a crush on you when we were younger, sis tortured me about it.”

“Aww, that’s because I’m so pretty,” Satoru bats his long snowy lashes, you snort a bit, whacking him with one of the pillows. “What, not gonna admit it?”

“You’re conceited is what you are,” he smacks you with a pillow hard then, you gasp, getting on your knees and whacking him back. “You’re also the biggest brat to exist.”

“That’s you! Hah, and you’re weak.” Satoru yanks the pillow from your grip, tossing it on the floor and then smacking you with one again. “Can’t win against me, can you?”

“Don’t count me out, ruining my nap!” You hop down on the floor, grabbing it and hitting him right in his pretty face. “I’ll make your face prettier.”

“Swear to god-” You pounce on him, the bed springs creak just a bit, while you smack him again, only for him to yank you down and start tickling you. “Hah, I know all your spots.”

“Stop, stop!” You’re trying to get out of his grip, the tickles on your waist too much, you can’t stop laughing, wriggling until somehow…

You land right on top of him.

Satoru’s laughing softly, before he realizes it, that you’re straddling his lap, thighs pressed on either side, and your heat is against him. You’re still giggling, his fingers pausing then, looking down nervously and swallowing. “What is it, my turn?”

You lean over and begin to run your fingertips teasingly over his lower abdomen, he’s always ticklish there, but he just grips your hands in his hold, not making a sound. You blink a bit in confusion, breathless from the battle – one you both frequently had as kids – until you feel it.

You follow his suddenly intense gaze down, to where he’s pressed against you, hard and thickening by the moment, your breaths come even quicker, hands still in his grip as you feel him. Your eyes both lock then, his dilated in a way you’ve never seen, lips parted just so, and it’s not like he’s ever looked at you.

You should get up, you should move right? Yet you’re stuck there, unable to do more than blink rapidly and open your lips to say something, anything at all, but both of you don’t speak. The silly laughter has quit spilling from your lips, left with hot desire clenching your tummy at the sensation – at just how good Satoru feels against your cunt, aching for more.

You try not to roll your hips, you try not to shift, when he lets go of your wrists, and his hands slide down, across to your hips, an exhale escaping his mouth. You watch his chest rise and fall with his breaths, his fingers curling around the curve of each hip, and you realize you’re soaking wet embarrassingly fast.

“Satoru, I’m sorry…” You shift to move, earning a little moan from his throat, cock leaking pre against his boxers as his cock insistently nudges between your lips, just your panties as a barrier.

“Fuck, don’t… don’t move,” he whispers then, you tense, struggling to just stay still. “You’re making it worse.”

“Making… what worse?” He sighs, leaning up on his elbows, your breaths both mingling together, in a way that makes you question everything.

Could Satoru feel the same?

He doesn’t speak, instead he gently presses you down, watching your eyelashes flutter, your hands gripping his shirt so tightly the material is balling up in your grip. You move your hips just a bit, making him groan again, ever so softly, noses touching, foreheads resting together. You swallow, throat gone dry at what you feel, the nerves, the desire, the worry for ruining the most important relationship you have.

“Toru, um- ah!” You jump when your sister just opens the fucking door, and you fall right off the bed with a thud since Satoru jumps too, like two kids caught.

“We were… talking!?” Satoru covers his bulge with a pillow, and your sister just bursts out laughing, wearing a tiara and a sash that says bride to be.

“Get out!” You throw a pillow at her, knocking her tiara clean off, Satoru would laugh but he’s still throbbing and it fucking hurts.

How would he ‘pretend’ to kiss you!?

“Rude, it’s my wedding you know.”

“Why are you barging in?”

“I wanna see my sis and her pookie,” she’s giggling, while you start shoving her out the door. “Don’t you miss me?”

“Not really, annoying little sisters still suck, even when they get married.” She winks over at Satoru now, laughter still coming out and making you heat up in embarrassment.

“Looks like you two are next, I could feel the tension!”

“Out!” You shove her unceremoniously, resting your back and the door and huffing, you’re far too cute like that, and doing nothing for his situation. Your eyes meet his, before you look down a bit, pushing off the door to stand. “Sorry, she’s as much of a menace as ever.”

“She certainly is,” he teases, smiling a bit at you and feigning ease. “Um… I’m sorry that…”

“No, no it’s cool, um… it’s just a normal reaction for a guy, right?” You’re so clueless you wouldn’t even know. “Aren’t you experienced?”

“Callin’ me a slut?” He raises a brow.

“Not a virgin, is all.”

“You’re… are you…” You blush furiously, this whole thing is more embarrassing every freaking second. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” You sink down and cover your face, Satoru wills his damn cock to fully go down so he can get up, but he’s toxic and thinking of having you first.

Stop that, stop it, go down.

Down boy.

He finally just adjusts it up into his waistband and comes up to you, sitting right on the plush carpet and wrapping an arm around you. “Why be embarrassed, what’s wrong if you’re picky?”

“I’m twenty three, that’s what’s wrong,” you peek at him then, and he just looks too good in that moment, your body still throbbing from sitting on him. “I’m the forty year old virgin.”

“You are not,” he’s snorting in laughter, playfully pulling you close, tilting two fingers under your chin. “I could fix that for you.”

You pause just a moment, lips parted, eyes wide.

“What!?”

“I was kidding,” he lets your chin go, before raising a brow. “Unless?”

“You’re annoying!” He gets shoved away, laughing at himself like he’s just so funny, but all he does is embarrass you more, confuse you more.

What dumb idea was this?

“Do we need to practice kissing too?”

“I’ve kissed, you know.” Why are Satoru’s lips so glossy?

“Plant one on me, rockstar,” he taps his lips with that annoying smirk of his. “Don't want the first to be in front of them, what if they know?”

“Oh fine, you brat,” Satoru smooches his lips all dramatically, when you get on your knees, hands on his shoulders. “Pucker up then.”

“I'm scared!?” You both laugh then, you've always been so comfortable with each other, until your lips land on his.

You both pull back, his hand slipping up your back. Your lips tingle, this little shock you can't explain, looking down at glossy lips. “There, I kissed you.”

“You did, a little peck. That's all you know?”

“You're an ass,” he chuckles, trying to ease the tension, but you felt too good. “I can kiss.”

“Lemme see, bet I'm better.”

“You always think you're the best at everything,” you roll your eyes, then your little hands are on either side of his face, kissing him deeply. He exhales, tongue slipping against the seam of your lips, you damn near squeak, pulling back quickly with a gasp. “What're you doing?”

“Kissing you,” he captures your lips again, hungry as he pours all of the desire he's had into it, tilting his head to the side to dive deeper. You’re trembling, hands gripping in fists at your sides, struggling to collect yourself. Your tongue moves back against his, lashes fluttering shut, letting him drink up your little sighs.

His hand entangles in your hair, tongue dancing along your teeth, his taste so sweet it’s intoxicating. Slipping closer, a hand on his thigh, letting him overtake you completely, gripping his thigh and clinging for some sense of normalcy. Whatever you’ve imagined this kiss would be like over the years couldn’t have prepared you – your heart hammering, desire clenching your tummy.

He pulls back a bit, just as lost as you it seems, but only a moment – then it’s a little smirk and a raised brow. “Mmm. That's how you kiss.”

“Not in front of people you don't,” you stare up at him, dazed, seeing a blush form on his own cheeks. “You wanna have your tongue in my throat in front of them?”

“What!? No… I was showing you for… later.”

“Later.”

“Mmm,” he brushes the air next to your cheek before he gets up quickly, clearing his throat. “I need um… a shower.”

“Right, go ahead,” he darts to the bathroom, leaving your legs trembling, your lips tingling from him. Just what was that!?

****

“So, when did you two know you were in love?” Satoru almost spits out his drink the same time you do, simultaneously panicking and looking at each other.

“We didn’t figure out a story!” You whisper in his ear, trying to look like you’re being loving, a hand on his thigh driving him to insanity.

“Well, she confessed her love to me,” you scowl, Satoru holds your hand with a devious grin, keeping it on a well muscled thigh that’s fucking your sense. “She told me she’d loved me since… let’s see, kindergarten!”

“Called that,” your sister says, snuggling up to her fiance while she sips on champagne. “She said you were - the cutest boy she ever- hey!?”

“That’s quite enough,” you mumble, launching a little garlic knot at her head, Satoru’s snickering and it’s hard to pretend you don’t wanna punch him. “So yeah, kindergarten, but he’s the one who confessed first.”

“I did?” You stomp his foot, he hisses and scowls. “Oh yeah, I did… I told her I love how mean she is.”

“That’s an odd love confession,” your mom says, looking between you both with an amused expression. Satoru kicks you back under the table and you yelp. “Are you two… good?”

“So good mom! Aren’t we Toru?” You nuzzle his cheek but that little act makes his heart race, his stomach tense from just how good it feels. “Answer.”

Your whisper reminds him of the goal here, he smiles and turns then, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, and the two of you freeze. You’d practiced in the room, he was curious if it was the nerves of the first time together, but nothing felt like that, like the sweetness of your lips under his, eyes looking right at him in shock when he wraps an arm around you.

“Aw!” They’re all cooing over you both, Satoru pulls back and you both fail to compose yourselves for just a moment, before Satoru grins.

“We are good, aren’t we pookie?” He murmurs, you shake yourself out of it, remembering what you’re doing here.

“Yes, for sure. When is the rehearsal dinner?” You ask, looking at your sister now, who launches a garlic knot back at you. “Hey!”

“You started it,” you both stick your tongues out at each other. Satoru snatches the flung knot and pops it in his mouth, sighing.

“Yummy.”

You giggle at that, but he licks the buttery garlic off his lips and fucks up your head instead. You’re trembling just a bit at his tongue rushing across his lips, yeah it affected you before – you’ve had it bad for Satoru for a long time, but now it was even worse than before.

“Want a bite, little shnookums?” Satoru teases, forking the spaghetti and swirling it around. You go to say no when he raises his brows.

“Oh, of course pookiekins!” He snorts just a bit in laughter, but when your lips wrap it and you take it in your mouth?

Fuck.

You have just a little sauce on the corner of your lips – Satoru wipes it without thinking, making your eyes dart up to his contact. “You’re messy, sugar shnookums.”

“Thank you, pookie bear.” You murmur teasingly, ignoring how good his fingers feel on your face.

“Oh you two are disgustingly in love,” your sister makes a face, Satoru just feeds you another fork full. “When are you gonna pop the question?”

“It’s new!?” You say in between bites – at this point Satoru is feeding you. Your aunt and uncle start going on and on about how much they love him – who doesn’t love Satoru?

The plan is working perfectly, they aren’t bothering you about dating someone, and they buy the friends to lovers story easily. Overall, it’s already a big success, which Satoru can’t help but gloat about when you step into the room, wearing your pajamas, which are just a shirt of Satoru’s you stole and a little pair of shorts.

He pauses as you step out of that bathroom, running a brush through your hair, the lights soft from behind you, making your skin look that much prettier, every inch revealed where that shirt hits mid thigh glowing. Your nipples are pressed against the thin, soft material, he struggles to rip his eyes off them.

You can’t get your eyes off him either, just wearing a pair of sweats with little digimon all over them and nothing else - chest bare. You’re used to that, his chiseled frame and narrow torso, however right now it makes you press your thighs together just a bit, tension so thick in the air it’s hard to even breathe.

Act normal.

This isn’t real.

“You stole my shirt?” He breaks that silence, raising a thin brow at you, you manage an eye roll, heading over to the bed and lifting the cover.

“Of course I did,” it makes you feel close to him, god it smells like him. “I love your bougie ass shirts, so comfy.”

“Tch,” you giggle, looking far too cute when you snuggle, and Satoru hesitates just a bit. “You want me to sleep on the ground?”

“No, no that’d be so rude, we can share right?” He eyes the bed again, sighing at how narrow it is.

He’d be pressed against you if he turned one wrong way.

Satoru slips in under the blankets next to you, laying on his back, studying your face carefully before flicking off the lamp on the bedside. “Think they bought it?”

You look at him, yawning a bit. “I do, pookiekins.”

Satoru snorts in laughter, ruffling your hair annoyingly, you smack at his hand and sit up a bit. “What’s the plan when you have to tell them the truth?”

You frown a bit then, brows drawing together. “I haven’t thought that far, I hope it won’t hurt them…”

“Can’t pretend forever, y’know,” you nod a bit, turning back to your side now, ass damn near touching him, making his heart thrum in his chest. “We can just tell them we’d rather stay friends?”

“We could,” your fingers trace the sheets in front of you, contemplative while the soft cotton runs under your fingers. “Don’t worry I won’t make you keep doing this or anything, I know it’s already annoying.”

“It’s…” not annoying. “I actually…” love this too much. “It’s not a big deal, you’d do the same for me.”

You look back with a pretty little smile – almost a sad one, making him contemplate that expression far too much. “Of course I’d be your fake girlfriend.”

“Aww, we’re bonding,” he rests on his side, grinning at you, making something in your heart flip before you turn back around. “What if I kick you off the bed by accident?”

“Psh, wouldn’t be an accident, you’re evil,” Satoru chuckles, feigning an ease he no longer feels, when your shoulders gently move up and down, falling asleep quickly. “Night Toru.”

“G’night…”

He slips the covers over your shoulders as you fade out.

One bed.

You’re both sleeping in the same bed.

Satoru can inhale your scent, feel the heat of your body when you're so close, hear your light little snore, and everything in him aches to tug you closer, to feel you against him. How would it feel to hold you in his arms? It’s like you belong there, truly, he can’t imagine how you’re not then, how he restraints himself.

Life moved on for you both, once inseparable, but you both always made time for each other, whereas when he’s had break ups, it was done for good. Satoru can’t risk losing you just because he can’t hold back anymore, he has to remember you just wanted to get your parents off your back, and that the kisses were just for show.

Everything changed when your lips met.

His fingers hover just a couple inches away from where the blanket covers your skin, tracing the curve of your hip, where he'd love to tug you against him, wrap his arm, before he lets it fall and turns to face the other side.

It's impossible to fall asleep next to you and not hold you.

*****

You wake up with Satoru Gojo’s heavy arm and thigh wrapped around you like a monkey, trapping you down with his heavy weight. You wriggle just a bit, blinking sleep out of your eyes while soft light filters in through the slots of the blinds.

Turning, you see his Adam's apple, his chin, pulling back to look up at him, far too pretty to exist. His snowy lashes are long and lush, the sharp plane of his jaw illuminated by the sun, his plump lips just the tiniest bit parted. He shifts just a bit when you try to disentangle yourself, a hand pressing on your lower tummy and tugging you against him.

That’s then his thigh comes between yours, and the hard muscles press against your cunt, you gasp and wriggle again, only enhancing how fucking good he feels. Satoru murmurs your name softly, you worry he’s awake - but he’s still knocked out, while you’re drooling down his bare skin.

Fuck.

You push at his big ass arms, ignoring how good those biceps feel underneath your fingertips, but Satoru just increases how tightly he’s squeezing you, burying his face against your neck like you’re a body pillow. You’d laugh if you weren’t stupidly wet against your best friend in the world.

“Satoru, wake up,” you manage to murmur, despite him squeezing you so tightly you can’t breathe damn near. You take several breaths, shutting your eyes and trying to ignore how good it feels here. This was your idea – to fake date, to put yourself in a position like this, acting as if your feelings were gone.

They’re clearly more prevalent than ever.

He shifts once more, his scent enwrapping you just like his long limbs do, steady thrum of his heart and his deep breaths against your back moving ever so slowly, pressing his thigh higher. At this point it feels so good you can’t help but flutter your eyes shut, just stuck with him, biting your lip to try to hold back a filthy little moan when your slit drags against him.

Fuck, stop moving!

“Hmm,” he’s humming in his sleep, hand slipping up now until one grips your breast. “So soft.”

“Satoru!” You smack at his hand, hissing damn near when he squishes it in his grip, just making you wetter. “Get off!”

Satoru finally stirs away, realizing just how compromised your position was, blinking sleep out of his eyes and leaning up, feeling your soft breast in his hand, your heat against his thigh. He’s already throbbing just waking up, but then he feels you dripping against him? He sucks in a breath, frozen behind you, hand no longer gripping but not moving.

“Shit,” he grumbles, pulling his hand off reluctantly, ignoring the fact that your nipple grazed his palm like it did. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re suffocating me,” you shove his arm off you, but his leg stays, and you heat up when you realize how wet you got, embarrassingly so and there was no denying it. “I um… you’re… it’s…”

“Natural,” he murmurs softly, sleep making his voice raspy, making the situation a million times worse between your thighs. “I must have just wrapped around you, I usually hug like three pillows.”

“Yeah,” you can’t say anything else, his hand hovers over your hip, not touching but sitting there. He pulls back a bit, eliciting a whimper from your throat before you can stop yourself, covering your mouth and shutting your eyes. “Let the earth fucking swallow me now.”

He laughs just a bit, hand finally settling on your thigh, pressing it up against his hard muscles again, pressing right up between your folds. You look back at him with a glare, his smirk widening. “Need some help?”

“I swear I’ll beat you,” your lashes flutter when he moves again. “I didn’t make fun of you yesterday.”

“You were wet then too,” you glare now, just looking far too pretty. “Do you need me to take care of you?”

“Take care of… you’re Satoru and… fuck stop that!” You’re whining out again, slamming a hand on your mouth again, when his hand drags you on your thigh. “This is mortifying.”

“Been a while?” He’s acting like he’s not dying, leaking so much pre his shorts are stuck to him, an easy grin on his face.

“You’re a dick,” you sigh, burying your face in your hand now. “Your fake boyfriend skills do not need to extend to this.”

“I see, you don’t need any help at all,” he brushes his thigh up again, pushing down on your hip so you’re grinding on him now, you’re trembling, wanting to punch him as much as you want to hump his leg. “You could use me while I’m here.”

“Use you?” You look back at him, shifting your hips and watching his pupils widen, the only sign he’s affected at all.

“Mmm, could be a perk of the fake dating.”

“Fake orgasms?” You tease, then he leans low, lips almost brushing yours. Your heart hammers in your chest, you know he’s teasing you, but it’s impossible to maintain any calm right now.

“No, they’d be very real,” Satoru’s fingers slip up a bare thigh under the blanket that’s all askew and half kicked off, keeping that smirk on even though if he touches your pussy he’ll probably just cum. “I can show you how and everything, what are friends for?”

“You think I don’t masturbate because I’m a virgin?” It’s his turn to barely be able to form a sentence. “Just because no one has gotten me off doesn’t mean I don’t.”

“Ah,” the thought of you touching your pretty pussy is enough to make him bust and leak out all over that ass nestled against him. “So you’re good then, no need for my best friend services?”

“You joke too much!” You turn and shove him, until he flops off the bed, scowling up at you, you just giggle, trying to forget the fact that you humped his leg damn near. “Stop playing.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he stays on the floor, just leaned back on his hands, legs crossed at the ankles, studying you, suddenly quiet.

“What is it?”

Satoru opens his lips, then shuts them, then opens again. “It’s just that… I didn’t agree to this for-”

“Who’s ready for a shopping trip!?” Your sister annoyingly bangs on the door, you roll your eyes and shake your head, getting up and walking over to open it before looking over at Gojo.

“What was it, Toru?” You ask softly, he stands then, looking far too good when you study his muscled back, making you ache in ways you can’t admit.

Satoru was going to tell you he didn’t agree to this for ‘merch’ or just because you two were best friends.

He wants more, he wants this to be real. Fitting in with your family like a glove, feeling loved from you and them, the closeness you two share that leaves a void any time he ever tries to date. What you don’t realize is he has been dying to get the courage to ask you out, but he’s always hit one road block.

Losing this forever.

Best friends can get through anything, but relationships scatter, they fall apart – they drift away, and he can’t imagine not having you near.

“What is it?” You’re smiling curiously, but he just shakes his head.

“It’s nothing,” he pats your head with a sad little smile, making the inner workings of your brain fire off in a myriad of signals. “Better get that.”

“Right,” your sister soon drags you out to shop, bombarding you about Satoru while he relaxes at home with your parents.

“Should we get lingerie?”

“Oh god,” you’re grumbling when you two pass a lingerie store, the mannequins up front wearing the most delicate lace that covers nothing. “No way.”

“Don’t you two…” You’re a flustered mess, your sister’s brows raising. “You’re not fucking yet?”

“Shut up!?” You cover her mouth, embarrassingly looking around to see who is within ear shot, she’s laughing against your palm.

“He must be a gentleman, well I’ll get you the sluttiest-”

“We’re here for you, not me, I already have my dress.”

“I’m the bride,” you roll your eyes at her. “What I say goes. Ooh! That screams - fuck me daddy.”

“I’m so done with you,” you’re laughing though, your sister is anything if not a fucking trip, younger and more experienced, a free bird truly. “Fine, one outfit.”

“Yay!”

*****

“Make a toast!” Everyone is urging you that afternoon at the rehearsal dinner. As the maid of honor you absolutely had to do just that, prepare the first toast.

You look over at Satoru, who’s sipping on champagne while you all sit around the banquet table, his Adam's apple bobs with his swallowing of the bubbly, fruity concoction. You smile at him, earning his little wink that just didn’t feel fake at all, a hand squeezing above your knee gently.

How could you separate what’s for show, what’s friendship, and what could be…

More?

Shaking that off, you focus on the bride and groom to be instead, who are both nuzzling each other’s noses. They’re sickeningly cute, naturally doing the things you and Satoru are pretending to, the longing fills you then and you despise it. You should be happy for her, not envious because you’re scared you’ll ever get that.

Not when Satoru exists.

“I’d like to toast to our soon to be newlyweds. To the two lovebirds, who have shown us all what it means to love someone unconditionally, and who have had the nerve to make it look easy,” your sister gets a little teared up then. “I don’t know how you deal with her crazy ass – but you do it well.”

“Hey!” They’re all laughing a bit, you smile over at her.

“I love you, and I love to see your relationship blossom,” a little more serious again, everyone settles in. “You both make me want that love.”

Satoru’s heart hammers in his chest while he watches you, in that pretty pink dress you’re wearing, the same shade as the blossoms decorated along the white tablecloth. You’re soft like this, usually so feisty and cracking jokes – this is a more serious side of you, the side that’s always pulled him in and intrigued him.

He’s avidly listening to every word that lingers from your lips, lost in how much he wishes they were for him, about him. He puts on a perfunctory laugh when he has to, mingling in with your family, trying to ignore how perfect and easy it all feels, but everything was easy with you, it always had been.

It was terrifying, how easy it was to hold you in his arms.

“How’d I do?” You whisper, leaning close – too close.

He gives you that easy grin, leaning over to press a kiss on your cheek, feeling it warm under his lips. “You did great sugar plum.”

You snort at the nickname, but all you can think is one thing –

You should have taken him up on his offer.

Soon the dance instructor is guiding all of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, along with your sister and her groom, but they of course set their sights right on you and Satoru. You could swear your sister was part demon – how could she at one moment shove you both together, then the other quite literally cockblock, you’ll never know.

“Dance you two,” your sister practically shoves you and Satoru to the wide space in the banquet hall, and the instructor steps up. “They don’t know how to dance, can you give them the basics?”

“Says who!?” You and Satoru demand at the same time, she snickers a bit.

“Says me seeing you two awkwardly shuffle every school dance.” You and Satoru flush then, he clears his throat a bit when the dancer takes his hand.

“One on her waist,” he murmurs, all seductive with some french accent that makes this all the more intimate. “And one on her hand, like this. Ah, so romantic!”

Satoru looks at your entwined fingers for a moment, how his hand swallows yours with his long, thick fingers, before he looks down into your eyes, seeing how dark they’ve gotten. Your heart races so quickly he can feel it when the instructor presses you both close together, his fingers squeezing your waist just a bit, feeling your skin burning underneath your dress.

“Ah, that is young love,” he blinks back tears, you’re so embarrassed then, even emotional when your mom is almost crying. You start to feel terrible for this little game, knowing it will hurt them.

You were so selfish, dragging Satoru in this too, who’s looking at you with those blue eyes that you could never figure out the shade of, holding your hand in his while pressing you against his firm, hard frame. You’re hardly able to form a word or a typical joke you two usually share, not like this, not when you believe this dance instructor’s flowery words.

Love.

You’ve loved Satoru for so long in so many ways, as a friend, as damn near family, as a confidant. Yet the love keeps changing, shifting and just growing with every moment you exist next to him, drinking up every bit of what Satoru Gojo had to offer – which was so much, too much.

Over the years watching him date, you tried your best to remain detached, and he never let your friendship go. You have been a priority to him since you both made friends on that playground back in first grade, he makes you feel so…

Special, seen, heard.

Even when he’s joking, teasing or annoying you, he’s been there to hold you when you cry, to distract you from your low times, whether he helped you study or he just sat there next to you in the quiet. Yet he never crossed the line, never even touched you like he has this week, in your little game that feels too perfect, making you realize that you’ll never have this with someone.

How could you feel this, the length of time you’ve known each other, the comfortability even as you’re physically on edge. The familiarity when he spins you on the floor tentatively, you misstep just a bit, yet he catches you with ease. He always has caught you in your clumsy bouts, usually teasing or making fun, but when his arm wraps your waist?

He’s too stunned to think.

You already look too pretty in that dress, you’re so serious tonight – not the goofy girl he usually spends his days with. That flush that spreads across your cheeks and nose, the lights dancing across your bare skin in that dress, he avoids looking too fucking long at it, at the pretty necklace resting between your collarbones.

He wants to trail his lips across them – then lower, to the pretty breasts he had in his hand this morning, the mere memory almost makes him misstep, narrowly catching himself beforehand. You look up at him as if you’ll say something, the eyes of the entire rehearsal dinner on you, before you look back down at his chest, worrying your lower lip with your teeth.

“Am I a good partner, sugar bear?” He teases, lightening the mood then, you sigh and plaster on a smile and a nod, but it feels fake.

This is fake.

Why are you so absorbed, so lost in the cerulean depths that look down at you, twinkling just a bit with playfulness, yet when they briefly sweep down across your chest, you heat up under their gaze. Satoru spins you as instructed, bringing your back against him, hands joined while you look at each other, ending the dance.

Everyone is clapping, earning the slight embarrassment of the two of you, but it’s worse when your mom pulls you aside, hugging you tightly. “I’m so happy for you, to see you both so in love.”

Ouch.

You’re gonna hurt her.

You’re gonna hurt yourself.

You and Satoru sit through the rest of that dinner with ease, his arm casually thrown over your chair, leaning close to pull off the roll that will be done soon. You don’t want this to end, the way he treats you, looks at you – as if he truly does feel the way he’s merely pretending to.

“Everything all right?” You look at him then, concern on his features. At your little nod his lips press together, eyes narrowing. “No you’re not.”

He knows you too fucking well.

“I’m good, promise!” You put a hand on his thigh and squeeze just a bit, smiling brightly up at him.

He doesn’t buy it of course.

*****

Later that night back at home your family is still enjoying drinks and talking, you two are thoroughly exhausted. Satoru is setting up blankets and pillows on the floor, you guiltily sit in the bed, tugging the covers up to cover your chest and sitting up. It’s probably fucking better he does lay on the floor for your own sanity, yet you can’t stand the thought of not enjoying him in your bed for this short amount of time.

“Satoru, I can take the floor.”

“No way I let you do that,” he looks up at you, shirtless and wearing his pajama pants only, the way that makes you ache. “I clearly in my sleep grab your tits and cling like a monkey.”

“Yes you do,” you laugh a bit, and so does he, self deprecating as always, then a quietness settles in the room. “We could put a pillow between us?”

“I’ll probably still attack,” he’s teasing, eyes glittering with humor. “Should probably keep me on the floor.

You want him in bed.

You want him to ‘help’ you, as he called it just this morning, taunting and teasing you until you almost begged him. Yet you can’t just blurt that out – what part had been kidding, and what was serious? What crossed the line with the two of you anymore, could things just be at some ‘friendship’ level truly? Or would it just ruin everything to have a taste of him?

“Is it because I was so wet?” The word almost makes him whimper, eyeing you with those baby blues gone round.

“Is it… huh!?”

You press your legs together, looking away nervously. “Wet, I was soaking wet on you this morning.”

He swallows then – as if he needed a fucking reminder, as if he didn’t desperately run his finger down his own thigh and lap your juices clean off it the moment he was away. Sucking it so desperately and pathetically it was damn near laughable, just how badly he wanted you.

Why do you have to look so pretty on that damn bed?

“No, no that didn’t bother me at all,” he rubs the back of his neck, cursing the way you make him feel like that nerdy little boy he was the first time he ever tried to kiss you, way back during junior prom. The sweaty palms, the shaky hands, the awkward shifting of his feet. “I promise.”

You exhale, shutting your eyes. “I am making things all so weird.”

“You’re not,” you cover your face then, wincing a little bit at yourself. “Hey, promise you aren’t.”

The bed sinks underneath his weight, Satoru sits next to you – brushing your hair back softly, before grabbing your wrists and lowering your hands, making you meet his gaze. It’s quiet, so quiet you could hear your heartbeat in your ears, the gentle sound of his breathing mingling with your own.

“Your offer to help, is that off the table?” Satoru almost cums at the mere thought of touching you, but he’s so in shock he just stares, mouth wide open, until you feel so embarrassed. “Shit, forget I said that…”

“What do you need help with?” His voice is hoarse, just a bit scratchy, he clears his throat, still holding your hand, thumb brushing across your knuckles.

“Won’t it make it awkward, weird? I don’t want to fuck our friendship up, ever Satoru. It’s important to me.”

He cups your face gently. “Tell me what you want,” his raspy command almost destroys your resolve. “I’ll give you it.

You almost say – ‘fuck me please’ – Almost.

“Some relief you have so graciously offered,” you tease him a little, hand slipping up and down his chest. “I could return it.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He’s staring at your mouth now, picturing it wrapping his cock for a moment, then he pictures busting inside your mouth in one fucking second. He quickly shoves that idea out the window, he damn sure wasn’t gonna waste the moment he’s been waiting for since high school being embarrassed.

Your lips would feel so good. He shakes that off, pushing your back down on the bed and spreading your thighs before you can think. You gasp, his arms on either side of you, silky white locks falling over a brow, so close you feel his heart thrumming against your breasts, feel his heavy weight, touch burning your thighs, fingers pressing in.

“Satoru?” You manage a whisper, his hands slip up under his own shirt you stole, biting back a gasp when he realizes.

“Nothing under this?” You flush, looking down now. “Look at me.”

Fuck.

You just follow what he says when he’s like this, all the years of sweet nerdy best friend Satoru culminate in the man before you – still every bit Satoru Gojo – but this side of him you have never seen. A side you imagined so often, but nothing even prepared you for his fingers gliding up your thighs, causing them to tremble, slick dripping from your cunt from just the proximity.

“I’ll never not be here for you,” he whispers softly, as if sensing your every fear. “If you want to have a little experience with me, I’ll gladly give it and expect nothing in return.”

Your throat goes dry. “But why?”

“Why?” He reveals your cunt then, bare and glistening for his view, failing to control his hands from gripping you so tight you wince, from exhaling at how pretty it is. “Fuck… why what?”

“Why would you?”

“Hah, why would I?” He doesn’t even know where to begin to answer your nonsense.

“You’re looking at it!”

He laughs softly, nodding then, eyes affixed to how pretty your pussy is, touch trailing along your inner thigh, at the apex of it. “You want me to stop?”

“No.”

Your eyes are locked, his fingers grazing little trails up and down smooth skin, until he almost touches your core, teasing but not fully, making you throb with need. “Then tell me what you want me to do.”

“Make me cum – oh my god I just said that! Out loud!?” You cover your mouth and he almost bursts into laughter, even as he’s pressing his cock against the bed for friction, at how cute you are, instead his lips quirk up.

“Shh, want your parents to know I’ve got you spread wide?” His words are too much, the way he says them, the way he moves lower, so low you tug at his hair. “Do you not want that?”

“You’re… down there… and…”

“It’s so pretty.”

You ease a bit at those words, eyes shutting in relief, Satoru sees the tension ease just a bit. “It is?”

“God, yes.”

You swallow nervously, breaths coming in little pants. “We will always be in each other’s lives, this won’t fuck it all up, will it?”

Satoru kisses your thigh then, tongue flicking up to lap up a little of the slick that’s dripped down, a sensual mark of his saliva glittering when he pulls back. “I’d never let you out of my life. You think I’d not be your friend?”

“Just can’t lose you,” you whisper, before moaning softly, the sound so sensual Satoru almost can’t handle it. “I thought you could um… finger me?”

“I can do that too,” he kisses even higher, breathy moans escaping his lips. “But I am very, very fucking good at this.”

“The best at everything, hmm?” You manage to tease, acting like his nose brushing up your folds wasn’t almost enough to end you, your fingers gripping the sheets underneath you.

“I am the best at everything, it’s true,” he smiles all devious and cute, while your hands slip up his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense underneath your touch. “Wouldn’t I be the best friend in the world if you came on my mouth?”

Your own mouth goes dry, your answer lifting and spreading your thighs for him, he inhales your scent still looking at you. “I want you to, please.”

Satoru uses this as the permission to do something he’s been dying to for as long as he’s known what it is – to lick your pussy, the prettiest one, the yummiest one, a stripe straight up your slit. He maintains eye contact, you’re struggling to keep them open, his tongue soaking up the juices that start pouring then, until the tip of his tongue flicks your little clit.

“Ah!” He shushes you with a little shh that tickles you more, your teeth grip your lip, watching your best friend start lapping at your cunt. “Oh my god…”

“Mmm,” Satoru’s tongue is filthy as it runs up and down your slit, collecting every drop like it’s precious – and it is to him. The taste of you on his thigh hadn’t come close to this, to just how sweet you were going down his throat. He eyes you, parting your folds, watching your face screw up in pleasure, brows drawing together.

Best friends just don’t eat pussy like this.

He’s fucking you with that tongue, nose bumping your clit that’s aching for more, twitching in response, and you know this is so dumb, you know there’s no coming back from having those blue eyes look at you like that. Signing your death sentence – your cat lady sentence – with three more flicks, until the wet muscle is gripped by your gummy walls.

“Satoru,” you’re whispering out his name, struggling to hold back all the moans that threaten, instead releasing them in little shaky spurts under your breath. Your core is tightening with every fuck of his tongue, gasps escaping your lips when he shoves your thighs up, smiling down at you for a moment.

“Hold ‘em up f’me.”

You’re so exposed, holding your thighs as he orders, opening up even more for him, he moans at the sight, pressing messy kisses to your clit now, over and over in little circles, causing your hips to jerk. He smacks your cunt, looking down at you under those snowy lashes, lips coated in your gloss.

“Stay still,” he swirls two fingers in that arousal that’s pouring, running them up and down your slit ever so slowly, inching them and stretching you out. “Fuck, you’re so tight…”

“Mnh…” You are gripping him too much, he eases his fingers out with a wet sound that echoes, spreading you wide again and spitting right on your cunt, using that to sink his fingers back in.

“Better?” He murmurs, you nod quickly, eyes rolling back in your skull. Fingers pressing up on that soft spot over and over, earning your weak little mewl as a response, he smirks down at you. “That’s a yes, I take it.”

You nod again, words escape you, how can you talk when he’s flicking his tongue over your clit and moaning against your skin?

He’s so focused, so intense, his blue eyes never leaving yours, even as his mouth works you over with a hunger you never knew he had, one he’s just held back. You’re mad anyone ever got this. Stupid thoughts, selfish and greedy, your fingers now entangling and tugging at his hair, just making his moans vibrate on your little clit again, sending jolts of pleasure up your body.

Satoru’s thick fingers slide in and out with greater ease despite how fucking long they are, curling inside you, pressing that spot that makes you want to scream out – barely muffling it with teeth that are sinking into your lower lip. His tongue is relentless, swirling around your clit, then flattening to give it a firm lick that almost undoes you completely.

“Taste so good, fuck,” he whispers then he fucking just dives back down.

The ecstasy makes you weak while the pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, your thighs start to tremble while you hold them up and he adds a third finger, stretching you even more, filling you up until you can’t take it anymore. You arch your back, your hands tightening their grip on your thighs as you open more for him, gasping out.

“You’re close, huh sweetheart?” The way that word feels, the way he’s watching you, fingers still pumping in and out.

“Please, Toru,” Satoru almost cums at that little plea, so sweet and pliant, holding your thighs up like a good girl. He presses a kiss on one of them, rutting his cock against the mattress for any pressure.

“Mmm, then cum for me.”

Like some obeyed command it hits, your pussy clamps down on his fingers, pulsing around them as you ride it out, screaming into your palm, white hot stars behind your eyelids. You’re barely able to contain those pornographic little moans, so sensitive you’re jerking when he pulls those fingers out.

He doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and suck you hungrily, desperately, drawing out every last bit of your climax until you’re a writhing mess, twitching underneath him, clinging to his hair to pull him off. Satoru’s so drunk off your taste, your scent - you.

He almost can’t unlatch his mouth until he realizes how overstimulated you are, your aftershocks die down but he slips a finger back in just to feel you pulse, moaning softly before he finally slips it back out, plush lips giving your clit one last gentle kiss before sitting back and sliding up.

“So, how amazing am I, hmm?” He drags out those words, chin coated in your slick, you swipe some of it off just for him to nip at your thumb.

“Fuck… you are amazing at it,” you earn his dopey grin, he licks the rest of you off his lips, making you flush. “Don’t get so cocky.”

“I knew you’d admit it,” he eases your shirt down, your fingers trail across his abdomen, watching the muscles tense, tentatively touching him. He grips your wrist then, shaking his head. “You don’t have to do all that.”

“Don’t you want me to?” You ask curiously, his gaze zones in on your mouth again, picturing just brushing his tip on it and cumming.

“In what world wouldn’t I? But I don’t want to overwhelm you, you’re a cute little virgin you know,” he taps your nose, chuckling at your glare. “Pussy is perfect, in case you ever worry.”

“Oh,” you snuggle up to him while he wraps an arm around you. “Thank you, that was insane…”

“I’m at your service.”

“More figures incoming.”

He chuckles, hugging you tightly, you feel so good in his embrace, as you both feign an ease you don’t feel. “Are you all right with what happened?”

“Yes, very,” you look back and smile sleepily. “Are you?”

“Mmhmm,” he can’t very well say he’d die to be inside you, he doesn’t want to push this too far, unsure of where you all stand. “I’ll miss this weekend.”

It’s quiet, save for your breaths.

You shift a bit, hand running up and down his veiny forearm, tracing a few of them, hearing the hitch in his rhythm. “I’ll miss it too.”

Satoru just holds you tightly, inhaling your scent in his lungs and sighing. “Are you excited for the wedding?”

“Very, they’re so happy, you know?” You yawn a bit, it’s too comfy here, so comfy you wonder if you’ll ever sleep good again, knowing he’s here.

“They are,” he leaves it quiet, scared and unsure what to say, aside from murmuring - “Good night.”

“Night, Toru.”

Satoru can hardly sleep, remembering the way you felt underneath him, it takes a while to let himself drift, when he knows that he won’t get you in his arms again, and he just wants to savor every moment. You’re lightly snoring, turning to face him, slinging an arm around his waist, your cheek against his chest.

He just holds you close, studying a face too precious, wishing he wasn’t so afraid to just admit what he feels.

*****

You woke up in Satoru’s arms again this morning, and it felt far, far too good to be there.

You’re not even sure where you stand with him, exactly what last night was for you both, but you know it wasn’t normal to feel that way. It went beyond any pleasure or skill, the way you fucking felt when that man looked at you was inexplicable. Not just a product of beautiful eyes, no there was something in the way you felt last night that’s lingering.

You heat up with the memory even now, you’re both at your sister’s reception – the game is almost over, the show is almost done. You’re struggling to keep it together when you watch your sister dance with your dad, when you watch your new brother in law dance with your mom, then with each other.

Love.

You love your best friend, Satoru Gojo, and you knew going into this how bad it would hurt, yet you set yourself up like a glutton for punishment. This morning he’d smiled so sweet, teasing you and joking before you all were basically summoned with the sheer insane amount of things that had to be done before this wedding began.

It was too perfect being held by him, as much as you loved him licking you, you loved him holding you, grinning against your skin. He was in full ‘fake boyfriend’ mode, full best friend mode, just being Satoru Gojo, the boy you’ve always known. Yet now there was more shared between you both, more than you can even comprehend and it fucking scares you.

A boy from your childhood strikes up a conversation while many of your old friends go talk to Gojo, a part of growing up together meant you both knew almost everyone here. The boy asks you to dance, holding out his hand then, you hesitate though, looking over at Gojo, who’s watching you while he sips on his drink.

What were you two?

You’re overthinking it, maybe it was just fun for him, maybe it was curiosity that had him worshipping you like that. You eye his glossy lips across the elegant ballroom, him in this sleek black suit looking far too handsome, so handsome he takes your fucking breath away.

You can’t do this.

You can’t stand to see a girl’s hand on his shoulder, something you’ve seen plenty of times before, but now it was different. Now it didn’t feel okay, it didn’t feel right, and you know it’s foolish. You smile and let the boy lead you out, trying to remember that this was all ending tomorrow night, and would just be a memory.

Satoru can’t stand to see you in someone’s arms.

He almost crushes the glass in his hand before he sets it down, catching your gaze when the boy is stumbling damn near, probably due to how pretty you are. And god you’re beautiful under these lights, glimmering off your hair that’s all done up, the dress molding to your body in soft, shimmery satin, making him want to fucking rip it off you then and there.

Last night meant too much – was it just experimental for you, just that you trusted him to be your first in that way, comfortability? He was overthinking it, he knows that when he is dancing right across from you, hand on a waist he doesn’t want, other hand entwined with a hand that’s not yours.

It fucking hurts.

He got a taste of what could be his, and he’ll play it off like it’s fine, like you two are just the best friends in the world and he wasn’t hopelessly in love.

You look up at your sister dancing, she’s getting bent over her new husband’s arm, giggling and waving at you. You smile at her, wanting to feel more joy and not this envy, before your eyes lock back to Gojo’s seeing him spin her in his arms. You don’t expect it to hurt like it does in that moment, to see his arm around someone else’s waist.

He’s looking at you over her shoulder, blue eyes lowering just a bit.

Your heart shatters.

Your mom comes up to you, smiling and cupping your face then, “I feel soon we will be planning your wedding.”

You pause, mouth opening then shutting, tears burning the back of your eyes, when you realize you’ll have to hurt her. You’ll have to hurt them all, because you’re so fucking selfish, and mostly you’ve hurt yourself. Getting a taste of what it would mean to have the boy you’ve loved for as long as you can remember, being greedy with all of those tastes.

Satoru would move on from this, live his life, but you’re not sure you can, how do you get over him, over his touches, his kisses? How he held you, how he looked down into your eyes? Even now, he’s watching you, like he’d rather dance with you in his arms – utter nonsense in your fucking head.

You’re mistaking it all.

“Honey, are you crying?” Your mom frowns, brushing her fingers up and down your cheek, and you realize you are.

“The wedding, it got me so emotional, um…” You’re lying through your fucking teeth right now. “Can I have some air?”

“Of course,” she looks at you concerned when you run out. Satoru excuses himself and rushes to her curiously. “I think this wedding is making her a little emotional, Satoru.”

“Yeah, I’ll go check on her, okay?” He touches her shoulder affectionately, she nods and he rushes out, seeing it’s drizzling out – looking at your retreating form in that frilly pink dress just standing against the lit gazebo, head resting on one of the wooden pillars. “You’re gonna get sick out here, it’s gonna downpour soon.”

“I’m fine,” your voice is weak and hoarse, and Satoru swallows down the pain he feels when you look at him. “Go have fun, this is almost over, you don’t have to ruin opportunities.”

“Ruin what now?” His teeth clench together, the rain spattering gently over the two of you, dripping down his hair as it pummels you. “You danced with someone too.”

“Yeah, I did, that’s what we should do. Right?” Satoru’s hands come to grip your shoulders, chilled from the night air, the lights from the gazebo dancing across your skin.

“Is it what we should do? Is it what you want?”

“It’s what you want.”

“You don’t even know what I want,” he presses your back against that wood pillar now, a hand against it braced, taking the pummeling rain on his dress coat to protect you, making you cry even more. “Was last night the only time?”

“Was it… you want to do it again?” You’re heated up, looking down shyly. “I thought you regretted it.”

“Regretted? Hah,” Satoru tilts your chin up now, making your eyes meet his, brushing a thumb over your lip. “All I regretted last night was not sinking my cock inside you.”

“Satoru…” You blink tears down your cheeks, a hand coming to his chest, he takes it and holds it close, while your body responds. “But it means too much, I can’t just do that as a… friend.”

“So be more,” he lifts you before you can blink, holding you with one arm around your hips like it’s nothing, carrying you up those steps. “And stop getting soaked, unless it’s from me touching you.”

“Fuck,” you grip his face, kissing him deeply, he sets you down, walking you back until the backs of your legs brush against the bench. “Toru…”

“I love you, okay?” Satoru’s voice is muffled by the pounding rain on the gazebo that shelters you both, droplets of water slipping down his skin, you’re sobbing then, so overwhelmed. “I have loved you.”

“I love you, so fucking much, it’s why I’ve never…” You trail off, he’s leaning down and cupping your face, studying you with eyes glassy with emotion. “There is no one for me when you exist.”

He kisses you deeply at that, you shiver as he slips your straps down, eyeing the pretty white lace and exhaling. “You’re wearing that underneath this?”

You say nothing, speechless as Satoru tugs your sopping wet dress down your chest, pulling out a pretty tit and moaning. You gasp out when he sits down, pulling you to straddle him, sucking one nipple hungrily in his mouth. Hands entangle in damp white locks, heat building, that heat that’s pressed against his thick cock, pressing so insistently.

“Wanna bury myself inside you,” he murmurs, looking drunk off you, sucking on the other nipple, his hands slipping across your hips. “I want her to know my shape only.”

“Satoru,” you kiss him again, he’s hastily slipping that dress up over your hips, sinking two fingers in with ease. “Ah!”

“Soaked,” he whispers in wonder, curling them up and looking up at you the way only he does. “Stop me before I fuck you the first time in this gazebo.”

“I don’t want to stop,” your whisper is met with a sharp whine, fingers curling in your messy hole. “Want more.”

“Want me to eat you out again?” He whispers, pumping those fingers while you hastily undo his zipper. “Fuck, you need more prep, don’t pull him out, I’ll fucking shove it so deep.”

“Good, do it,” he’s whimpering when you touch him, stroking your hand up and down, finding that pre and swirling your finger. “He’s so pretty.”

“Don’t praise me too,” he huffs, you manage a little giggle, and in that moment – you all are still best friends, every bit of the comfortability – but there’s more. So much more. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You would never,” he pulls out his fingers, sucking them and moaning out at your taste, before kissing you again.

“You wanna take me?”

You’re a flustered mess now, overheated and damp from the rain, chest rising and falling while lightning flashes all around you both. “The first time?”

“I’ll help you,” he grips his cock at the base, running that velvety tip against your soaking wet cunt, moaning. “You can take as much as you want of me this way, I won’t hurt you.”

You’re emotional again, how much he cares. You’re kissing him while tears fall, rocking against his tip while he whispers your name. “Ah!”

You’re barely taking the tip, stretching your cunt out so good, the burn something you’ve never felt. You pull back to look down at him, his hands are gripping your hips under your dress, thumbs pressing into your pelvis, the sweet ache and pressure building, he eases you up a bit, then down, sucking in a few inches of him, your head falls back, scream echoing quietly in the rain.

“You all right, sweetheart?” He kisses up your collarbone, cock wrapped by your tiny little cunt, already milking him.

“Need help getting… it in…” He exhales, lifting you again, pressing the tip back in, then further, this time it burns less – but the pressure. “So much… too much…”

“Relax baby,” he’s calling you baby. You blink rapidly, letting him guide you up again. “Sit down on it, take what’s yours.”

Your hands grip his shoulders, fingers grabbing the soaking wet material of his jacket, eyes locked while you take more, his gaze lidded and dilated. “That’s it, look how fucking pretty you are.”

You feel so pretty, working up and down again, whining out at how full you are, how deep he’s getting, cunt leaking more and more arousal to accomodate. You feel him everywhere, so deep in your tummy, he’s kissing your chest, your throat, lapping up the rain from your skin, whining out softly under his breath when you roll your hips.

“Is that good? I…”

“It’s perfect, god,” he guides you again, his lashes fluttering shut at the ecstasy of your cunt rocking up and down. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

“Mnh!” You’re taking more, easier every time, your thighs tensing with each thrust, taking more and more until you bottom out, screaming.

“Fuck,” he rests his forehead on yours, hands slipping to grip your ass, a cheek in each of his big hands. “Can’t hold back.”

“Don’t.”

Satoru moans, kissing you again, pulling you towards his chest and leaning back on that bench, starting to fuck up into you now, slamming your cervix. He’s whispering your name while he’s got you stuffed, stretched out on his thick length, he’s just as lost in it as you are, whining out right with you against your lips. Hands pressing in bruisingly while he drags you down.

“Using you like my pretty toy, you like that baby?” He’s completely done for when your eyes get wide, lips parted while you whisper a little yes. “Feel her stretching out?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp again when Satoru slams you down hard. “Toru!”

“Hold on t’me,” you do just that, clinging to Satoru when he flips you to your back on the plush cushion of the bench, tie hovering over your skin so silky. You tug it, bringing his lips to yours. He lifts a leg, sinking back inside you, you’re taking me easier and easier, messy cunt opening for him. “Want you to cum, can you sweetheart?”

Your nod is his answer, he exhales, already close with how tight you are, trying to hold out so you can chase that high, because he wants to see it, wants to feel it. Satoru shoves in deep, rolling his hips just so, when the pressure is too much, fucking unbearable. You shatter underneath him, pleasure rolling over your body even more intense than his mouth had given you.

Violently shaking, you’re drunk off him like he is off you, kisses and mumbles, while his cock works you, wrecks you with every stroke, slower and more calculated, letting you ride that orgasm out. And fuck you’re beautiful underneath him, damp hair splayed, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, exposed breasts all littlered with marks from him.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers, kissing you again, softer strokes slowing down and feeling those aftershocks grip his cock. “Mnh, baby m’close.”

“Cum inside me,” he needs no further fucking invitation, Satoru does just that, whining out your name against your ear when he buries his face against your neck, shoving in deep. “Ngh!”

Cum coats those slick walls in white, so hot and so much, you can feel him pulsing and thickening, pouring more cum deep. You try to catch a breath, but his leaky cock and the warmth spilling from your sensitive cunt have to cumming again, a little smaller but more sensitive, gripping him tightly.

Satoru eases back, your name on his lips, running his fingertips across your cheek and sighing, cock still snug inside you. “I never pictured this, in all the ways I’ve imagined taking you over the years.”

“Oh, how many ways?” You tease, hand entangling in his damp locks, while he presses kisses along your jaw.

“I’ll show you them all on one condition,” you blink now, a little sleepy, the rain slowly dying down. “You’re not my ‘fake girlfriend’ anymore.”

“Real?”

“Real,” you blink back tears, kissing Satoru again, when he pulls out of you and moans at the loss, sighing and studying you. “I still want that merch though.”

“You’re such a jerk!” You shove at him, he’s laughing and the sound melts your heart, the boy you’ve always loved resting on top of you, soothing kisses like little apologies. “Fine, I’ll get you anything you want.”

“Right now, I just want to kiss you some more.” He does just that, and soon your ‘fake boyfriend’ becomes entirely real.

Thank the 25k of you SO MUCH again for always hyping my ass up and motivating me to put these out :') I rly love yall and hope you enjoyed this fluff hehe <3

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine

January, 1915

The moon’s rays filtered through the sparse canopy of the trees from above, bathing that small portion of the forest in its silvery glow. There, about twenty paces ahead, Giyuu locked eyes on his target.

A demon; one he’d been pursuing through the dense forest separating his Manor from the base of a great mountain for the last several miles

The demon had yet to notice him, for it was focused entirely on its own prey — a human woman, who was frantically zigzagging as she ran in a desperate effort to evade its clutches. 

She was succeeding rather well in her endeavor, managing to dart out of the beast’s reach right as it snapped its sharp, deadly claws at her back. But the girl then miscalculated her movements and stumbled over something — whether it was a tree root or her own feet, he could not say — and she went airborne. For one, sickening moment, Giyuu feared he would not be fast enough to save her from falling victim to the demon he was readying to kill.

The girl squealed as she fell, just narrowly managing to avoid the swipe of the beast’s claws as they cut uselessly at the air where her back had been only seconds before. Something long and wooden flew from her hand as she sprawled across the forest floor – a broom.

Odd. 

Steps quick and even, Giyuu’s thumb flicked his sword free from its scabbard. Within seconds of him drawing his weapon, the Slayer’s blade sliced seamlessly through the demon’s neck, its head thudding pathetically to the forest floor before the beast could comprehend the threat.

He landed swiftly on the balls of his feet, the Water Pillar quickly shaking his blade free of the demon’s blackened, rotted blood before sheathing it at his hip. A quick job – that was how he liked it; free of fuss. 

Behind him, he heard the leaves coating the frozen ground of the forest shift and crack as the human girl he’d rescued rose to her feet. He grimaced; while helping rid the world of the blight inflicted upon it by demons was his life’s sole and true purpose, and one he fulfilled without hesitation, he was little more than a fish out of water when it came to talking to those he helped. 

The girl had yet to flee; Giyuu suspected she might be in shock, if not a bit simple, and he sought to prod her along. After all, the sooner she left the forest, the less likely she’d end up a demon’s meal and waste his efforts in preserving her life. 

“You should be fine now. Please return to your ho-,” The dark-haired Slayer’s words were cut off with a sputter as the head of the woman’s broom whacked him sharply up the side of his skull. 

Giyuu stood there for a moment, dazed and slightly confused as he turned towards the woman whose life he’d just preserved. 

The Water Pillar had not paid her much mind upon discovering her seconds away from becoming the slain horned demon’s newest meal, his attention having been entirely focused on eliminating his target. But now, without the distracting threat of a man-eating beast, he could see she was clad in the traditional attire worn by Shinto priestesses, though she looked far too young to have achieved such a status. Instead, she appeared to be much closer to himself in age. The front of her red hakama pants were streaked in mud and dirt from her fall, and several strands of hair had fallen loose from where they’d been gathered in a ribbon just below her shoulders. 

And she was glaring at him. 

“What are you?” She demanded, and the Water Pillar noted the faint tremor in her voice that she worked to conceal behind her defensive stance, her broom braced in front of her like a blade. 

A slow blink. “I am Tomioka.” 

It baffled him that he let his name slide so freely when he’d never been one particularly keen on sharing it. Yet, he’d thought that perhaps the exchange of names would get the wild woman before him to calm, and perhaps lower the sweeping tool —-

“What the hell is a Tomioka?” 

Giyuu wondered whether the — Miko, that was what young priestesses in training were called — had hit her head in the fall. “My name.” 

A faint dusting of red spread across the Miko’s cheeks as she realized the absurdity of her mistake, though she still did not lower her weapon. Rather, she jutted it towards him in what Giyuu thought may have been an attempt to be threatening. 

“And what was that thing just now, Tomioka? And what are you?”  Quickly, her eyes swept behind him, scanning. “Are there more?”

Idly, Giyuu wondered why he was bothering to indulge in such a silly conversation to begin with, chalking it up to the mere fact that they were still in a dark forest, with dawn still several hours away. 

The foolish girl would end up a snack for another demon if she did not turn around and go home. 

“It was a demon. I’d been tracking it for several miles when it stumbled across you. You can count yourself lucky — do not hit me again.” He cut off with a warning, eyes narrowing as the Miko drew the broom back up over her head. 

There was a tense moment as the two regarded one another, Giyuu’s eyes locked on the Miko’s trembling arm as she stared distrustfully back at him. 

The girl’s hands twitched as the broom cleaved through the air once more, but Giyuu knocked it easily away, sending the cleaning tool flying uselessly to the side where it rolled under a bush. 

“Are you finished?” Giyuu asked, irritation creeping into his tone as he stared coolly at the flustered Miko. 

“You’ve stripped me of my only weapon, so I suppose I have no choice,” the young woman sniffed, her tone as frosty as his glare. 

Giyuu grimaced. “You would not have lost the privilege had you simply done as I asked.” 

The Miko folded her arms stubbornly across her chest and glowered at him. “You would truly leave a woman defenseless in the woods? With nothing to protect herself?”

Giyuu scoffed. “You are not a woman; you are a menace.” 

The young woman’s mouth opened and closed several times as her face flushed several shades deeper. “Y-you!” 

A crack! somewhere in the woods made the sputtering Miko fall silent with a small squeak, and Giyuu was bemused to find that the woman’s hands shot to him for safety, when only moments before she’d tried to clobber him away from her. 

“You said that…that thing earlier was a demon, yes?” She whispered and Giyuu nodded, tense as his eyes swept through the shadowy line of the trees, searching. 

“Do you think there are more?”

“So long as we continue sitting here like a pair of lame ducks, more are bound to come sniffing.” The wary Pillar replied. “Which is why I suggest you return home — without bludgeoning me further.”

The young Priestess continued to cling to his arm, her eyes wide and anxious. Giyuu cleared this throat, and when the woman’s attention snapped back to him, he pointedly glanced down at her white-knuckled grip on the sleeve of his haori. 

“Apologies,” the Miko blushed, and her hands quickly relinquished their hold on his sleeve. She wrung her hands nervously before her. “Might you escort me back to my Shrine? It’s not far from here – less than two kilometers.” 

Still within his territory — albeit at the opposite end of the forest where is own Manor stood. He grimaced, but nodded stiffly. His efforts to save the woman’s life would be in vain if she walked away from him and straight into the waiting, eager claws of another beast that lurked in the shadows.

The Miko smiled brightly at him and offered her name. Giyuu elected not to reply, and the girl settled into step at his side, a small frown pulling at her lips.

“I’m sorry for earlier — for hitting you with my broom.” The girl — Y/N — said a short while later, the faintest trace of shyness in her tone. 

Giyuu did not think the apology warranted a response, and so he gave none, but the chatty little devil prodded him once more. 

“Did I injure you?” She gestured to the side of his head where her broom had caught him. 

Giyuu snorted, raising an eyebrow at her. “The day I am hurt by a mere broom is the day I retire from the Demon Slayer Corps.” 

Y/N hummed in contemplation. “And what exactly is the great and mysterious Demon Slayer Corps?” 

The Water Pillar’s eyes remained forward. “I should think the name is self-explanatory. There are demons who eat humans. We slay them.” 

Inwardly, Giyuu cringed at the harshness of his words. It did not happen often, but there were times when he wished he was better with them, when he wished he did not come off quite as aloof and callous — 

“You do not know how to talk to people very well, do you Tomioka-sama?” Y/N’s tone was not judgmental; it rather had a mild curiosity to it, as though she were merely commenting on the weather or the quality of a cup of tea. 

But the Water Pillar did not know how to answer her. Kocho once told him that others disliked him, but Giyuu wasn’t sure that was entirely true; after all, no one had ever said so much to his face. 

Then again, if the young shrine maiden’s words were anything to go by, then perhaps the Insect Pillar’s scathing assessment hadn’t been too far off the mark. 

“What even brought you into the forest so late at night?”  Giyuu did not know why the question needled at him, but he found the pressing silence of the trees more disconcerting than the Miko’s voice, and so he was desperate for the distraction. “And why a broom?”

Y/N herself seemed surprised at his sudden interest. “Night-blooming herbs,” she said plainly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They are critical for certain rites and medications. And I cannot collect them any other time. The broom was for protection, obviously.” 

“I wasn’t aware shrines still performed rituals,” Giyuu pushed an errant tree branch out of their way, and ahead, faint lights began to swim into view. The Shrine. “Are you not a mere relic of a time long since-passed?” 

“I’ll have you know that we still perform basic cleansing rites for those in the village,” Y/N bristled. “And we provide medical aid, since there is no hospital nearby.”

She shot him a cold look. “Modern medicine would not have developed but for ancient practices such as ours.”

Giyuu frowned. He hadn’t meant to insult the woman. “Be that as it may,” he said flatly. “Demons prowl at night. You wandering into the forest none the wiser  is akin to you waltzing into their territory with a giant sign that says ‘Eat me.’”

Y/N grimaced. “Then what would you have me do? Neglect my duties?” 

He could sympathize with that. “No, I’m not saying you should forsake your obligations,” he furrowed his eyebrows at the thought. “Perhaps it is simply a risk you must take. But you should at least be aware of your surroundings.”

Y/N looked upon him with a miserable expression. “You’re of little help, you know that?” 

Giyuu only frowned, perplexed as to why she couldn’t understand the import of his words.

An awkward silence ensued, punctured only by the faint hoot of an owl. For that, the established swordsman was grateful; noise meant the absence of predators, which meant they were safe – for now. 

“You mentioned tracking the demon earlier – how long had you been doing so?” 

“A while.” 

The girl was relentless. “And you just so happened to track it here? Where it was conveniently chasing me?” 

“I patrol this region. Your rescue was nothing more than coincidence and luck on your part.” 

“My gratitude is endless,” the shrine maiden said drily. “Forgive me for not falling to the ground in prostration.”

At that, Giyuu fell silent and refused to engage in any further conversation. The shrine maiden, for her part, seemed to take his cue that he had no interest in her or exchanging meaningless pleasantries, and so she too, went quiet. 

The forest floor eventually began to slope gradually up, and before long, Giyuu found himself walking along a carved rock path that curved through the trees until it widened at a great set of stone stairs. At the very top of the steep incline, he could spot a great Torii gate.

Y/N turned to him with a beaming smile. “Allow me to introduce you to the Shrine." Tomioka opened his mouth to protest, but she quickly added, “You should at least know who it is you have dedicated your life to protecting.” 

“I’d rather not.”

But she was already leading him up the stairs, his wrist pinched delicately between two of her fingers. Realistically, Giyuu knew it would take him no effort to shake the woman’s hold and disappear into the night. But to his own bemusement, he allowed her to tote him behind her as though he were little more than a useless pet. 

The pair passed under the Torrii and into a sprawling courtyard. Though night sky was a deep, inky black, the perimeter of the courtyard was dotted with several stone lanterns -- toro -- each of which had been lit with a generous flame. Giyuu's quick perusal of the Shrine, however, was cut short as the Miko led him into the Shrine's main structure -- the honden -- and tugged him down a narrow hallway. Based on his rough appraisal of the building, Giyuu surmised she was taking him to the center of the honden, likely where the girl's master was.

His theory was proven correct when Y/N drew up to a great slat of shoji panneling. The Miko knocked softly on one of the wooden beams before she slid the door aside, revealing a great, open room that was littered with scrolls, half-dried pots of ink, and burned incense sticks. There, in the center of the room, knelt the head Priestess of the Shrine. She was an old, shriveled, wrinkled thing. The white hair that she’d gathered into a knot at her neck was as wispy as the thinnest clouds, and a quick glance over her hands revealed swollen joints covered by skin spotted with age.

But the Priestess did not appear to be a gentle elder by any means; her thin mouth was curled down into a sneer that was directed at the Miko at his side, and her eyes were hard and cold.  

"Head Priestess," Y/N bowed to her elder. "This man is called Tomioka, and he helped save me tonight in the forest."

Giyuu resisted the urge to snort. Helped, indeed.

The old woman's eyes shone bright with an emotion he could not name as the Miko continued. "A creature attacked me as I was returning home. Tomioka says he is a swordsman whose occupation --"

“I know what he is, girl,” the Priestess snapped at her student before she turned those beady eyes to him. “A member of the Demon Slayer Corps will always be welcome at this Shrine – particularly one as esteemed as yourself.” 

The Water Pillar straightened at the old woman’s casual mention of the Corps. “I was not aware that of any Shrines so affiliated with the Corps.” 

“There was a time when the Demon Slayer Corps would partner with shrines such as this to carry out its mission,” the Priestess replied evenly. From his periphery, Giyuu spotted Y/N’s head snap toward her mentor, her jaw slack. “Once, priestesses were akin to shamans who offered a variety of rituals for cleansing and protection. You slayers relied on our connection with our communities to operate more effectively, and we in turn, counted on your protection to fight what we could not.”

Despite the distinct scent of sake that clung to the elderly shrine keeper like a cloud, her eyes remained sharp and fixed upon him, and her wrinkled mouth pulled into a rueful smile. “Now, it seems, our wise and benevolent government has forced us both to retreat to the shadows to operate in secret.”

She bowed her head. “You have nothing but my respect, Lord Hashira. You are always welcome here.” 

Giyuu did not respond, but he inclined his head toward the Priestess in polite acknowledgement. 

Y/N gaped at her Master. "Lord --?"

The old woman poured another generous serving of sake and brought the choko to her lips. “Though we are honored by your visit, young Lord, I’m afraid your presence is nothing more than a calculated effort by this one,” she nodded pointedly at the young shrine maiden at his side, whose cheeks pinkened. “To keep herself out of trouble. My apprentice was not permitted to leave the grounds, you see.” 

“Oh hush you old drunk,” Giyuu’s eyes snapped to the irate Miko in surprise. “I told you earlier I was going to the village market –” 

“Telling me while I am in the middle of lessons with the younger girls and sprinting off before I can respond is hardly me giving you permission,” the Priestess’s mouth curled into a sneer. “You’ve defied me for the last time, girl.” 

The old Priestess turned away from her apprentice, dismissive. “You will take the rice bundles and hang them in the drying shed – every last one, for the next three days.” 

“You hag!” Y/N fumed, her face pinched in outrage. “I was on rice duty all last week without an ounce of assistance –” 

“And you apparently have yet to learn your lesson,” the old woman retorted bitterly, shooting the seething Shrine Maiden a withering glare. “Considering you still think it seemly to mouth off at any and every opportunity –” 

The Miko spat a curse at the elder Priestess so filthy and colorful that even Giyuu could not mask his surprise, raising his eyebrow. But if Y/N’s outburst shocked the Shrine’s head, the old woman gave no sign. Instead, she only glowered at the young woman as the latter turned and shoved the shoji door harshly to the side. Giyuu, ever the unwilling observer, was left to be pulled by his wrist back into the hall behind the young Miko before she whipped around to face her senior once more. 

Giyuu had thought himself stunned by the crassness of the Shrine Miaden’s language before, but nothing prepared him for the sight of the obscene gesture she made at the old woman before she slammed the door firmly shut. 

A telling crash on the other side of the wall signaled the Elder Priestess had hurled her empty sake dish at the door with all her might. “And work on your aim!” Y/N snapped before turning sharply on her heel to stomp out of the honden, tugging the Water Pillar helplessly behind her. 

“She seems unstable.” said Giyuu once they were a safe distance away from the main Honden. 

Y/N brushed aside his concern with a flippant waive of her hand. “Granny is harmless. As her charge, I suppose I instigate her nearly as much as she torments me.” 

Granny. It made sense, then, the curious affection the girl held for the rancorous head Priestess, even if he could not bring himself to fully understand it. 

“You are more than welcome to stay the night,” the Miko’s mood lightened considerably the more she put distance between herself and the drunken head Priestess. “We serve breakfast at sunrise, but of course, you’re not obligated to attend.” 

The ravenette’s mouth quirked down in a faint grimace, the only sign of his discomfort. “I should return to my own home.” 

“It’s quite late,” Y/N glanced up at the night sky, now awash with stars that surrounded the fat, glowing moon like thousands of glittering jewels. She turned back to him with a radiant grin. “At least allow me to show you around.”

—

If anyone had asked him, Giyuu Tomioka would not have been able to explain the series of events that had led him here. 

He distinctly remembered telling the vexatious young Shrine Maiden no, that he could not stay the night, yet somehow he’d found himself in the Shrine’s old, musty guest house, already prepared for his stay, a lantern flickering merrily in the corner. 

He glanced warily at the fresh sleeping kimono folded beside his futon. The possibility of him actually sleeping in such an unfamiliar place was nil and while the Water Pillar certainly had no issue in appearing impolite to others, he thought that perhaps the Shrine was affiliated with the connection of Wisteria Houses dotted throughout the land, and he didn’t want to risk offending the head Priestess and cause her to shut her gates to other slayers in need of lodging. 

So, Giyuu paced the floor of the small guest house, restless. Though his eyes remained carefully trained on the window of his room, waiting for the slightest hint of movement that would give him an excuse to leave without offending his hosts, no sign of either his crow or any demonic threat  manifested. Though, he supposed with a frown, it shouldn’t surprise him that he’d not heard from Kanzaburo; the ancient bird was likely flitting about the forest, lost.

He continued to pace until finally, the sky in the East began to lighten signaling that dawn was fast approaching. Stealthily, he slipped out of the small hut that had served as his temporary accommodations and made his way toward the Torii under which he and that Miko — Y/N — had passed upon their arrival.

He’d almost cleared the gate when he saw the elder Priestess standing beside the Torii, apparently waiting for him. Giyuu nodded his head at her, the only expression of courtesy he was willing to give, but he was halted as the old woman flung out a single arm in front of him, her hand flat and palm turned up, waiting.

And that was how Giyuu learned the Shrine was not, in fact, a Wisteria House; not as he was forced to fork over a considerable sum of his earnings into the Priestess’s expectant hand. 

Wisteria Houses meant Corps Members stayed free of charge; the price the Shrine’s keeper demanded in exchange for his brief stay bordered extortion.

At least he’d had the money; if he’d been of any lower rank, the old woman would have cleaned him out.  

He scowled as he departed but his irritation quickly fell away as he finally laid eyes on Kanzaburo, who nearly collided with his Master’s head as he struggled to pant out his orders. 

And so, as the Water Pillar trekked through the forest and toward his new assignment, the view of the Shrine faded behind the dense canopy of the mountain forest, and so too, did any final, sparing thoughts of it, or its inhabitants.

———-

Nearly a month passed since Giyuu stumbled across the strange shrine maiden in the forest separating his Estate from the old Shrine, and the Miko had nearly faded from his memory. Not that such a feat was difficult; the raven-haired Pillar’s mind was far more occupied with tasks like patrol and chasing down leads that could potentially lead the Corps to an Upper Rank demon to focus on much else. 

He’d intended only to find a decent meal and then depart the village before nightfall to investigate rumors of women disappearing in a small town to the south. Night was rapidly approaching, however, and he’d yet to find any vendor that sold anything he liked, much to his chagrin. He was about to cut his losses and continue on, when he spied a familiar blur of white and red idly perusing one of the stalls, apparently oblivious to the impending sunset. 

Without thought, his feet carried him toward her, his annoyance sparking to life. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

The Miko’s – Y/N’s – head turned back and her eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the Pillar standing behind her. 

“Tomioka-sama,” she greeted with a polite bow. “I did not expect to see you so soon.” 

He ignored her greeting, choosing instead to take a step closer. “I asked what you were doing.” 

If she was taken aback by his terseness, she didn’t show it. “I am returning to my shrine after an afternoon of errands,” she replied smoothly. “As is usual for me.” 

“It is nearly dark.” 

“An astute observation,” and to his annoyance, he saw an amused twinkle in her eye. “Do you also know that tonight is also a full moon?” 

Said moon had already made an appearance above them, growing brighter and brighter as the sky faded from twilight to night. 

Giyuu had never been one for rolling his eyes, but the young woman’s knowing smirk grated at something inside him, made him feel as he often did whenever Kocho would make a sly comment with that smile of hers, that for some reason made him feel like he was the butt of some joke only she knew. 

He grimaced. Teasing; that’s what the shrine maiden was doing. She was teasing him. 

“It is nearly dark,” he repeated. “And I did not think you’d be naive enough to risk traveling after sunset.” 

“I believe it was you who insisted I did not have to ignore my duties, so long as I paid attention to my surroundings.” She replied coolly. “So that is exactly what I am doing.”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Fine. If the stubborn girl wanted to be bait for whatever awaited her in the forest once the sun finally set, then that was her choice. He’d saved her once, and he’d given her sufficient warning; what she did from then on did not concern him. 

He was about to bade her farewell when a slurred, boisterous voice boomed her name from across the market. Several heads turned toward the source, including Giyuu's, until he found a round faced, piggish man stumbling away from a sake stand, his cheeks flushed a bright red.

The man repeated the Miko's name in that grating, sing-song voice of his. "Whe're you goin' all by yourself so late?"

He didn't know what possessed him to ask, but Tomioka turned to the shrine maiden. "A friend?"