Rūsu

Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

(unedited if there’s any mistakes sorry)

It started with a deal.

You hadn’t sought him out—not exactly. But when your life was on the line, when the cursed spirit looming over you was too much for even seasoned sorcerers to handle, you let desperation guide your tongue. One whispered plea, one reckless offering: Take me instead, just don’t let me die here.

And Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses—answered.

He didn’t save you out of mercy. He slaughtered the curse in an instant, painted the ground in crimson, and then turned to you with that grin. Sharp, wolfish, cruel. The kind of smile that promised he’d make you regret your bargain.

“Mine now,” he had said, voice low, resonant with something ancient and terrifying. His eyes dragged over you like fire licking skin. “You’ll amuse me until I’m bored.”

You had thought it would be endless torment. And in many ways, it was—days turned into nights where you became nothing but his plaything. Sukuna owned every word, every gasp he wrung out of you. He relished your submission, mocking you for how easily your body betrayed you.

And yet—somehow—it was more complicated than that. Because Sukuna never let anyone linger. He devoured, destroyed, discarded. But with you… he kept coming back. He pulled you into his domain more often, not just to use you but to talk, to test, to watch the way your will clashed with his dominance.

And tonight, he wanted you again.

The tatami of his throne room was cold under your knees as he dragged you forward by the chin, his claws grazing your throat. You could feel the pulse hammering there, and his mouth curved in satisfaction.

“So eager,” he mocked, voice dropping like velvet over a blade. “My little plaything, kneeling for me without being told.”

“I wasn’t—”

Your protest cut off with a sharp gasp as he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear.

“You were,” he whispered, and then laughed, low and rich, the sound echoing through the empty hall.

His hand slipped into your hair, tugging until your head tipped back. The four eyes bore down on you, all-consuming, merciless. But there was something else in them too—something dangerous in a different way. A hunger that wasn’t just physical.

When his lips finally met yours, it was bruising, claiming. The kind of kiss that stole air and left your chest heaving. His fangs scraped against your lower lip until it bled, and he licked it away like a predator savoring prey.

“You taste like mine,” he murmured, voice rougher now.

Your body responded before your mind could argue, shivering under the weight of his presence. He noticed, of course—he always noticed.

“Pathetic little thing,” he teased, though his tone had lost some of its sharpness. “You should hate me. Fear me.” His thumb brushed over your swollen lip, almost tender, almost reverent. “So why do you look at me like that?”

You had no answer. Or maybe you were too afraid of what the truth would sound like.

His laughter rumbled against your skin as he dragged you into his lap, positioning you so easily it was as if you weighed nothing. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only him—his scent, his heat, his hands gripping you like you belonged nowhere else.

“Mine,” he repeated, quieter this time. Less a command and more… a confession.

And when he pushed into you, it wasn’t gentle—it never was. But it wasn’t just cruelty, either. It was claiming, yes, but threaded with something he didn’t want to name. Every movement was deliberate, dragging out your whimpers, forcing you to break against him again and again. His mouth didn’t stop roaming, biting into your neck, kissing the bruises after, leaving a map of him on your skin.

He whispered filth into your ear, mocking your cries, praising your body for the way it welcomed him, owning every piece of you. But between the cruel words, softer ones slipped. Unintentional. Dangerous.

“You were made for me.”

“No one will touch you but me.”

“Look at me—good girl, look only at me.”

And you did. Even through tears, even when your body shook from the intensity, you looked at him. And for a flicker of a moment, Sukuna’s eyes softened, the grin fading into something quieter.

Something he refused to admit.

When it was over, he didn’t let you go. Not like usual. He kept you in his lap, your face pressed to his chest, his claw tracing idle circles against your spine.

“You’re mine,” he said again, but the words this time sounded less like ownership and more like a vow.

And though you should have been terrified, all you felt was the heavy, dangerous warmth of him wrapping around you.

It wasn’t supposed to happen again.

At least, not so soon. Sukuna was certain of that. After all, he was a god among curses, a monster worshipped and feared in equal measure. He didn’t want. He didn’t need. And yet, the taste of you lingered on his tongue long after he swore he’d had enough.

Days passed, and still, he summoned you back into his domain. Sometimes for conversation—though he’d never admit that’s what it was. He’d mock you, push you, test you, but more and more, his claws didn’t sink so deep. His laughter didn’t cut as sharp.

And when he looked at you—really looked—he felt something he hated.

Hunger, yes. Possession, always. But threaded through it, something warm, unwelcome. Something he couldn’t kill, no matter how many times he told himself you were just a toy.

Tonight, he didn’t wait for you to kneel. He appeared behind you while you were alone, his presence blotting out the air, the room folding into his domain before you could breathe. His voice curled around your ear, low and dangerous.

“Did you miss me, little one?”

You startled, turning, only to be caged instantly by his arms as he pressed you against the wall. His grin was all teeth, but his eyes… his eyes were already devouring you.

“You did,” he answered himself, chuckling darkly when your breath hitched. His claws skimmed your jaw, tilting your head up. “Pathetic. Addicted to me already.”

But he didn’t give you the chance to answer. His mouth claimed yours, hot and demanding, tasting like power and ruin. He lifted you effortlessly, pinning you to the wall as his body pressed flush against yours.

Your legs wrapped around him instinctively, and the sound he made—half growl, half groan—vibrated through your chest.

“You belong to me,” he rasped, grinding his hips against you with punishing control. “Every whimper, every shiver—I own them all.”

And yet—his hand cradled the back of your head, cushioning it from the wall. A subtle, uncharacteristic gentleness he didn’t draw attention to.

When he entered you, it was rough, claiming, but his pace—though relentless—was drawn out, savoring. Each slow, deep movement was meant to make you feel him, to etch his presence into you so thoroughly that you couldn’t forget him if you tried.

You moaned his name, and for once, he didn’t laugh. His lips pressed to your throat, biting hard enough to bruise, then soothing the mark with his tongue.

“Say it again,” he ordered, voice breaking lower. “Say my name.”

“S–Sukuna—”

“Good girl,” he hissed, shuddering against you.

The rhythm grew harsher, his control fraying. His curses filled the air, praising, mocking, owning you all at once. He called you weak, a toy, his whore—but then, just as your body broke against him, another word slipped through his teeth.

“My… love.”

The word was quiet, strangled, as if torn from him by force. He froze, chest heaving, eyes wide as though he’d betrayed himself.

You blinked at him, lips parted, but before you could speak, his mouth was on yours again, savage, silencing, as if he could erase what you heard. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow—if anything, he became more desperate, driving into you until your body trembled and his own restraint snapped.

When it ended, he didn’t vanish like he often did. He carried you—carried you, bridal-style, as though you were something fragile—and dropped you onto the futon in his chamber.

And instead of leaving, he stretched out beside you, dragging you against his chest. His claws rested lightly at your waist, his breath heavy against your hair.

“Sleep,” he ordered, though his tone lacked venom.

You obeyed, exhaustion pulling you under. And when your breathing evened, Sukuna stared at you for a long, silent moment. His grip tightened slightly, protectively, before he shut his eyes.

“You’ll ruin me,” he muttered against your hair, almost too low to hear.

But he didn’t let go.

It had gone too far.

Sukuna knew it. He felt it in the way he lingered after taking you, in the way his claws traced patterns on your skin instead of slicing it open. He heard it in his own voice when he called for you again—not out of boredom, not out of hunger, but out of need.

Need. A word that should never have belonged to him.

He’d told himself it was still the same. That you were his toy, his vessel of amusement. That the ache in his chest when you weren’t near was nothing but irritation at losing what was his. But he couldn’t lie to himself forever.

Because tonight, when he pulled you into his domain again, he didn’t taunt you right away. He didn’t laugh, or sneer, or call you pathetic. He just looked at you. Silent. Four crimson eyes roaming over your face like he was memorizing it.

It unsettled you.

“Sukuna…?” you asked, voice soft.

That was enough to snap the mask back on. His grin stretched wide, cruel. “On your knees, little plaything. You know your place.”

But when you obeyed, something in his chest twisted. The sight of you kneeling wasn’t just power anymore. It was devotion.

He cursed himself under his breath as he dragged you up into his lap instead, crashing his mouth against yours with bruising intensity. His hands gripped you hard, desperate, yet one claw still trembled where it held the back of your neck—protective, careful.

When he thrust into you, it wasn’t immediate violence. It was slow at first, torturous, savoring the heat of you wrapping around him. His forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling, his fangs grazing your lip without biting. His body moved with ruthless power, yes, but threaded through it was reverence he didn’t want you to notice.

You moaned, clutching at his shoulders, and his control cracked. He drove into you harder, faster, a snarl tearing from his throat. “You’ll break for me,” he growled, but his words faltered when he felt your body respond, clenching around him, pulling him deeper.

“Look at me,” he demanded. His eyes locked to yours, burning, vulnerable in a way that terrified even him. “Only me. Say it—say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, and something inside him shattered.

The sound he made was raw, almost human, as he buried himself in you again and again. His lips found your throat, your jaw, your mouth—kissing, biting, claiming, worshipping. His hands roamed, rough but lingering, as though he couldn’t get enough of your skin.

Your climax tore through you, and he followed almost instantly, the force of it dragging a guttural growl from his chest. He didn’t let go—not your body, not your gaze, not even your hand, which he tangled with his own claws as though the touch anchored him.

When it was over, the silence pressed heavy. You collapsed against him, trembling, your face buried in his chest.

For once, Sukuna didn’t mock you. He lay back with you still straddling him, his arm locking around your waist, holding you close. His breath was uneven, his heartbeat thunderous against your cheek.

He stared at the ceiling, furious with himself, furious with you, furious with the truth clawing its way out of him.

And then, softly, almost inaudible, he said it.

“You’re not just my plaything.”

His hand slid into your hair, cradling your head against him as if you might slip away. His lips brushed your temple, the gesture almost tender, almost desperate.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again—but this time it wasn’t a claim of power. It was a confession.

And though he hated it, though it burned like poison in his chest, Sukuna didn’t let you go. Not that night. Not the next. Not ever.

Nights stretched longer than they used to.

Sukuna never slept much; he didn’t need to. But lately, he found himself lying awake more often, watching the rise and fall of your breathing beside him. His domain was silent, save for the faint rustle of the futon when you shifted in your sleep.

You always clung to him unconsciously, as though even in dreams you knew he’d never let harm touch you here. Your fingers curled lightly against his chest, your body tucked into his side, trusting him in a way no one ever had.

It should have disgusted him. The King of Curses didn’t cradle, didn’t protect, didn’t care. Yet his hand moved of its own accord, smoothing down your back, claws grazing but never breaking skin. His lips brushed the crown of your head before he could stop himself.

“You’ll be the end of me,” he muttered into the dark, but he didn’t move you away.

Days bled into nights, and the change was undeniable. He summoned you not only for pleasure, but for your presence. He found himself irritated when you tired, when you ate too little, when you wandered from his side. He had never known worry before, but now it gnawed at him like a curse he couldn’t exorcise.

And then it happened.

The faint scent of change, the subtle shift in your body. He noticed first, of course—his senses sharper than any human’s. At first he dismissed it, refused to name it. But when he pressed his palm against your abdomen one night, feeling the faintest flicker of energy where there had been none before, his entire body went still.

You caught his expression, confusion flickering in your eyes. “What is it?”

For once, Sukuna didn’t laugh. His gaze dropped to your stomach, then back to your face, and the grin that curved his lips wasn’t cruel. It was dangerous in a new way—possessive, certain, eternal.

“You carry mine,” he said, voice low and absolute.

Your breath hitched, realization dawning.

He leaned closer, fangs grazing your ear as his hand remained splayed over your belly. “My blood, my heir… bound inside you.” His tone was reverent, almost hungry. “No one will touch you. No one will touch either of you.”

You shivered, not from fear, but from the weight of his words—the promise, the vow, the chain.

Sukuna pressed his forehead to yours, eyes burning with a fire that was no longer just lust or cruelty. “You’re mine,” he whispered, softer now. “Both of you.”

And though he would never say the word aloud, you felt it in the way he held you tighter that night than he ever had before.

Not just a plaything.

Not just his toy.

You were his mate, his weakness, his ruin—

Hiromi Higuruma x Reader

(takes place during the culling game right before yuji and his confrontation)

═════════════════════

The courtroom smells like dust and rain.

The colony’s sky has been threatening a storm all evening, dark clouds hanging low over the abandoned district. Wind slips through the cracked windows of the old courthouse, carrying the distant echoes of cursed energy clashes.

You’ve stopped trying to count how many fights happened tonight.

Across the room, Hiromi Higuruma stands at the judge’s stand like he belongs there.

Maybe he does.

Even in the chaos of the Culling Game, he carries the quiet authority of a man who once decided people’s fates with words alone.

Now the verdicts come with violence.

His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened, and faint streaks of blood mark the cuffs of his shirt. Not all of it is his.

You lean against one of the wooden benches.

“You’re staring again,” he says calmly.

You blink.

“How do you always know?”

Higuruma doesn’t look up from the gavel in his hand. He’s cleaning it slowly with a cloth, the same deliberate precision he once used to sort legal documents.

“Because you’re quiet when you stare.”

“That’s not suspicious at all.”

“Suspicious people usually try to look busy.”

You scoff softly.

He sets the gavel down.

Only then does he glance toward you.

The tiredness in his eyes is deeper tonight.

“Did you fight again?” you ask.

“A small confrontation.”

The way he says it makes your eyebrow lift.

“Your definition of small is concerning.”

He exhales quietly, leaning one hand against the judge’s stand.

“For this place,” he says, “it was.”

Thunder rolls somewhere beyond the colony barrier.

For a moment the courtroom is silent.

You push yourself off the bench and walk toward him.

Each step echoes across the empty room.

“Show me your arm.”

Higuruma pauses.

“That’s unnecessary.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s superficial.”

You grab his wrist before he can pull away.

“Sit.”

The command surprises both of you.

For a second he just looks at you.

Then, to your shock, he obeys.

The former lawyer settles onto the edge of the bench while you kneel in front of him.

The cut across his forearm isn’t deep, but cursed energy burns still faintly along the edges.

You wrap it carefully with the cloth you brought.

“You shouldn’t stay here,” he says quietly.

“Here meaning… the courtroom?”

“Here meaning the Culling Game.”

You glance up at him.

His expression is serious now.

“You’re not a participant,” he continues. “You don’t need to risk yourself.”

You finish tying the cloth and sit back slightly.

“And leave you here alone?”

“That would be the logical choice.”

You give him a look.

“Since when have you known me to be logical?”

A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.

“Fair point.”

The storm outside finally breaks.

Rain begins tapping against the broken windows.

For a while neither of you speak.

Then Higuruma shifts slightly.

“You trust me too easily.”

You blink.

“What?”

“In this colony,” he continues quietly, “people survive by keeping distance from others.”

His gaze drifts toward the darkened courtroom.

“Attachment becomes a weakness.”

Your chest tightens.

“So you’re telling me to leave.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

You study him for a moment.

Then you stand.

Higuruma looks up as you step closer.

Closer.

Until you’re standing between his knees.

For once, the usually composed lawyer looks slightly caught off guard.

“You talk about weakness like it’s a crime,” you say softly.

“In this place it is.”

“Maybe.”

Your fingers brush lightly against his sleeve.

“But staying human isn’t.”

The rain outside grows heavier.

Higuruma watches you in silence.

Something complicated moves behind his eyes — conflict, restraint, something deeper.

“You don’t understand what it means to stay near me,” he says quietly.

“You’re dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“I noticed.”

That makes him laugh under his breath.

A rare sound.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrible at pushing people away.”

Before he can respond, your hand lifts to his cheek.

His breath catches.

For a moment he doesn’t move.

Then his hand comes up to lightly wrap around your wrist.

Not stopping you.

Just holding it there.

“You should reconsider,” he murmurs.

“Too late.”

The tension between you stretches thin.

Then finally—

He leans forward.

The kiss is hesitant at first, like a question neither of you were brave enough to ask until now.

When you don’t pull away, it deepens.

Your hands slide into the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric as he steadies you with one arm around your waist.

The world outside the courtroom fades into the sound of rain and quiet breaths.

For a brief moment, the Culling Game doesn’t exist.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

His voice is barely above a whisper.

“This will complicate things.”

You smile softly.

“Everything about you is complicated.”

Higuruma exhales slowly.

Then his hand gently brushes your hair back from your face.

The look in his eyes is warmer now.

Less guarded.

Outside, thunder rolls again.

And somewhere beyond the courthouse walls, the brutal game continues.

But inside the empty courtroom—

For just a little while—

Neither of you are thinking about the verdict waiting tomorrow.

Night settles deeper over the colony.

Rain pours against the shattered courthouse windows in long silver streaks, the sound filling the empty courtroom with a steady hush that almost resembles peace.

For the first time since entering the Culling Game, the world feels… paused.

You sit beside Hiromi Higuruma on the old wooden bench near the judge’s stand. The room is dim now—the overhead lights gave up hours ago, leaving only brief flashes of lightning to illuminate the cracked marble floor and rows of abandoned seats.

The storm throws shifting shadows across his face.

Higuruma hasn’t spoken in a while.

He’s staring toward the judge’s stand like it’s still occupied, like a verdict is waiting to be handed down.

“You’re thinking too much again,” you murmur.

He exhales quietly.

“That tends to happen.”

“You’re not in court anymore.”

“No,” he says softly. “But old habits remain.”

You study him in the dim light.

His tie is loosened now, collar open slightly, sleeves still rolled from earlier. The carefully controlled lawyer who first walked into the Culling Game has slowly been worn down by exhaustion and violence.

And yet…

There’s something calmer about him tonight.

Your shoulder brushes his as you shift closer.

It’s a small movement.

But he notices.

Higuruma always notices.

“You should sleep,” he says.

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep ignoring it.”

“Because you’re not sleeping either.”

A faint smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

He turns slightly toward you.

Lightning flashes again—brief, bright—and for a moment you can see the exact instant his composure cracks just a little.

“You’re stubborn,” he murmurs.

“Maybe.”

Your fingers drift toward his hand resting on the bench.

You expect him to pull away.

Instead, his fingers slowly turn over beneath yours.

Interlocking.

The quiet contact sends warmth up your arm.

Neither of you speak.

The rain fills the silence.

After a moment, you lean your head lightly against his shoulder.

His breath pauses.

Not pulling away.

Not moving.

Just letting it happen.

“You make it difficult,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“To keep distance.”

You tilt your head slightly so you can see him.

“Then don’t.”

The words hang in the air.

The storm outside grows louder, thunder rumbling through the empty courthouse.

Higuruma watches you for a long moment.

The conflict in his eyes is unmistakable.

He’s spent days keeping careful emotional distance from you—maintaining the same restraint he once used in courtrooms.

But tonight something is different.

Maybe it’s the storm.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion.

Or maybe it’s the simple fact that neither of you know if tomorrow will come.

His hand lifts slowly to your cheek.

Warm.

Careful.

Like he’s memorizing the feeling.

“You trust me too easily,” he says quietly.

“You keep saying that.”

“And you keep ignoring it.”

Your fingers slide lightly into the front of his shirt.

The fabric bunches beneath your grip.

“Maybe,” you say softly, “I just trust you anyway.”

For a moment the world seems to narrow down to the two of you sitting in the dim courtroom.

Then—

Higuruma leans forward.

The kiss begins slow.

Careful.

Almost restrained.

Like he’s giving you one last chance to reconsider.

You don’t.

Your hands move to his shoulders as the kiss deepens, the quiet tension that’s been building between you for days finally slipping loose.

His hand slides to your waist, steadying you as you shift closer against him.

The warmth between you grows quickly in the cool night air.

“You’re certain about this?” he murmurs softly against your lips.

You answer by pulling him closer.

That’s enough.

The restraint he’s been holding finally fades.

The kiss deepens again—longer this time, unhurried, the kind that leaves both of you slightly breathless when you finally pull back.

Higuruma studies your face for a moment like he’s committing it to memory.

Then he stands, pulling you gently with him.

The movement surprises you slightly.

“Where are we—”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leads you toward the back of the courtroom where the benches are less exposed to the broken windows and cold rain drifting inside.

His coat ends up around your shoulders somewhere along the way.

Neither of you remembers exactly when.

What follows unfolds slowly.

Quietly.

A long stretch of whispered conversations, soft laughter, and lingering touches.

Your hands drift along his shoulders while his fingers trace slow paths along your arms, your back, your waist.

The closeness between you deepens with each passing moment.

At some point you end up half-reclined against one of the benches with Higuruma leaning over you, his hair falling slightly out of place for the first time since you met him.

He looks less like a composed lawyer now.

More like a man who’s finally allowed himself to want something.

His forehead rests briefly against yours.

“This complicates things,” he murmurs.

You smile faintly.

“Everything about this game is complicated.”

That earns a quiet laugh.

Then he kisses you again.

Softer this time.

Slower.

The kind that stretches into something deeper as the night continues around you.

The storm outside slowly fades while the hours pass unnoticed.

By the time the rain finally stops, the courthouse has grown quiet again.

You’re resting against his chest now, wrapped loosely in his coat while his arm rests around your shoulders.

Neither of you are sleeping yet.

But the tension that once filled the room has softened into something warmer.

Safer.

Higuruma’s fingers brush lightly through your hair as he stares toward the dim windows.

“You should still leave this colony tomorrow,” he murmurs.

You glance up at him.

“And leave you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His arm tightens slightly around you.

The silence between you says enough.

Outside, dawn is beginning to creep slowly across the ruined city.

But inside the empty courtroom, the night between you lingers a little longer.

Morning comes quietly.

Not with sunlight—there’s too much cloud cover for that—but with the faint gray glow of dawn filtering through the courthouse’s shattered windows.

The storm has passed.

Water drips from broken stone somewhere in the distance, echoing softly through the empty building.

You’re still asleep.

Curled against the wooden bench, wrapped in Hiromi Higuruma’s coat.

For a long moment, Higuruma simply watches you.

He hasn’t slept.

The night sits heavily in his chest—the quiet closeness, the warmth that had briefly made him forget where he was.

Forget what this place is.

The Culling Game doesn’t allow people that kind of peace.

And he knows it.

His hand tightens slightly where it rests on the bench.

You look calm like this.

Safe.

Too safe.

Higuruma exhales slowly.

“This was a mistake,” he murmurs to himself.

Not because he regrets you.

Because he knows what staying near him means.

Danger.

Judgment.

Blood.

The weight of every life he’s taken inside this twisted “courtroom” of a game.

His gaze drifts toward the judge’s stand across the empty room.

For a moment he almost imagines Judgeman appearing there again.

Waiting.

Passing verdicts.

He stands quietly so he doesn’t wake you.

The movement is careful, deliberate—like he’s leaving a crime scene rather than a moment of peace.

The coat slips slightly from your shoulders as he moves away.

Higuruma pauses.

His fingers tighten briefly at his side.

Then he walks back once more and pulls the coat up around you again.

You stir faintly but don’t wake.

“…Higuruma?”

Your voice is barely more than a sleepy whisper.

His chest tightens.

For a moment he considers answering.

Instead, he simply watches you breathe.

Then he turns and walks away.

The courthouse doors creak softly as he pushes them open.

Cold morning air greets him.

The ruined city stretches around him—silent streets, shattered storefronts, distant buildings half swallowed by the colony’s barrier.

Another battlefield waiting to happen.

Higuruma adjusts his tie slowly as he walks.

The familiar ritual steadies him.

By the time he reaches the street, the quiet lawyer has returned.

Calm.

Composed.

Dangerous.

He walks several blocks through the empty district before stopping in front of a building whose faded sign barely clings to the brick exterior.

An old theater.

The doors hang slightly open.

Inside, the air smells stale—dust, damp velvet, forgotten performances.

Higuruma steps inside without hesitation.

Rows of seats stretch toward a dimly lit stage.

The ceiling above has partially collapsed, allowing faint daylight to spill down like a spotlight.

And in the center of that stage—

A claw-foot bathtub.

Left behind like a prop from some strange final act.

Higuruma walks toward it slowly.

His shoes echo softly against the wooden floorboards.

For a moment he simply stands there, staring at it.

Still fully dressed, he steps inside the tub and sits down.

The porcelain creaks faintly beneath his weight.

From the audience’s perspective, it almost looks theatrical.

Like a man waiting for judgment.

Higuruma leans his head back against the rim.

His soaked hair from the earlier rain still clings faintly to his forehead.

Silence fills the theater.

For the first time since leaving the courthouse, his composure cracks slightly.

“…You shouldn’t have stayed,” he murmurs quietly, thinking of you.

His fingers tighten slightly along the edge of the tub.

Because now you’re connected to him.

To everything he’s done here.

Everything he might still do.

The thought settles heavily in his chest.

Then—

Footsteps.

Faint at first.

But unmistakable.

Higuruma’s eyes open slowly.

He doesn’t move from the bathtub.

The footsteps grow louder as they approach the theater entrance.

Someone is coming.

A moment later, the doors creak open.

Standing in the entrance to the ruined theater is Yuji Itadori.

And the quiet stage suddenly feels like the beginning of a trial.

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This took me so. mf. long. i feel like i still can’t get a read on his personality 💔

Toji Fushiguro x Reader

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

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The first time you saw him, it was like the air shifted.

Toji Fushiguro didn’t walk into a room—he claimed it, like the space bent to his presence alone. Broad shoulders, lazy posture, and that scar carving down his lip. A man who looked like he’d killed more times than he’d counted but still smirked as if life were a private joke only he was in on.

And somehow, he was assigned to you.

Not out of protection, not really. You weren’t important enough for that. It was more like… leverage. Someone had paid him to keep you alive long enough to serve a purpose, though no one told you what. The job disgusted him—you could see it in the way he sized you up, like baggage he didn’t care to carry.

But he didn’t leave.

That was the first warning sign.

Nights bled together in that crumbling safehouse. The city outside hummed with danger, neon lights flickering against stained windows. Toji moved like a predator in the shadows, cleaning his blade, oiling a gun, stretching his back against the wall with a grunt that made your skin prickle.

He wasn’t supposed to speak to you, not beyond necessity. But he did. Small, cutting remarks. A dry “You’re too loud when you breathe” or “Don’t touch that, you’ll break it.” He spoke like every word was a dare, testing how long you’d last under his eye.

You hated the way your pulse jumped when his gaze lingered too long.

The second warning sign was his restraint.

A man like Toji didn’t strike you as someone who’d hold back. And yet… he did. When his hand closed around your wrist to stop you from wandering into the street, it could’ve broken bone. Instead, it was a bruising grip that lingered too long, heat searing your skin even after he let go.

“You’re useless to me dead,” he muttered, but his eyes dragged over you in a way that didn’t feel like indifference.

And that was the problem—you started to look for it.

The glance at your mouth when you bit your lip. The way his smirk sharpened when you snapped back at him. That lazy sprawl of his body on the couch, legs spread wide, watching you from the corner of his eye as if patience was the only thing keeping him still.

A dangerous man.

A dangerous pull.

And you were already slipping toward it.

The safehouse was too small for the both of you.

Days stretched thin with silence, broken only by the scrape of his knife across a whetstone or the dull clink of glass when he poured himself a drink. He didn’t need to fill the space with words—his presence was enough. Heavy. Unavoidable.

You tried to ignore him. You tried to focus on anything else. But it was impossible not to feel the way the air thickened whenever he shifted closer.

One night, you caught him watching you.

You were perched on the edge of the cot, tugging at a frayed thread in your shirt, when your gaze lifted and met his. He was lounging against the wall, arms crossed, shadows carving harsh lines across his jaw. He didn’t look away.

“What?” you snapped, pulse skipping.

His smirk curved slow, deliberate. “You’re twitchy.”

“I’m not.”

“Sure you are. Fidgeting, chewing on your lip, pretending you’re not staring back.” His eyes narrowed, the scar tugging when his grin widened. “Cute, though.”

Heat pricked your skin. It wasn’t the compliment itself—it was the way he said it, like he was unwrapping a secret you thought you’d hidden well.

The tension only thickened after that.

Every brush of contact lingered. When he passed you a drink, his fingers grazed yours just long enough to steal your breath. When he adjusted your stance after you’d nearly tripped over yourself in the dark, his hand flattened against your hip, warm and steady, before shoving you forward with a muttered, “Clumsy.”

He was mocking you. Testing you. You knew it. And still—you leaned into it.

One evening, the air outside buzzed with danger—sirens in the distance, something sharp in the wind. You couldn’t sleep. Restless, you stepped out of your room and found him there, seated at the table with a blade in his hand. Candlelight flickered over the steel, over the curve of his mouth as he looked up.

“Can’t sleep?”

His voice was low, rough, carrying too much weight for such simple words.

You shook your head.

He hummed, eyes sweeping over you. Noticing the bare legs, the thin fabric of your shirt, the way you hugged your own arms. He didn’t tell you to go back to bed. He just leaned back in his chair, spread his legs wider, and nodded toward the empty seat beside him.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t a request.

You should’ve said no.

You should’ve walked away.

But you didn’t.

And that was the third warning sign—you didn’t want to.

The chair scraped as you pulled it out, the sound sharp in the quiet. You sat, back straight, trying not to betray the way your heartbeat hammered against your ribs.

Toji’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the blade he toyed with between his fingers. He spun it lazily, the steel catching candlelight, before pressing the flat edge against his palm like it was nothing.

“You’re nervous.”

“I’m not.”

He chuckled, low and dark, setting the knife down. His arm draped over the back of your chair, his body sprawling closer until the warmth of him pressed against your side. “You keep saying that. Doesn’t make it true.”

The air tightened, your breath catching as his gaze dropped to your mouth. And then—he kissed you.

Not soft. Not testing. His mouth crashed against yours like he was claiming territory, lips rough, tongue forcing past the seam of yours. You gasped, and that was all he needed—one hand in your hair, tilting your head back so he could devour you deeper.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging despite yourself. He tasted of whiskey and smoke, of danger, and you hated how much you wanted more.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to breathe. His scar split wider with his grin. “Knew you’d taste sweet.”

The second kiss tasted like a claim. Toji’s mouth crashed against yours, his tongue pushing past your lips without patience, without hesitation. He kissed like a man who took what he wanted—teeth scraping, breath hot, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he dragged you closer by the back of your neck.

You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the table, the edge biting into your thighs as his weight pressed you down. His hands moved fast—shoving your shirt up, tugging at fabric like it offended him.

“Fucking tease,” he muttered against your skin, mouth moving down your throat. Each kiss was rough, a scrape of teeth, a bruise blooming where he lingered. “Walking around in my space like that. Acting like you didn’t want me to notice.”

Your protest died when his hand slipped between your thighs, dragging over thin fabric. He smirked at the sound you made, the way you arched into his touch.

“Yeah… that’s what I thought.”

Clothes vanished piece by piece. His shirt hit the floor, scars catching candlelight as his muscles flexed. Yours followed—torn impatiently, scattered across wood. You barely noticed the loss before his mouth was on your chest, sucking bruises into soft flesh, tongue curling around a nipple as his other hand kneaded your hip.

The table creaked under the weight of his body pressing you down. He spread your legs wide, calloused hands holding them apart like they belonged there.

“Look at you,” he murmured, eyes dropping to the slick between your thighs. His scar tugged with a sharp grin. “Messy already. All for me?”

You tried to look away, embarrassed, but his hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze back. “Don’t hide. I like seeing it.”

Two fingers pressed into you—thick, stretching, curling until you gasped. He pumped them slow, deliberate, watching the way your body clenched around him. “Tight little thing… you’re gonna struggle with my cock.”

The filth in his voice sent heat rushing through you, and you hated how much your body craved more.

The table screeched as he dragged you off it, your back hitting the wall with a dull thud. Toji’s strength dwarfed yours; he lifted you like you weighed nothing, legs wrapping around his waist as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand.

“You feel small in my grip,” he said, voice rough against your ear. “Bet no one’s ever handled you like this.”

Your answer was a breathless whimper.

He freed himself with his other hand, dragging the thick length of his cock along your slick entrance. The size alone made your stomach clench—he was heavy, veined, impossible.

“Gonna split you open,” he smirked, biting your throat hard enough to leave teeth marks. “You’ll thank me for it.”

The first push stole your breath. Stretching, burning, your nails raking down his shoulders as he forced you to take him inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, jaw tight, forehead pressed to yours. “So damn tight… squeezing the life outta me.”

When he bottomed out, you cried out, and he swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss. His hips drew back, then slammed forward, the wall rattling with every thrust. His grip on your wrists never loosened.

“Good girl,” he grunted, pace ruthless. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Each snap of his hips left you trembling, overwhelmed, but he didn’t let you drift. His mouth was on yours, on your neck, biting, sucking—claiming.

“You’re mine now,” he growled, low and certain, as if he was binding the words into your skin.

At some point he carried you again, still buried inside, dropping you onto the bed with a heavy bounce. Sheets tangled under your body as he loomed over you, sweat slicking his chest, eyes wild with hunger.

He hooked your knees over his shoulders, folding you in half, pressing deeper than you thought possible. You sobbed his name, back arching off the mattress.

“That’s it,” he groaned, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “Take this shit like you were made for it.”

His pace shifted—slower, harder, grinding deep. His hand found your clit, circling until sparks shot down your spine. The overload made you claw at his arms, begging, broken sounds spilling from your throat.

“You can cum again,” he coaxed, tone dropping low, almost tender beneath the filth. “Give it to me. I want it.”

Your body obeyed, shattering under him, clenching so tight around his cock that he cursed loud and guttural. He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his thrusts grew erratic.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he growled, voice rough with possession. “Gonna breed this pussy till you can’t forget me.”

The words alone dragged you under again, another climax ripping through you as he buried himself to the hilt, spilling hot and heavy inside. He held you there, pressed deep, his body shaking with the force of it.

When it was over, he didn’t pull out. He stayed inside, chest pressed to yours, lips brushing your temple in a fleeting whisper of tenderness.

“Mine.”

The room is quiet except for breathing.

Yours is uneven. His is steadying.

Toji doesn’t move immediately. He stays braced over you, weight heavy but not crushing, like he’s anchoring you to something solid after the storm he dragged you through. One large hand spreads across your lower back, thumb rubbing slow circles into your skin without him even realizing he’s doing it.

It’s instinct.

Possession first. Comfort second.

His forehead rests against yours, sweat cooling between you. For a long moment, he just watches your face — eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, marks blooming across your throat and collarbone.

He did that.

The thought makes something dark and satisfied flicker through his gaze.

“You still with me?” he mutters, voice rougher now — not from dominance, but from something softer creeping in at the edges.

You nod, too dazed to speak properly.

His jaw tightens like he’s annoyed at himself for checking. He pushes up slightly, but not away — just enough to look at you fully. His thumb drags over one of the bruises forming near your collarbone.

“…Looks good on you,” he says, low.

Not mocking. Not teasing.

Claiming.

When he finally shifts, he moves carefully. The same man who slammed you into a wall now adjusts the sheets so they don’t scrape your skin. He reaches for a discarded shirt — his — and wipes along your thigh with it, methodical, almost clinical.

You stare at him.

Toji notices.

“What?” he grunts.

“You’re being gentle.”

A scoff. But he doesn’t stop.

“Don’t get used to it.”

It’s a lie. You both know it.

Outside, something shifts — footsteps in the distance. A door down the street slams. The city hums again.

Toji’s entire posture changes.

The softness evaporates.

He’s upright in an instant, muscles tense, eyes sharp as blades. He moves to the window, pulls the curtain back just enough to scan the alley below. One hand automatically reaches for the weapon on the table.

Predator mode.

But this time — he glances back at you.

And something in his expression tightens.

You’re still tangled in sheets. Still marked. Still glowing from what he did to you.

And suddenly the world outside feels like a threat.

“Get dressed,” he says quietly.

Not harsh.

Serious.

You push yourself up, legs unsteady. He notices that too — and before you can stumble, his hand wraps around your waist, steadying you without comment.

His grip lingers.

“Stay close,” he adds.

There’s no teasing in it now.

Only warning.

Later — much later — when the night calms and there’s no immediate danger, you find him sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s shirtless, back to you, scars catching the dim light.

You move closer, tentative.

He doesn’t tell you to stop.

You press against his back, arms slipping around his waist. For a second, he stiffens — unused to being held.

Then he exhales.

His hand comes back to cover yours.

“You know what this means, right?” he says quietly.

There’s no smirk. No lazy sarcasm.

“If you stay around me, people are gonna come after you. They’ll try to use you.”

His thumb tightens slightly over your knuckles.

“And I’ll kill them.”

It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t exaggerated.

It’s a fact.

You swallow.

“And if I don’t leave?” you ask.

There’s a long pause.

Then he turns his head slightly, just enough that you can see the edge of his scarred smile.

“Then you’re mine.”

Not romantic.

Not sweet.

Just certain.

His hand slides from yours to your thigh, squeezing once — firm, grounding.

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

And when you lay down, he doesn’t move away this time. He lies behind you, one arm heavy over your waist, body curved around yours like a shield.

Dangerous.

Possessive.

But steady.

For the first time since you met him, the safehouse doesn’t feel temporary.

Choso Kamo x Reader

﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•﹌•

Choso learns restraint the hard way.

It’s the only reason you’re still breathing.

He tells himself that every time his steps slow when he senses you behind him, every time his blood stirs in warning—not for an enemy, but for you. He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look. If he does, he knows the fragile distance he’s built will collapse.

The air smells like damp concrete and old curses. Somewhere above, the city still exists—sirens, neon, people who don’t know how close the world is to breaking open. Down here, it’s just shadows and the sound of Yuji’s footsteps echoing ahead.

His brother.

His anchor.

And you—unfortunately—his undoing.

“Stay close,” Choso mutters, voice low, rough. It’s meant for Yuji, but his eyes flick sideways despite himself.

You’re already watching him.

You always are.

That look on your face—careful, quiet, trying not to push—twists something in his chest he doesn’t have language for. Choso was born knowing blood and loss and loyalty. Want came later. Want came with you.

He hates it.

He hates how he notices the way your breath changes when danger nears. How your presence steadies him when his instincts scream violence. How his blood responds to yours like it’s memorized the rhythm.

So he keeps moving.

Keeps space.

Keeps pretending you’re just another sorcerer caught in the wreckage of this war.

Until you’re not.

The curse strikes fast—too fast for you to react. Choso feels it before he sees it, a sharp pull in his veins, a sudden flare of alarm that snaps his restraint clean in half.

“Move.”

His hand closes around your wrist and drags you back, hard enough that you stumble into him. Blood erupts in a crimson arc, precise and lethal, tearing through the space where you stood a heartbeat ago. The curse doesn’t even have time to scream.

Silence crashes down.

You’re pressed against his chest.

Too close.

Choso freezes.

His grip is iron. Protective. Unapologetic. He can feel your pulse through your skin, quick and alive, and it does something dangerous to him. His breath stutters, just once, before he forces it steady.

“I told you,” he says, voice strained, “to stay close.”

You look up at him, eyes bright with adrenaline—and something softer, something that makes his stomach twist.

“You were the one walking away,” you say quietly.

The words hit deeper than any blade.

For a moment, he considers letting go. Stepping back. Rebuilding the wall.

Instead, he exhales and keeps you there.

Yuji clears his throat a few steps away, pretending very hard not to notice. “Uh. I’ll—check ahead.”

Bless him for the mercy.

The tunnel feels smaller once you’re alone. Choso finally releases your wrist, but he doesn’t step away. His hands hover at your sides like he doesn’t trust himself to touch—or not to.

“This is why,” he says, staring past you. “Why I keep distance. If I lose control—”

“You didn’t,” you interrupt. “You saved me.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

There’s conflict written into every line of his face, devotion warring with fear. You see it—the way he wants to stay, the way he’s terrified of what that would cost. Loving someone has always meant losing them for him.

Choso doesn’t mean to lose control.

It happens in increments. In inches.

The tunnel hums with residual cursed energy, the kind that prickles against skin and makes instincts sharpen. He keeps walking, keeps you close, fingers still threaded with yours like he’s afraid if he lets go you’ll disappear—or worse, get hurt because of him.

“You should go walk behind Yuji,” he says, quietly.

You tug his hand. Just enough to make him stop.

“No,” you say. “I’m not afraid of you.”

That does it.

Choso turns, sudden and deliberate, backing you into the cool concrete wall. Not rough—never rough with you—but decisive. His body blocks you in, solid and warm, cursed energy curling low and restrained around his frame. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission he knows he shouldn’t need.

“This is exactly what you should be afraid of,” he murmurs.

Your breath stutters, not in fear—never that—but in anticipation. You don’t move away. Instead, your hands slide up the front of his coat, fingers curling in the fabric over his chest. You feel it then: the way his blood responds, pressure and heat coiling tight beneath his skin.

Choso sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“Don’t,” he warns, but his hand is already at your waist, thumb pressing into bare skin like it belongs there.

“Then stop me,” you whisper.

He doesn’t.

Then he kisses you, it’s deep, urgent, edged with everything he’s been denying himself. His mouth moves against yours with controlled hunger, like he’s holding himself back by sheer will alone. When you gasp, his hand slides up your back, fingers splaying, grounding himself in the feel of you.

Too much.

Too close.

He breaks the kiss, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if he needs the contact just to stay upright. His breath is hot against your skin. You can feel the tension in him—violent restraint wrapped around aching want.

“I shouldn’t,” he mutters. “Yuji—this war—if I lose myself—”

Your fingers slip under his collar, brushing the warm skin of his neck. His blood surges in response, just a flicker, a visible thread of crimson curling around his wrist before he reins it in. Not weaponized. Not dangerous.

Intimate.

Choso stills, stunned by himself.

“You trust me,” you say softly. “I trust you.”

That’s what breaks him.

His mouth finds yours again, slower this time but heavier, deliberate. He kisses you like he’s memorizing you—your breath, the way you lean into him, the sound you make when his hand slides from your waist to your hip and pulls you closer. There’s no mistaking what his body wants now, pressed against yours, heat and tension unmistakable.

He groans quietly, torn between instinct and devotion.

When he pulls back, it’s with visible effort. His thumb brushes your swollen lip, reverent, almost aching.

“We can’t..not yet —not here. Not like this.” he says, voice rough.

But he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he presses one last kiss to your mouth—slower, deeper, promising—before resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in like a vow.

Footsteps echo faintly in the distance.

Reality intrudes.

Choso straightens, composure snapping back into place, but his hand never leaves yours. When he turns to lead you forward again, his grip tightens—not possessive, but protective. Intent.

This isn’t over.

It’s just postponed.

And as you follow him into the shadows, body still humming with everything left unsaid, you know exactly what waits for you when the fighting finally stops—and Choso finally allows himself to take what he wants.

His thumb brushes your knuckles before he realizes he’s moved.

The contact is brief.

Devastating.

“Don’t make this harder,” he murmurs.

You step closer instead.

Choso’s breath catches. His blood responds instinctively, warmth rising beneath his skin, every sense narrowing down to the space between you. His forehead dips toward yours, not quite touching. Close enough that he can feel your breath.

“This,” you whisper, “isn’t hard. This is you caring.”

For a heartbeat, he fights it.

Then he gives in—just a little.

His hand cups your jaw, reverent, careful like you might shatter. The kiss is slow, restrained to the point of ache, but it carries everything he’s been holding back: fear, devotion, longing sharpened by guilt. When he pulls away, it’s with effort, his forehead resting against yours.

And when he turns to move forward again, he doesn’t let go —his fingers laced with yours as he leads you after his brother, blood steady, heart anything but.

Because Choso doesn’t know how to love without protecting.

All For One x Reader (Pre All Might/Nana Shimura- before he messed his face up lol)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ ── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

You stopped pretending you were alone.

That was the first thing he took from you—the illusion of privacy. It didn’t matter where you stood or how quiet you moved; there was always the sense of being observed, like your thoughts themselves were reporting back to him.

You learned his patterns without meaning to. The way the air felt heavier before he entered a room. The way doors unlocked themselves when he decided you should pass through. The way conversations died the moment you stepped too close to anyone else.

Not ordered.

Prevented.

At night, you sometimes lay awake and wondered how much of you still existed outside of him. How much of your routine—your breathing, your posture, the careful way you spoke—was chosen, and how much had simply been… shaped.

When the doubt crept in, it was quiet at first.

‘If he watches so closely… why does he never say my name?’

The thought festered. You found yourself moving slower, testing the invisible leash. Lingering in hallways. Letting your gaze drift just a second too long toward a subordinate who looked at you with something like curiosity.

It was corrected immediately.

That evening, you were summoned without explanation.

All For One stood near the window, city lights bleeding through the glass behind him. He didn’t turn when you entered. He didn’t need to.

“You’ve been seeking validation,” he said calmly.

Your stomach dropped. “I—no. I just—”

“You want to be seen,” he continued, as if you hadn’t spoken at all. “And you are mistaking silence for absence.”

He turned then, facing you fully. The pressure of his attention pinned you in place more effectively than any hand ever could.

“You believe,” he said, stepping closer, “that because I do not ask for you, you are optional.”

His fingers reached out—not touching yet. Hovering. The space between you felt charged, deliberate.

“You are mistaken.”

Your breath came shallow. “Then what am I to you?” you whispered.

He closed the distance.

His hand settled at the small of your back, guiding you forward with minimal effort. Not force—expectation. You moved because it never occurred to you not to.

“You are consistency,” he said quietly. “You are stability. You are something that does not betray, does not leave, does not require permission to exist in my space.”

His thumb pressed slightly, just enough to remind you how easily he controlled your balance.

“You are mine,” he finished.

The word settled deep. Heavy. Warm. Terrifyingly comforting.

“I monitor what belongs to me,” he continued, tone almost indulgent now. “I limit access. I correct behavior. I remove distractions.”

His hand slid higher—still chaste, still controlled—but intimate in its certainty.

“When you feel invisible,” he said, “it is because you are safe. Because nothing is allowed near you without my approval.”

Your pulse thudded painfully. “And if I wanted… more?”

The pause was deliberate.

His grip tightened—not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.

“There is no more,” he said. “There is only proximity. And I decide how close you stand.”

Then, softer—dangerously so:

“You do not need to earn my attention. You already have it. Constantly.”

He leaned closer, close enough that his presence eclipsed everything else. The world narrowed until there was only his voice, his hand, his will.

“You belong to no one else,” he murmured. “Not their thoughts. Not their desires. Not their hands.”

A beat.

“Not even your own.”

You should have recoiled.

Instead, you felt the doubt dissolve—replaced by something steadier. Simpler. The relief of being defined so completely that there was nothing left to question.

When he stepped away, your body remembered the shape of his absence.

And when he dismissed you, you realized something chillingly sweet:

You didn’t feel owned.

You felt kept.

The change was subtle enough that, at first, you wondered if you imagined it.

The corridors you were once permitted to walk freely now required accompaniment. Conversations stopped sooner. Eyes slid away from you faster. People no longer addressed you directly—they spoke around you, as if acknowledging you without permission might cost them something.

You understood why the moment it happened.

A subordinate had looked at you for too long.

It wasn’t leering. It wasn’t brave. Just a flicker of curiosity—human, careless. He’d spoken your name once, softly, like testing whether it belonged to him to say.

That night, All For One summoned you.

He didn’t mention the man. He never had to. He stood close enough that you could feel the faint pressure of his presence against your spine, his attention winding tight and patient.

“Tell me,” he said calmly, “did you enjoy being noticed?”

Your mouth went dry. “I didn’t—do anything.”

“I didn’t ask what you did,” he replied. “I asked what you felt.”

Silence stretched. He let it. He always did.

“I felt…” You hesitated, then whispered, “…confused.”

His hand settled at the back of your neck. Not squeezing. Anchoring.

“Confusion,” he said thoughtfully, “is what happens when boundaries are tested.”

His thumb brushed once—slow, deliberate—just under your jaw. Suggestive not in action, but in implication.

“You are not meant to wonder who is allowed to see you,” he continued. “That decision is not yours.”

Your knees weakened slightly. He noticed.

“I remove uncertainty,” he said, guiding you backward until the edge of a desk pressed into the backs of your legs. “That is how I care for what is mine.”

Your breath stuttered. “What happens to people who forget that?”

The pause was long enough to feel like an answer.

“They are corrected,” he said finally. “Or removed.”

You didn’t ask what had happened to the man.

You didn’t need to.

Instead, you whispered, “And me?”

His hand slid from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading with quiet authority.

“You,” he said, “are reminded.”

He leaned in—not to kiss, not to touch further—but close enough that the space between you felt intentional, controlled, aching with restraint.

“You are watched because you are valued,” he murmured. “Restricted because you are desired. Isolated because no one else is worthy of the confusion you inspire.”

Your heart pounded. The fear tangled with something darker, deeper—relief curling low in your stomach.

“I will not have you doubting your place,” he continued softly. “If that means narrowing your world until only my voice remains… so be it.”

When he finally stepped back, the room felt wrong without him—too large, too empty.

The next day, you noticed it fully.

No one lingered near you.

No one met your eyes.

No one spoke your name.

Only him.

And when the loneliness set in—sharp and immediate—you realized, with a slow, frightening clarity, that it only hurt because he hadn’t spoken yet.

Because you were waiting.

Waiting to be reminded.

The silence was deliberate.

That was how you knew it was punishment.

He didn’t summon you. Didn’t correct you. Didn’t remind you. The systems still responded to you, the doors still opened, the world still bent—but his voice was gone.

You lasted two days.

By the third, the absence gnawed at you so sharply it felt physical. Your thoughts looped uselessly, every action suddenly weightless without his attention anchoring it. You caught yourself pausing mid-step, waiting for a presence that didn’t come.

When you finally broke protocol—stepping into a corridor you knew was no longer yours—the air changed instantly.

He was there before you reached the end.

“You are restless again,” All For One said, not unkindly.

Your knees nearly gave out at the sound of him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed. “I won’t—”

He raised a hand. Silence fell.

“I removed myself,” he said calmly, “to see whether you would drift… or return.”

He approached slowly, studying you like a system under stress. When he stopped in front of you, his hand lifted your chin—familiar now. Expected.

“You didn’t seek others,” he observed. “You didn’t rebel.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip—not crossing any line, yet unmistakably intimate.

“You sought me.”

Your voice broke. “I didn’t know who I was without you.”

That was the moment his control tightened.

“There it is,” he murmured.

He drew you in, not roughly, not urgently—decisively. Then, he guided you away, it wasn’t to a public room, or an office, or anywhere meant for strategy.

It was private. Shielded. Chosen.

Time blurred after that.

You remember his presence never leaving—not even when it should have. His attention wrapped around you completely, unwavering, consuming. Whatever line existed before dissolved quietly, intentionally, without spectacle.

There were no commands.

No negotiations.

Only closeness so absolute it erased doubt.

When it concluded—when you lay there, senses heavy, mind quiet—you realized something that terrified you more than anything before:

He hadn’t left.

All For One remained beside you, seated close enough that you could feel him without looking. His hand rested against you—not claiming now, but keeping. As if stepping away simply… hadn’t occurred to him.

“You are quieter,” he said after a while.

“I don’t feel lost anymore,” you admitted.

“Good,” he replied. “That was never acceptable.”

You turned your head slightly. “Why didn’t you go?”

A pause.

“Because possession,” he said slowly, “is not satisfied by distance.”

His hand tightened just enough to remind you where you were anchored.

“You belong at my side,” he continued. “And I find I have no interest in leaving what is mine unattended.”

The words didn’t frighten you.

They settled over you like a promise.

And when you closed your eyes, wrapped in the certainty of his presence, you understood fully—finally—that resistance had never been taken from you.

You had given it up.

Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader x Feitan Porter

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

PT. 3 (Chrollo’s ending)

Click here for Pt. 1

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Feitan’s fingers pressed harder, circling with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and demanding, every line of his body daring you to take what he offered.

“Choose,” he rasped. “Now.”

Your breath came fast, chest heaving. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to give in, to let him push you over the edge, to finally claim the release Chrollo always denied.

But just as the heat coiled tight in your stomach, you caught yourself. A single word slipped past your lips — rough, broken, but firm:

“No.”

Feitan’s hand stilled. His eyes narrowed, searching your face, waiting for a crack. But when he found none, he pulled back with a sharp, dismissive sound — half scoff, half laugh.

“Tch. Loyal dog,” he muttered. But there was no real mockery in his tone. His gaze lingered a beat longer than it should have, then he stepped back into the dark, vanishing like smoke.

You were left trembling, breath ragged, body aching with denial.

That’s when the voice came.

“Good.”

You froze.

Chrollo stepped out of the shadows, book in hand, expression unreadable. His eyes swept over you — your flushed face, your trembling thighs, the damp heat you couldn’t hide — and a faint, satisfied smile curved his lips.

“You resisted,” he said softly. “As I knew you would.”

Relief flickered in your chest — but it didn’t last.

Chrollo closed the distance in two slow strides, his hand wrapping around your throat as he forced your back against the wall. His thumb pressed into your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away.

“But understand,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your ear, “your loyalty is mine to use. Even your denial belongs to me.”

His free hand slipped between your thighs, cupping you roughly over the damp fabric. He didn’t move to give you what you needed — only to press, to remind you of everything you’d refused.

“You ache,” he whispered. “And you will continue to ache. Because I say so.”

His hand retreated, leaving you empty and throbbing. Then he kissed your forehead, gentle as a benediction, before turning away.

“Go to bed,” he said, voice calm again. “And dream of nothing but me.”

You stood there trembling long after he left, every nerve screaming for release, knowing you wouldn’t have it unless he allowed it.

He made you wait another day. Long enough for the ache to become a constant hum in your body. Long enough for Feitan’s touch to become a phantom memory you almost hated yourself for craving.

Then, without a word, Chrollo called you into his quarters.

He was sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, a single candle burning low on the table beside him. His book lay closed for once. When you stepped inside, he looked up, eyes dark and unreadable.

“On your knees,” he said.

You obeyed, heart hammering.

He didn’t touch you right away. He reached out, cupping your chin, tilting your face up until you met his eyes.

“You resisted,” he said softly. “You chose me.” His thumb brushed your bottom lip, slow, almost tender. “That deserves acknowledgment.”

Then, without another word, he pushed you back gently onto the bed, his hands sliding down your sides as he shifted you until you lay open before him. His eyes never left yours as he spread your thighs with his hands, the movement as casual as opening a book.

“Stay still,” he murmured. “I’ll read you now.”

He bent forward, his mouth finding you with devastating precision. The first stroke of his tongue was slow, deliberate, a perfect echo of every denied moment he’d left you aching. He held your hips down when you tried to move, his palms firm against your thighs, forcing you to take each flick and circle exactly how he gave it.

You gasped, fingers digging into the sheets. He didn’t rush. He traced you, tasted you, mapped every tremor and breath like he was cataloguing a new passage in one of his stolen texts.

“You taste of restraint,” he murmured against you before sealing his mouth over you again, tongue flicking harder now, faster, until you were arching helplessly against his grip.

When you broke, it wasn’t gentle. It was sharp, shuddering, days of denied release finally tearing free in a low cry you couldn’t bite back. He stayed with you through it, tongue and lips never faltering, milking every tremor until you sagged boneless against the mattress.

Only then did he lift his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes locked onto yours, satisfied but still calm.

“Now you understand,” he said softly, brushing a thumb over your still-trembling thigh. “Even your reward comes from me.”

He leaned down, kissed your inner thigh once — a soft, startling contrast — then stood, retrieving his book.

“Sleep,” he murmured, turning away. “And remember why you got this.”

You lay there shaking, your body finally loose, your mind still caught between shame and relief, knowing he’d given you release not as kindness but as proof: you’d earned it, and he owned it.

You felt his absence before you noticed it.

Two nights without a summons, two nights of quiet where even the air seemed to hold its breath. The ache he left behind dulled into something dangerous — patience sharpened into longing. That was always Chrollo’s way: to let you wait, to let devotion fester until it became faith.

So when the door opened without warning, you were already half awake, pulse thrumming like a secret. He stepped inside with the kind of calm that drew all the sound out of a room. The lock clicked softly behind him — a promise, or a trap.

He set a book on your desk. The sound was subtle, but your pulse spiked at it. That book meant choice. That book meant attention.

And when it closed, his gaze lifted to you — all at once, unbroken, consuming.

“Come,” he said.

The word struck like a touch. You obeyed before you even thought to.

He closed the distance between you slowly, with the deliberate stillness of someone who never acted without intent. His hands rose, gliding up your arms until they found your shoulders. His fingers stayed there, light but firm, as if testing the shape of restraint. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

Then, quietly, he bent — his lips brushing yours, barely there. The kiss was so soft it almost didn’t exist.

“You’ve been loyal,” he murmured against your mouth. “And loyalty deserves acknowledgment.”

When he kissed you again, it wasn’t soft. It was slow — too slow — the kind of kiss meant to draw out every ounce of anticipation he’d built in your waiting. You felt him breathe against you, steady and controlled, though something in his composure had shifted — a shadow of hunger breaking through the stillness.

When he finally pulled back, he studied you for a moment. “Tonight,” he said, “you’ll know what I’ve kept from you.”

He spoke like a man confessing to something sacred.

The next hours moved like a fever dream — deliberate, silent, magnetic. He didn’t rush, didn’t demand; he simply moved in ways that made you forget where one thought ended and another began. His touch, when it came, wasn’t cruel. It was reverent. Measured. As if every motion was a word in a language only the two of you knew.

There was a rhythm in the way he looked at you — restraint coiled tight around something far more dangerous. You could feel it in the way he breathed, the way his hands lingered without taking more than you gave. It was power tempered by choice.

At some point, you stopped breathing evenly. His control slipped — just enough that you felt it, that small tremor of truth beneath the mask. He caught your face between his hands, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth, his eyes heavy with something you didn’t dare name.

“Mine,” he whispered, low and sure. Not a claim, not a threat — but a statement that bound you in silence.

You didn’t know how long he stayed like that — the quiet around you shifting, settling into something softer. The candles burned low, the shadows bent and stretched, and his hands eventually fell away, though he didn’t move to leave.

He stayed.

You felt it in the way the air changed — his body still near, his gaze fixed on some point past you, as though he was memorizing the shape of stillness itself. Then, wordlessly, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed. The silence wasn’t sharp this time. It was full.

He reached for your hand, not to command, but simply to hold. His thumb brushed your knuckles, slow, absentminded — a small, human motion that felt heavier than any word he’d spoken.

“I don’t stay,” he said quietly, as if confessing to something that could undo him.

You looked at him — really looked — and saw the edges of the man beneath the myth. The one who built control like armor, who needed silence to keep the world at bay.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t retreat. He stayed.

And in that stillness — in the warmth between your joined hands — you understood what it meant for someone like Chrollo to remain.

It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t love. It was something rarer.

It was trust.

He didn’t speak again. Neither did you.

When sleep finally came, you felt the weight of his presence beside you — quiet, watchful, real.

And for once, the morning light didn’t feel like an ending.

The candles had burned themselves out, leaving only thin curls of smoke and the faint perfume of wax. Dawn filtered through the curtains in fractured gold, brushing over tangled sheets, the open book on the floor, the slow rise and fall of Chrollo’s breathing beside you.

He hadn’t left.

For a long time you stayed still, watching him from the half-light. His lashes cast small shadows across his cheeks, his hand loose on the pillow near your collarbone — close enough to touch, but not claiming, not demanding. You wondered if he slept at all, or if this quiet was another performance, an illusion meant to disarm. Yet when he finally stirred, it was with the same calm you’d always seen in him, only now softened by the morning.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, voice low, roughened slightly by sleep.

“I didn’t expect you to stay,” you admitted.

A small, amused exhale. “Neither did I.”

He turned toward you fully, and for the first time since you’d known him, his expression held no mask. Just thought, and something quieter underneath — contentment, maybe, or the echo of it. His hand brushed your hair back, thumb tracing your temple like he was memorizing you all over again.

Outside, faint voices drifted through the corridor — the troupe waking, boots on stone, low laughter, the clatter of breakfast preparations. The world still moved, missions still waited. But here, inside this small square of stillness, everything else receded.

“Feitan’s been pacing since dawn,” Chrollo said after a moment, tone almost casual. “He doesn’t approve of me lingering.”

You caught the faintest curl of humor in his mouth. “Does he ever approve of anything you do?”

“Perhaps not. But his disapproval is louder than usual.” He paused, eyes half-lidded. “Jealousy is a peculiar thing, isn’t it?”

You shifted, unsure whether to smile. “You noticed.”

“I notice everything,” he said simply, and then his fingers slid down, brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse beat fast. “Including how easily you ignore it.”

You met his gaze. “Should I be worried?”

“About Feitan?” He tilted his head, dark hair falling loose across his forehead. “No. He understands his place.” Then, quieter: “And he understands mine.”

The words hung between you, not threat, not reassurance — just fact. You realized then that this, too, was a form of intimacy with Chrollo: to be spoken to as though you were part of his design, not merely caught in it.

He leaned forward and pressed a light kiss just below your jaw, more promise than possession. “I told you I’d give you all of me,” he said, his breath warm against your skin. “I don’t take those words lightly.”

For a while you simply breathed together, the steady rhythm of it grounding you both. His hand rested over your heart, feeling the beat, and you felt the faintest return of pressure — a silent acknowledgment.

Outside the door, footsteps passed, then stopped. A pause. You knew that presence instantly; sharp, still, watching. Feitan didn’t enter, but the air itself seemed to tighten, as if he were trying to burn a hole through the wall with sheer resentment. Chrollo’s eyes flicked toward the sound — calm, unbothered — and then back to you.

“Let him look,” he said softly. “He needs reminders.”

You couldn’t help a quiet laugh, half disbelief, half affection. “You really don’t make it easy for him.”

“I rarely make it easy for anyone.” His tone gentled, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin. “Except you, perhaps.”

The comment caught you off guard. “That’s debatable.”

“Is it?” He gave a small smile, one that reached his eyes. “You’re still here.”

And somehow that felt like the truest thing either of you had said.

Time blurred after that — moments measured in small touches, quiet breaths, the distant murmur of the hideout coming alive beyond your door. Chrollo eventually sat up, stretching with quiet grace, reaching for his discarded book on the table. The pages were marked by a ribbon, a habit of his that always seemed deliberate. He thumbed it open, but instead of reading, he just looked at the words for a while, lost in thought.

“You read even now?” you teased lightly.

“It helps me think.” He glanced at you, then closed it again. “But lately, I find thought… less necessary.”

You propped yourself on an elbow. “That’s a dangerous confession.”

He considered that, then smiled — that slow, deliberate curve that always seemed to hide too much. “Perhaps.”

Silence fell again, this time comfortable. You watched him move to the window, the dawn washing over his bare shoulders, light cutting against shadow in sharp relief. For all his composure, there was something different about him this morning — a stillness that wasn’t cold, but contemplative.

“Chrollo?” you said quietly.

He turned slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Hm?”

“Why are you still here?”

He took a moment before answering. “Because for once,” he said, “I’d rather not be anywhere else.”

The admission was simple, almost careless, but it settled deep in your chest. You didn’t press further; you didn’t need to. You understood that with Chrollo, such honesty was its own kind of gift.

He crossed back to the bed, sat beside you, and brushed a stray thread of hair from your face. His hand lingered near your cheek, eyes tracing your features like he was committing them to memory.

“Stay with me today,” he said. “Let the others wonder.”

“And tomorrow?” you asked.

A pause. “Tomorrow, the world resumes. But today…” He leaned in, his voice lowering to a murmur that trembled between command and promise. “Today, you’re mine without question.”

You felt the heat rise in your face at his words, but before you could respond, he pressed his forehead to yours — quiet, steady, real. The moment held. And when he finally spoke again, it was so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

“One day,” he whispered, “I’d like to see something from me in you.”

Your breath caught — a tremor of surprise and something deeper. His eyes didn’t waver; they stayed on yours, calm and certain, the smallest hint of a smile there. He didn’t elaborate, didn’t need to. You understood what he meant, and he knew you did.

Flustered, you looked away, and he only chuckled under his breath, tilting your chin back toward him with a touch both gentle and unyielding.

“Don’t hide from what you already know,” he said. “Some futures aren’t written — they’re chosen.”

Outside, the first call for assembly echoed through the hall. Feitan’s voice, clipped and irritable, carried just enough to make you smile. Chrollo ignored it entirely. He remained where he was, close enough that his presence filled every inch of quiet space.

For that moment — that single, fragile morning — the world felt far away.

And though you both knew it couldn’t last, the peace between you was real.

Chrollo’s thumb traced the curve of your jaw once more, his gaze steady and full of intent.

“Come,” he said softly. “The day waits for no one — not even us.”

But as you stood, he caught your hand, holding it a second longer than necessary. That same faint smile — the one that promised everything and nothing at once — crossed his lips again.

You didn’t need words to know: whatever came next, this moment had changed something in him.

Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader x Feitan Porter

PT.2

Click here for PT.1

⚠️ Nsfw ⚠️

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The world seemed to shrink to the sound of your pulse.

Feitan’s words hung in the air like smoke; Chrollo’s voice, smooth and detached, wrapped around them until you could barely breathe. You felt the decision in your throat before it reached your lips.

You turned toward Feitan.

Not because it was safe, but because it was real.

The faintest smirk touched Feitan’s mouth — gone almost as soon as it appeared. He withdrew his hand, the gesture deliberate, his restraint more intimate than touch. “Choice made,” he said, voice rougher than before.

Chrollo stepped out of the dark. His eyes moved from you to Feitan and back again, studying, calculating. The silence between them was sharp enough to draw blood.

“So that’s how it is,” he said at last. “Loyalty chosen through desire.”

Feitan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “Loyalty earned,” he corrected.

Chrollo smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll see.” He closed his book with a soft snap, the sound final, and left the room as quietly as he’d come.

When the door clicked shut, the tension didn’t fade — it changed. The air felt thinner, the space between you charged with what hadn’t happened, with what still could.

Feitan stepped close again, until your shoulders nearly brushed. “You should know,” he murmured, “when you choose something in front of him… you don’t take it back.”

You met his eyes. “I’m not trying to.”

He regarded you for a moment longer, then turned away, cloak whispering against the floor. “Good,” he said simply, and walked out — leaving you in the half-light, heartbeat still racing, aware that the choice you’d made had just rewritten every line between loyalty and want.

Later that night, the door opened without warning. Feitan entered your quarters quietly, shutting it behind him with a click. He set his sword down on your desk — a detail that made your pulse spike. His focus was entirely, dangerously on you.

“Stand up,” he said.

You obeyed, heart racing, body already reacting to the calm weight of his gaze. He crossed the room slowly, his hands sliding up your arms until they rested at your shoulders. For a moment he only looked at you, his expression unreadable. Then he bent, his lips brushing yours in a kiss so uncharacteristically soft it stole your breath.

“You chose me,” he murmured against your mouth. “And you deserve more than scraps.”

His mouth claimed yours properly this time, slow but deep, his tongue sliding against yours while his hands moved down, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. When he finally broke the kiss, he guided you back toward the bed, lowering you onto it with a care that contrasted the usual ruthless precision of his touch.

“Tonight,” he said, his voice lower now, threaded with something heavier, “I’ll give you all of me.”

He undressed you slowly, not in a rush to take, but to see. Each layer peeled away under his hands felt like surrender — not demanded, but guided. When he stripped himself, you caught the sharp lines of his body, pale in the candlelight, his arousal already straining against control.

He lay you back, his lips traveling down your throat, your collarbone, your stomach, until he was between your thighs again. But this time wasn’t just about proof. His mouth was hungry, thorough, his tongue and lips working you with a steady rhythm until you were moaning his name, clutching at his hair, your body arching helplessly into him.

When you came, he didn’t pull back. He held you there, swallowing every shudder, every cry, until you collapsed against the sheets.

And then he climbed over you, kissing your mouth again so you could taste yourself on him. His hand guided himself to your entrance, his eyes holding yours as he pressed in slowly, inch by inch, filling you until you gasped, stretched around him.

He groaned softly — the first real crack in his composure — and lowered his forehead to yours. “Mine,” he whispered as he sank all the way inside. “Every part of you.”

His thrusts started slow, deliberate, each one pushing deeper, grinding against the places that made you whimper. But the longer he moved, the more the calm edge slipped, his rhythm growing rougher, sharper, his breath ragged against your ear. He murmured between thrusts — not sweet nothings, but claims:

“You’ll never need him.”

“You come for me, only me.”

“You belong to me.”

Your body trembled around him, building again, pleasure surging until it tore through you, raw and unstoppable. Your release clenched hard around him, dragging a guttural groan from his throat as he spilled into you, burying himself deep and holding you there while he shuddered through it.

He didn’t pull away immediately. He stayed pressed to you, his lips brushing your temple, his breath hot against your skin.

When he finally moved, he kissed you again, slower this time, almost tender. His hand smoothed your hair back, fingers lingering at your temple like he wanted to memorize the shape of you beneath them.

“Mine,” he murmured. “Mine beyond doubt.”

He left you full, marked, trembling — not empty like Chrollo. He’d given you everything.

╭──────────.★..─╮

Timeskip

╰─..★.──────────╯

The day was too quiet. Even for a place like this.

You sat near the window, the faint hum of the city below mixing with the creak of the old building. The events of the night before hadn’t left you. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Feitan’s gaze — steady, sharp — the moment you’d chosen him.

Now, that choice clung to you like smoke.

The door opened without sound. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Feitan’s presence filled the room differently than Chrollo’s; colder, smaller, but somehow heavier.

He stopped a few steps away. “You still think about it,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

You nodded, unable to lie.

For a moment, nothing. Then a quiet breath — not quite a sigh. “Good.” He moved past you, setting his sword on the table. “Means you understand what it means.”

You looked up at him. “Do you?”

That earned you a glance over his shoulder, a flash of teeth that might have been a smile. “I don’t choose things I don’t want.”

The air between you felt taut again. Not dangerous — not yet — but close.

Before you could answer, the door creaked again. A slower, deliberate sound this time. Chrollo stepped in, book in hand, expression calm and too composed.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, voice silk wrapped around a blade.

Feitan didn’t turn. “Yes.”

Chrollo smiled faintly, ignoring him. His eyes settled on you, the same way they had before — studying, searching, waiting for something you didn’t want to give. “You’ve been quiet today,” he said softly. “Second-guessing your decision?”

You met his gaze. “No.”

His smile lingered, but his tone cooled. “Interesting. You sound very sure, considering how quickly it was made.”

Feitan’s chair scraped back. “She said no.”

The room felt smaller then — Chrollo’s gaze flicking from you to Feitan and back again, jealousy coiling beneath his calm exterior. The air grew dense with unspoken things: challenge, curiosity, possession.

Finally, Chrollo closed his book with that same soft sound. “I see. Then I hope you’re prepared to prove it, both of you.”

He turned to leave, but you caught the faintest tension in his shoulders, the smallest trace of something human and sharp behind that calm façade.

When the door closed again, Feitan didn’t speak. He just looked at you — long, silent, unreadable — then said, “Don’t let him see fear.”

You swallowed. “And if I’m not afraid?”

Feitan’s voice dropped, low and certain. “Then you chose right.”

Night had settled like smoke over the hideout.

The Spider’s den was rarely quiet, but tonight even the walls seemed to hold their breath. The echoes of the last few days hadn’t faded — every glance carried an edge, every silence a question.

You felt it before it began. The way Chrollo’s presence filled the room, all calm calculation, and how Feitan’s stillness turned heavier in response. They were two storms circling the same sky.

“You’ve changed,” Chrollo said finally, voice soft, almost mournful. His gaze slid to you before returning to Feitan. “She made you predictable.”

Feitan’s expression didn’t shift. “Predictable is what kills others, not me.”

“Are you sure?” Chrollo asked, stepping closer. “Because right now, I see emotion. I see attachment.” His tone was light, but his words cut deep. “That’s weakness.”

Feitan’s hand twitched near his sword. “You talk too much.”

Chrollo tilted his head. “And you’re thinking too loud.”

The silence cracked.

Steel whispered free of its sheath, catching the dim light. Chrollo didn’t flinch — his hand moved, pages turning in his book, an ability you’d seen destroy dozens before.

You barely breathed. The air felt thick, charged, like a storm waiting to break.

Feitan moved first — a blur of dark cloth and speed. The floor split beneath his step, sparks flashing where his blade met Chrollo’s chain. The sound echoed through the corridors like thunder.

Chrollo parried easily, too easily, a faint smile touching his lips as he sidestepped. Feitan pivoted low, slicing for the opening — the page turned again — and for a heartbeat, you saw the flicker of something wrong, a borrowed power glowing faintly in Chrollo’s hand.

He aimed it at Feitan.

You didn’t think — you moved.

Your hand caught Chrollo’s wrist before he could finish the motion, your body between them before either could react. The shock in Chrollo’s eyes was brief — but real.

Then the door burst open.

Shizuku, Franklin, Nobunaga — the others poured in, drawn by the clash. The room filled with movement, noise, a dozen loyalties colliding in one breath.

“Enough,” Machi snapped, her threads glinting under the low light. “This isn’t how we fight.”

Chrollo’s book closed with a soft click. He looked around at his Troupe — his family, his soldiers — then back at you and Feitan.

“Go, then,” he said finally. His voice was calm again, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable. “Run, if you must. But remember what you are. You’ll always be Spiders.”

Feitan didn’t hesitate. His hand caught yours, rough and certain. You didn’t look back.

The corridors blurred — steel, stone, shadow. You heard someone shout your name behind you, another call Feitan’s, but neither of you stopped until the cold air outside hit your lungs.

Hours later, the two of you sat at the edge of the city, where the lights gave way to wilderness. The silence here was real — no orders, no eyes, no Chrollo. Just breathing.

Feitan leaned against a tree, cloak torn, face shadowed. You could still see the faint cut across his cheek, a mark from Chrollo’s counter.

“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” he said quietly.

You smiled faintly. “You would’ve done the same.”

He looked at you — long enough that the night seemed to hold still again. Then, slowly, his hand brushed your cheek, the gesture rough, uncertain, but real.

“Maybe,” he murmured. “But don’t make habit of it.”

You leaned into his touch anyway. The world around you was dark, endless, and for once, it felt like freedom.

Somewhere in the distance, a page turned — faint, ghostly — or maybe it was only the wind.

You both looked toward the sound.

Feitan’s grip tightened on yours. “He’ll hunt,” he said.

“I know.”

“You regret it?”

You shook your head. “No. I chose.”

He gave a low sound — something close to approval, maybe even a laugh. Then, with the faintest ghost of a smirk, he said, “Then we keep moving.”

The two of you disappeared into the night, two shadows slipping into a world that would never stop chasing them — because no one ever truly left the Spiders.

But for now, the night was yours.

Three weeks passed in a blur of changing towns, half-empty inns, and unlit roads. The Spider’s web stretched farther than either of you had guessed; every quiet street carried the chance of a shadow that wasn’t your own.

You’d learned to move silently beside him, to read his smallest gestures: when his shoulders tensed, it meant danger; when they eased, it meant you could breathe again.

That night, the two of you stopped at the edge of a field where the lights of the last town were a faint glow behind you. A storm was rolling in, low and heavy, the air thick with the scent of rain.

Feitan stood watch for a long while before speaking. “He’s still looking,” he said. It wasn’t fear in his voice—just fact.

You nodded. “We knew he would.”

He turned then, studying you. The wind caught at the loose ends of his cloak, carrying the smell of steel and smoke that never seemed to leave him. “You regret leaving?”

“No.”

A pause. “Even if it means running forever?”

You stepped closer, close enough that the wind didn’t have to carry your answer. “As long as it’s with you.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then his eyes softened—barely, but enough that you could see it. His hand lifted to your face, rough fingertips tracing the line of your jaw, the same way he might test the edge of a blade.

“You’re trouble,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “You like trouble.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and before you could say another word, he leaned down and kissed you—quick, certain, nothing gentle about it, but steady enough to anchor you both. The world didn’t fall away; it simply narrowed to that single moment of warmth in the cold night.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “We move at dawn,” he murmured.

You breathed a quiet “okay,” and the storm finally broke, rain falling in heavy sheets around you.

He didn’t step away, and neither did you.

By morning, the rain had turned to mist. The world smelled clean, washed raw by the storm.

Feitan had been awake before the first light, silent as always, checking the perimeter while you packed what little you had left.

The two of you didn’t talk much anymore—you didn’t need to. Every motion, every breath between you had settled into a kind of rhythm. Life on the run wasn’t romantic; it was survival stitched together by fleeting moments of calm.

You walked until the ground turned to gravel and the road split into two paths: one toward the border, one back into the heart of the city you’d fled.

Feitan crouched to study the tracks in the mud. You waited. After a moment, he straightened, expression unreadable. “Someone followed,” he said.

Your heart tightened. “Troupe?”

“Maybe. Or him.” He didn’t have to say Chrollo’s name. The quiet was enough.

You glanced down the empty road, the mist thickening as the sun rose behind it. “Then we keep moving?”

Feitan looked at you—really looked—and for the first time, hesitation touched his eyes. Not fear, not doubt. Just… awareness.

“You know he won’t stop,” he said.

“I know.”

“He wants what he thinks he lost.”

You met his gaze. “Then he’ll have to take it from us.”

A faint sound broke the silence—something metallic, distant. Feitan’s head snapped toward it, hand on his sword. A small drone of sound followed, mechanical wings slicing through the fog.

You both froze.

Feitan’s grip tightened. “He found us.”

The fog rolled thicker. Somewhere beyond it, a figure’s silhouette flickered—indistinct, but familiar. Too tall for any ordinary pursuer. A book glinted in one hand.

You exhaled slowly, pulse steady despite the cold creeping into your veins. Feitan shifted his stance, stepping slightly in front of you. “Stay close,” he said.

You nodded. “Always.”

The figure in the mist stopped moving. For a heartbeat, the world held perfectly still. Then a voice floated through the fog—low, calm, unmistakable.

“Did you really think you could cut the thread?”

Chrollo’s tone was quiet, almost tender.

Feitan drew his blade.

The sound of the metal unsheathing split the dawn.

And then—silence.

Somewhere in the fog, the first page turned.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦······················•✦

A/N: Chrollo chasing after yall like

Feitan Porter X Reader

A/N: This is gonna be kinda short cuz I need to do part 2 for the chrollo x feitan x reader but I love requests so here you go baby boo 🫶🏽

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The air in the hideout was thick with silence, broken only by the metallic rasp of Feitan’s blade sliding back into its sheath. You stood in the doorway, pulse unsteady, watching the faint line of blood on his cheek catch the lantern light.

He didn’t look at you right away—he never did. But when he finally turned, his gaze was razor-sharp, dark eyes dragging over you with deliberate slowness that made your breath hitch.

“Still here?” His voice was low, roughened by exertion. “Thought you’d run.”

You didn’t answer, just took a step closer. The faint scent of iron and smoke clung to him, something dangerous and magnetic. His lips curved—not quite a smirk, but something close.

“Curious little thing,” he murmured, taking a step toward you.

“You didn’t have to take all of them alone,” you said quietly.

Feitan didn’t answer at first. His head tilted just a little, that faint, eerie stillness before he spoke. “Didn’t need help,” he muttered. Then his gaze slid to you, slow and assessing. “You followed anyway.”

You swallowed. “Maybe I wanted to make sure you came back alive.”

That earned you a low, amused sound. Almost a laugh. “Worried?” His voice was softer now, teasing, laced with something dark.

He took a step closer — then another. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of metal and sweat in the air. His eyes caught the light when he looked at you, sharp enough to make your knees tighten.

“Or,” he murmured, “you like seeing me like this.”

You froze. He was close enough now that the tips of his fingers brushed your wrist — not quite a touch, but enough to spark something in your chest.

You met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “And if I did?”

That wicked little smirk cut across his mouth. “Then you’re worse than I thought.”

His gloved hand caught your chin, the leather cool against your skin. He tilted your head up just slightly, just enough to make you forget to breathe.

“You know what happens when you stare at something sharp too long?”

Your back met the wall before you realized he’d moved. He leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your ear.

“It cuts you,” he whispered, voice dropping into a taunting hum.

You swallowed, the sound too loud in the quiet room. “Maybe I don’t mind getting cut.”

That earned you a real smirk this time—small, sharp, and wicked. “You really shouldn’t say things like that to me.” He leaned in again — so close his breath grazed your jaw. “You don’t know danger,” he whispered, the words sending a chill down your spine. “Not yet.”

Then, just as suddenly, he stepped away, leaving the space between you painfully empty. The tension snapped like a pulled thread, but the heat lingered — heavy and unsaid.

At the door, he paused, glancing back. The faintest trace of a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

“Next time you follow me,” he said, “be ready for what you’re asking for.”

Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader x Feitan Portor PT.1

Ft. The Phantom Troupe

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

This is very very long I suggest you read when you got time to spare 🫩

The evening was loud with the chatter of the Spiders. A stolen feast spread across the table — wine, glistening meats, and enough laughter to make the abandoned warehouse sound almost alive. Shalnark leaned back in his chair, smiling as he explained some trivial observation, his hand gesturing too widely for someone who didn’t really need to prove a point. Phinks barked out a laugh, tossing his half-empty glass onto the table with a satisfying thud.

You sat among them, caught between the ripple of amusement and the sharp undercurrent of danger that never truly left this group.

Your gaze wandered, inevitably, to the head of the table.

Chrollo sat in silence.

The lamplight cast his features in shadows, unreadable as always. He wasn’t drinking, nor laughing, nor even pretending to engage. He merely turned a page of the book in his hands, as though the rowdy scene surrounding him was nothing more than static. His presence alone anchored the room, but he gave you no acknowledgment — not a glance, not a word.

It shouldn’t have bothered you. He was always like this. Detached. Cold. Distant enough that you sometimes wondered if he even remembered you existed outside of orders. And yet… there was a pull you couldn’t ignore, a weight to his silence that pressed against your chest whenever his eyes happened to lift from the page, even if they didn’t land on you.

“Hey,” Shalnark said suddenly, pulling your attention back. His smile was sharp but not unkind. “Don’t look so stiff. Relax. You’ll give yourself wrinkles before you even hit thirty.”

That earned a round of chuckles from the others. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the twitch of a smile tugging at your lips. Shalnark always did have that way — easing tension with a grin, disarming without trying.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You spend more time fixing your hair than anyone I know.”

Phinks roared with laughter. Shalnark only laughed too, lifting his glass in mock surrender.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to laugh with them.

It was then, as the sound left your lips, that you felt it.

A shift in the air.

Barely noticeable, like the scrape of a blade just out of sight. The faintest prickling at the back of your neck, the kind that told you you were being watched. Against your better judgment, your eyes flicked back toward the end of the table.

Chrollo’s gaze was on you.

Dark, steady, unreadable. The book lay closed in front of him now, one hand resting lightly atop it. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning. He was simply watching.

The kind of watching that made your pulse skip.

And then, as though it had never happened, his eyes dropped back to the page. The spell broke. Conversation swelled again around you.

But you couldn’t shake the lingering chill of his attention.

Shalnark leaned closer, elbow resting on the table, and lowered his voice just enough that it felt like a private joke between the two of you.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” he said with a grin. “Bet you use it to get out of trouble a lot.”

Phinks snorted. “Or into it.”

That earned another ripple of laughter, and you rolled your eyes again — but it was impossible to hide the way your lips curved, how easy it was to fall into the warmth of their banter.

And once again, you felt it.

That weight. That gaze.

Chrollo hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. His thumb rested against the spine of his book, perfectly still. His dark eyes tracked the scene with that same impassive calm — only, every time Shalnark’s shoulder brushed yours, every time your laughter broke through the room, his gaze seemed to sharpen, just slightly, as though narrowing focus on a single detail of a painting.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t need to.

The air simply shifted, heavy and deliberate, until you found yourself laughing more quietly, answering less quickly, aware of every measured glance he sent across the table.

Shizuku, oblivious, tilted her head toward you. “You’re getting along with them pretty well,” she said simply.

Shalnark chuckled. “Of course she is. She’s fun. Right?” He turned back to you, green eyes bright.

That was when Chrollo finally spoke.

“(Y/N).”

His voice cut cleanly through the noise — low, calm, carrying a weight that silenced the room in a heartbeat. Every Spider looked up. Even Shalnark faltered, his smile dimming just enough to betray surprise.

Chrollo closed the book in front of him with a soft snap.

“Come here.”

No explanation. No shift in expression. Just an order.

The silence stretched. Then, without waiting for your reply, he rose smoothly from his chair and turned toward the darker end of the warehouse, footsteps measured, unhurried.

No one said a word.

The Troupe’s eyes lingered on you, some amused, some curious, until the choice was no longer a choice at all.

Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood to follow him.

The air grew colder the deeper you followed him, until the laughter of the others was little more than a hum behind steel walls. Chrollo didn’t look back once. His stride was unhurried, perfectly confident, as though he knew you would follow regardless of what you wanted.

When he stopped, it was in a shadowed alcove where the flickering light above couldn’t quite reach. He turned only then, the book still in one hand, his face as unreadable as ever.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked softly.

It wasn’t really a question.

You opened your mouth, but the words stalled under his gaze. Calm. Sharp. Too sharp.

“You laugh easily with them,” he continued, voice low and measured. “I rarely hear you laugh at all.”

Your pulse kicked. “Is that… a problem?”

His lips curved, the barest shadow of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not at all. It’s… enlightening.”

He stepped closer. You caught yourself pressing back slightly against the wall, though he hadn’t crowded you yet. His presence did that on its own.

“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head, studying you like another passage in one of his books. “Do you find Shalnark amusing? Or is it simply the attention you enjoy?”

The question was deceptively soft, but the edges cut.

Your throat tightened. You tried for defiance, though it sounded thinner than you wanted. “Does it matter?”

That small smile sharpened. In an instant, he closed the space between you, one hand braced just beside your head, the other tucking the book casually against his hip. His body didn’t touch yours — not quite — but the heat of him was undeniable.

“It matters,” he murmured, his voice pitched so low it felt like it brushed along your skin. “Because your attention is not as free as you believe.”

You sucked in a breath, chest tight, and for a heartbeat you swore his eyes darkened — something dangerous, something possessive flickering there before the mask slipped back into place.

Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

The distance felt colder than his nearness.

Chrollo opened his book again with a quiet motion, already turning away, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a passing thought.

“Don’t keep them waiting,” he said without looking back.

And with that, he left you standing in the shadows, your pulse racing, your skin prickling, unable to decide if he had scolded you, warned you, or claimed you.

The next night, the Troupe gathered again — not around food this time, but around maps and piles of loot strewn across a battered table. The atmosphere was sharper, more focused, though not without its usual edge of arrogance.

You leaned over the table to trace a line on the map, marking one of the planned routes. The paper crinkled beneath your fingers.

“Smart,” Phinks said from behind you, his voice rough but amused. He leaned in close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your shoulder, one heavy hand braced on the table beside yours. “Didn’t think you’d catch that. Most people don’t.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow. “And here I thought you didn’t think much of me at all.”

He smirked. “Maybe I’m reconsidering.”

The words hung heavier than you expected. Phinks didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dragged over you before he straightened, still grinning, still planted far too close.

The room was busy, everyone arguing over routes and strategies, but that familiar prickle at the back of your neck told you instantly: you were being watched again.

When you lifted your gaze across the table, you found him.

Chrollo.

Silent, still, seated with his hands folded loosely over his book. His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes… his eyes were locked on the space between you and Phinks. On how close he stood. On how easily you had let him.

Your chest tightened.

“Something wrong?” Phinks asked lightly, following your gaze. His smirk faltered just slightly when he saw who you were looking at.

Chrollo didn’t look away.

The pause stretched until the air itself seemed to weigh heavier. Then, finally, Chrollo’s voice cut through the room, low and steady:

“Phinks. Switch with Shizuku.”

It wasn’t a request.

Phinks blinked, jaw working, clearly ready to argue — but the weight in Chrollo’s tone silenced him before he could. He muttered under his breath, gave you one last glance, and shifted away.

Shizuku wandered over in his place, oblivious, scribbling notes on the map as though nothing had happened.

The meeting continued. Conversations picked back up. But every so often, your eyes betrayed you — flicking across the table, only to find Chrollo’s gaze still anchored, unblinking, fixed not on the map, not on the plans, but on you.

As though reminding you without a single word: your attention is not yours to give.

Later that evening, the Troupe scattered in small groups instead of crowding together. Machi sat on a crate, stitching a tear in her sleeve. Shizuku was humming faintly to herself, polishing her glasses.

You were perched on the edge of a table, idly spinning a knife between your fingers.

“Careful,” Feitan muttered, his sharp eyes flicking to your hand. He leaned in the shadows, arms folded, but his tone was sharper than usual. “You’ll cut yourself.”

You smirked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

His eyes narrowed, and though his mouth didn’t move much, you caught the faintest twitch of something almost like amusement. “Not before a fight.”

The exchange was simple, fleeting — but Feitan’s attention lingered longer than expected, his gaze flicking over you, assessing in that way only he could. His presence pressed at you, different from the others — more dangerous, more unpredictable.

And then, as always, you felt it.

The weight.

Chrollo was seated a short distance away, book in hand, but you realized he hadn’t turned a page since Feitan spoke. His eyes were on you again, steady, calm, the faintest chill seeping into the air between the three of you.

Feitan caught it too. His gaze slid from you to Chrollo, and in that sharp silence, something unspoken passed between them.

Feitan’s mouth twitched again — this time not with amusement, but with something closer to defiance.

Chrollo closed his book with a soft snap.

“Feitan.” His tone was light, but final. “I need you outside.”

No explanation. No elaboration.

Feitan’s eyes lingered on you one second longer before he disappeared into the night without a word.

You sat frozen, fingers still wrapped around the knife handle, heart hammering in your chest.

When you finally dared to glance back, Chrollo’s gaze hadn’t moved. Still on you. Still steady. Still unreadable.

Only when he opened his book again, turning the page as though nothing had happened, did you let yourself breathe.

The days blurred together in the way only life with the Troupe could — constant movement, jobs stacked one on top of another, nights broken up by stolen spoils and laughter that never quite felt safe.

You found yourself drifting toward Feitan more often than not.

He didn’t talk much — he hardly talked at all — but there was something almost comforting in that. No teasing like Shalnark. No heavy-handed jokes like Phinks. Just a steady, watchful presence that didn’t demand you perform.

Sometimes, when the noise of the others grated too sharply, you found him in the corner sharpening his blade or mending his cloak. You didn’t ask permission before sitting nearby. He didn’t tell you to leave.

That was enough.

“You’re loud when you laugh,” he said once, out of nowhere, his voice a low rasp.

You blinked. “Is that a complaint?”

“Observation,” he said simply, eyes flicking toward you with the faintest glint. A pause. Then, almost grudgingly: “Not unpleasant.”

It was the closest thing to praise you’d ever heard from him.

The next time you laughed around him, his eyes caught yours for a beat too long — and though he didn’t smile, something sharp and knowing lingered there.

It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Getting cozy with Feitan, huh?” Shalnark teased one night, nudging your side. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Phinks barked a laugh. “Good luck with that. Guy’s about as warm as a corpse.”

You shrugged them off, but you could feel eyes on you from across the room.

Chrollo.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just sat in his chair, book open in his hands, gaze heavy as stone.

It was impossible to tell if he was watching the group in general… or you in particular.

But the longer Feitan’s shadow lingered near yours, the more you felt it. That silent, smothering pressure.

Like a blade waiting to fall.

It became a pattern.

Whenever the Troupe split off into pairs, somehow you and Feitan ended up together. He never asked, and you never insisted — it just happened, like gravity.

At first, the others joked. Shalnark teased you relentlessly, Machi raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Phinks muttered about you having a death wish.

But over time, the jokes quieted. Because whatever it was between you and Feitan, it wasn’t fleeting.

You’d grown used to his silence, the way he answered only when it mattered. You learned to read the flicker of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders loosened just slightly when you were near.

And he… tolerated you. More than tolerated — he kept you close. Sometimes, when the others were too loud, too brash, you caught him standing just slightly between you and them. Not protectively. Not possessively. Just there.

“Why me?” you asked him once as you walked through the ruins of a half-emptied town, the air heavy with smoke. “You don’t let anyone else hang around you this much.”

Feitan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. Then, finally, he said:

“You’re quiet when it matters.”

It was the closest thing to an admission you’d ever get.

That night, you laughed at something small — a rare slip of humor at his expense — and to your surprise, he didn’t scowl. He didn’t snap. He just looked at you, head tilted, like he was cataloguing the sound.

It was such a small thing. And yet it stuck with you, curling in your chest.

But not as much as the weight you felt later, when you walked back into camp and caught Chrollo watching.

He was leaning against a crate, book closed in his hand, posture relaxed, expression calm. To anyone else, he looked utterly indifferent.

But his eyes… his eyes followed you as you crossed the room, followed the way Feitan drifted just behind you like a shadow.

And for the first time, you thought you saw it — not in his face, not in his body, but in the cold, deliberate steadiness of his gaze.

Jealousy.

Subtle. Controlled. Hidden beneath layers of calm. But there.

Waiting.

It started with training.

Feitan had been sharpening his blade when you wandered too close, restless and itching for movement. He looked up once, gaze sharp, before flicking it back to his weapon.

“You should practice,” he said simply.

You raised a brow. “Are you offering to spar?”

His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “You’ll lose.”

That was answer enough.

The fight was quick, brutal, and nothing like the playful spars you’d had with Phinks or the others. Feitan didn’t hold back — his movements were precise, fast, every strike calculated to cut. You were forced to keep up, blood singing in your veins as you blocked, dodged, retaliated.

For once, he wasn’t a shadow lingering nearby. He was right there in front of you, sharp and relentless, and you matched him as best you could.

When he finally knocked the weapon from your hand, the flat of his blade at your throat, you were panting, sweat dripping down your temple. He was calm, not even winded, his dark eyes fixed on you.

“Better than before,” he muttered.

You blinked. “That’s… a compliment?”

A short pause. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Maybe.”

The corner of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself. His eyes caught the expression — and lingered

For a moment, too long, neither of you moved.

Then Feitan stepped back, sliding his blade away, his face unreadable again.

But the air between you had shifted.

And you weren’t the only one who noticed.

When you looked up, you caught a flicker of movement from the edge of the training ground.

Chrollo.

He was standing in the shadows, arms folded, book tucked against his side. Watching.

The kind of watching that made your pulse skip, that made the sweat cooling on your skin feel suddenly cold.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t approach. He only turned away after a moment, his stride calm, controlled — but you felt it all the same.

The weight. The warning.

And for the first time, the thought hit you sharp and undeniable:

You were playing with fire.

It started with small gestures.

Feitan never reached for you, never spoke more than necessary, but there were moments you caught — a hand lingering near yours when adjusting stance, a nod that lingered longer than it should, the way his dark eyes followed your movements with interest.

During one late-night sparring session, the two of you faced each other across the worn training ground, the firelight flickering against your skin. You lunged; he blocked, your hands brushing for just a moment longer than needed.

“Again,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “Try to anticipate me this time.”

You stepped back, catching your breath, heart hammering. You noticed, as always, the subtle shift at the edge of your vision:

Chrollo.

He stood just beyond the circle, arms folded, book tucked against his side. His posture was calm, his face unreadable, but the weight of his gaze pressed down, subtle but unyielding. You could feel it across the distance, the quiet control he exerted without moving a muscle.

Feitan didn’t seem to notice, but you did. Every flicker of his attention toward you, every cautious motion, was amplified under Chrollo’s watchful eyes.

The air was taut. Every laugh, every mistake, every shared glance between you and Feitan felt magnified, charged with tension.

Later, when you walked past Chrollo to leave, he didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

And yet the intensity lingered.

The nights that followed, these small dances continued. Feitan’s quiet attention became a balm you sought, but each time your closeness grew, Chrollo’s gaze followed.

He never acted in the moment. Never touched. Never spoke.

But every subtle interaction, every whisper of trust with Feitan, made it impossible to ignore the truth:

He was watching. Always.

And you could feel it, in every glance, every step, every breath

It was a slow burn. A trap. A warning.

And you loved it — even as your chest tightened with anticipation.

The warehouse was quiet now, the rest of the Troupe scattered for the night. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long shadows across the crates and weapons strewn across the floor.

“(Y/N),” Chrollo’s voice broke the silence. Low, calm, commanding.

You froze where you stood, heart hammering. His gaze had already found you — that impossible, unreadable stare that made your chest tighten, your skin prickle.

“I need you,” he said simply. No explanation. No emotion. Just certainty.

You followed, almost automatically, feeling the pull of his presence stronger than any words. The warehouse felt enormous, yet somehow the space between the two of you shrank with every step.

Once you were in a secluded corner, away from the edges where light spilled, he finally spoke again.

“You’ve been… careless.” His hand brushed against your arm, almost imperceptibly, just enough to make you shiver. “Laughing too freely. Spending too much time with Feitan. It’s… unwise.”

You swallowed, chest tight. “I—”

He raised a hand, stopping you before you could continue. “Don’t speak.”

His eyes held you captive, dark and steady. The book at his side was forgotten; all his attention was on you now. His fingers brushed along your jaw, slow, deliberate. The touch wasn’t soft — it was commanding, possessive, precise.

“You think you can enjoy someone else’s attention without consequence,” he murmured. “But every glance, every laugh… I notice. I always notice.”

You shivered under his gaze, under the weight of his hand, under the quiet but undeniable threat behind his calm words.

Then, impossibly, he stepped closer. The heat of his body pressed against you, and for the first time, you felt it fully: that silent, controlled jealousy that had been simmering these past nights.

“Do you understand?” he whispered, close enough that your breath mingled.

“Yes,” you breathed, though your voice shook.

Chrollo didn’t smile. Didn’t relax. But his hands moved — one sliding to your hip, the other brushing a lock of hair from your face. Not tenderly. Not gently. Possessively. Claiming, without force, without a word.

He leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear. “You are mine. Even when you think you’re elsewhere.”

A shiver ran through you, electric, burning, undeniable.

His hands roamed slowly — over your waist, down your sides — exploring, testing boundaries, claiming the space he already owned. Each touch precise, controlled, yet charged.

Then, with a subtle shift, he pressed against you, just enough to make your knees weaken, but he didn’t rush. Not yet.

He wanted you aware. Wanted every nerve ending, every heartbeat, every pulse to know: he was there, in control, and he had been watching all along.

“Look at me,” he whispered. His thumb brushed your lower lip, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Every moment with anyone else, you think you’re free. You’re not.”

And in that command, in that possession, in that quiet, calculated dominance… you felt it.

Chrollo was done waiting.

The silence between you and Chrollo felt suffocating. His fingers lingered at your jaw, pressing lightly, forcing you to hold his gaze. His eyes were unreadable, but you felt the sharp weight of something deeper — something darker — simmering there.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured, each word calculated, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip with quiet precision. “I’ve watched. I’ve allowed. But patience is not permission.”

Your breath hitched as his hand trailed down, slipping to your throat, not squeezing — just resting there, testing the way your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

“Every time you smiled at him. Every time you let him stand too close…” His hand pressed more firmly at your neck, a subtle claim. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

You parted your lips to speak, but his grip tightened slightly, silencing you.

“I told you not to speak.”

The command lanced through you, your body tensing under his authority. His other hand slid lower, brushing across your hip, then your thigh, deliberate in every movement. He wasn’t rushed. He wanted you to feel his control in the slowness, the inevitability.

Chrollo pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cold wall of the warehouse. His body boxed yours in, but his composure never cracked. He leaned close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.

“You belong to me,” he whispered, breath warm, voice low. “And tonight, I’ll remind you.”

His hand slipped beneath your shirt, cool fingers skating over your stomach, tracing lines upward until they cupped your breast. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, slow and purposeful, watching your reaction with detached intensity.

Your back arched involuntarily, a soft sound escaping your lips.

“Quiet,” he breathed against your neck, though the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction. His thumb flicked, harder this time, drawing another gasp he immediately swallowed with his mouth.

The kiss wasn’t tender. It was claiming. His tongue slid against yours, dominating the pace, his hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes darker.

“Do you let him touch you?” he asked, almost conversational, as his hand slid lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. “Does he hear you gasp like this?”

“N-no—”

A sharp squeeze at your throat. “What did I say?”

You swallowed hard, nodding instead, and his grip eased — rewarding obedience. His fingers slipped past fabric, brushing the heat between your legs. He exhaled softly, like he’d been expecting this all along.

“Already wet,” he murmured, stroking slow, deliberate circles over your clit. “And it wasn’t for him.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you effortlessly, his hand working you with devastating precision. He watched your face, studied your every reaction like a page he could read and memorize.

“Mine,” he said simply, fingers sliding lower, dipping inside you with a slow push. You gasped, walls clenching around him, and his lips brushed your ear again. “Every sound. Every tremor. Mine.”

He fucked you with his fingers slowly at first, measured, his palm pressing against your clit just enough to make you writhe. He never rushed. Every thrust was deliberate, designed to unravel you piece by piece.

Your head fell back against the wall, breath ragged, body trembling. “Ch—Chrollo—”

His eyes sharpened, hand tightening at your throat again. “You forgot yourself.”

The reprimand came with a harder thrust of his fingers, curling them deep until your vision sparked. You whimpered, clamping down on him, your body betraying you.

He smiled then — a small, cold, victorious curve of lips. “That’s better.”

His pace quickened just slightly, enough to send you spiraling. Your body tensed, pleasure building sharp and unbearable.

“Come,” he ordered softly, voice low and steady in your ear. “Come for me. Show me who you belong to.”

The command hit as hard as his fingers did, and you shattered, crying out despite yourself, body convulsing around him.

Chrollo watched, eyes dark and calm, as though committing every detail to memory. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop until you were wrung out, trembling against the wall, your breath ragged.

Only then did he withdraw, bringing his slick fingers to his lips. He sucked them clean, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now you understand.”

He leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours, not kissing — teasing. “This was a warning.”

And with that, he stepped back, leaving you shaking against the wall, your body still burning, your heart racing — and the undeniable knowledge that you were his, whether you admitted it or not.

The next day, Chrollo was the picture of indifference.

He gave orders, discussed routes, delegated jobs — as if nothing had happened in the shadows of that warehouse. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t so much as glance your way longer than necessary.

And yet, every time you caught his gaze across the camp, you felt it: the memory of his fingers inside you, his hand on your throat, his voice telling you who you belonged to.

You burned beneath it.

Feitan noticed.

He said nothing — he never did — but his sharp eyes tracked the subtle shifts in your demeanor. The way you tensed when Chrollo entered the room, the way your gaze flicked away too quickly.

One evening, while sharpening his blade, he spoke without looking up.

“You’re distracted.”

You blinked. “Am I?”

He glanced up, just briefly. “Yes. By him.”

Your throat tightened. The denial sat on your tongue, but you couldn’t force it out. Feitan didn’t press. He just went back to his blade, the rasp of steel against stone filling the silence.

Later that night, you found yourself sparring with him again. It was different this time — his strikes slower, his movements almost… protective. He let your hand linger against his chest when you pushed, let his fingers graze your wrist when he corrected your grip.

The touches weren’t purposeful — not like Chrollo’s. But they were there, and they were soft in comparison.

You caught yourself laughing again, breathless, and Feitan’s lips twitched, almost a smile.

And then you felt it — that weight.

Chrollo.

He stood in the doorway this time, not hiding, not waiting in shadow. Just watching, calm and silent, while you and Feitan circled each other like something unspoken was building between you.

The room stilled. Feitan noticed him too — his eyes flicked briefly toward Chrollo, sharp and wary.

But Chrollo said nothing. He didn’t step forward. Didn’t stop you.

He only turned, leaving the doorway, the faintest trace of something cold in his eyes.

A promise.

And that promise clung to you long after, making every touch with Feitan feel heavier, riskier, closer to something dangerous.

Days blurred into each other, your pattern with Feitan only deepening. He became the constant you didn’t realize you craved: silent, steady, sharp enough to challenge you without breaking you.

During one spar, he pinned you hard against the ground, his blade at your throat — but he didn’t press. Instead, his dark eyes lingered, holding yours in a rare moment of stillness. His weight hovered over you, not suffocating, but heavy, grounding.

Your lips parted, breath shallow, and for a fleeting moment it felt like the world had narrowed down to just you and him.

Then his blade shifted, withdrawn in a swift motion, and he stood, offering no explanation. Just Feitan, as ever.

But something had changed.

Later, in the camp, when you brushed too close reaching for supplies, his hand caught your wrist — light, precise, deliberate. His gaze cut to yours, unreadable, but he didn’t let go right away.

And you didn’t pull back.

The air between you was charged.

You knew who was watching.

Chrollo’s presence loomed before you even turned. He sat at the far end of the room, book open, eyes lowered — but you felt it all the same. The tension. The stillness. The patience.

It stretched into hours, into days. Each time you drifted near Feitan, Chrollo was there. Always in the periphery, always quiet, always letting you think you were free — while making it clear you weren’t.

Until finally, one night, he acted.

You’d just finished sparring with Feitan again, sweat slick on your skin, adrenaline still buzzing. You lingered too long when he corrected your stance, his hand steady at your waist.

That was when Chrollo’s voice cut through the space like a blade.

“(Y/N). With me.”

No room for refusal.

You froze, heart pounding, before nodding and stepping away from Feitan. You felt his eyes linger on you, sharp and suspicious, but you followed Chrollo without hesitation.

He led you into the same warehouse corner as before, the shadows thick around you. When he finally turned, his book was gone, his hands free — and his composure razor-sharp.

“I warned you,” he said softly, too soft. His hand slid to your throat, pressing you back against the wall, not hard enough to choke, but hard enough to remind you of his strength. “You disobeyed.”

Your pulse thundered beneath his grip. “I—”

The pressure increased, silencing you.

“You let him touch you,” Chrollo continued, eyes narrowing slightly, though his tone never rose. “You let him linger where he shouldn’t. And you enjoyed it.”

His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in.

“That ends now.”

He kissed you then — if it could be called that. His mouth crashed onto yours, teeth catching your lip, tongue pushing past any resistance. It wasn’t affection. It was a claim, brutal and undeniable.

When he pulled back, your lips were swollen, breath ragged.

“On your knees.”

The command was quiet, calm, but it brooked no hesitation. His hand guided you down, fingers tangled in your hair, his eyes sharp as he looked down at you like you were both possession and offering.

His hand in your hair didn’t yank — it guided.

The pressure at your scalp was firm, fingers sliding through, settling at the nape of your neck until your pulse matched the rhythm of his grip.

He tilted your head up, making you look at him. Even in the dim light his eyes were unreadable; his expression wasn’t lust, not warmth, but something heavier.

“You don’t move until I say,” he said, low, steady.

He didn’t push himself into your mouth yet. Instead he drew his thumb along your lower lip, smearing the sting from his kiss, watching the way you trembled.

It wasn’t teasing. It was instruction, rehearsal, control.

“You kneel because I allow it,” he murmured. “You breathe because I allow it.”

He shifted his grip, still not shoving, still not giving you what you thought was coming. His hand on your jaw tilted your face a fraction, studying you the way he studied a book: a page to be turned, a diagram to be memorised.

“You think Feitan sees you,” Chrollo said, voice calm. “He doesn’t. He sees what you want him to see.”

His thumb pressed under your chin, forcing your eyes back to his.

“I see what you are.”

For a long moment he simply stood over you like that — one hand in your hair, the other on your face, holding you there while his body loomed just a breath away. It was slow, deliberate, suffocating.

Then, without warning, he dragged his thumb down from your lip to your throat, tracing the pulse there. His other hand moved to the back of your head, cradling rather than yanking, guiding you closer but stopping just before contact.

“You’ll take me when I decide you’re ready,” he said, each word a promise. “And when you do, you’ll remember who made you kneel.”

His thumb brushed back up, slipping past your lips, pressing against your tongue until you opened for him. The small motion made your cheeks burn; he watched it happen with that same unreadable expression.

“Good,” he murmured, voice still low. “You’re learning.”

He pulled his thumb free and brought it back to your throat, palm open, holding you still. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you to feel the way his composure filled the room, to understand that every second you waited on your knees belonged to him.

“You’re going to stay right here,” Chrollo said softly. “Hands behind your back. Eyes on me.”

It was all control, all anticipation. The tension built not from what he did, but from how he did it: slow, cold, deliberate, making you hyperaware of every inch of his body and every inch of space left between you.

Your knees ached against the concrete, but you didn’t shift. His command was too absolute, his gaze too heavy.

Chrollo let the silence sit between you, hand still at your throat, as though he wanted you to hear the echo of your own pulse. He didn’t move until you started to fidget, the restless energy showing in your shoulders. Only then did he reward you with the smallest motion: the slide of his thumb along your skin, a reminder of how completely he owned the space around you.

“Patience,” he murmured. “You’ll learn it with me, or not at all.”

He released your throat only to drag the back of his hand down your cheek, almost tender, though the edge beneath it was sharp. His fingers dipped briefly into your hair before returning to their grip at the nape of your neck, keeping you in position.

“You want to be touched,” he continued, matter-of-fact, as if he were pointing out the weather. “But not by him. Not by anyone else.”

The words made your chest tighten. He said it like law, not choice.

His other hand trailed down your collarbone, then lower, until his fingers brushed the top button of your shirt. He didn’t undo it. He only rested there, applying the faintest pressure, enough to remind you of what he could do.

He leaned down then, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear.

“Every time you let him stand too close… every time you laugh with him… remember this moment. Remember how easily I can strip it all away.”

His words sank into you, low and venomous, until you were trembling more from anticipation than fear.

When he finally drew back, he smoothed your hair with almost unnerving care, the way a priest might straighten a page in a sacred book. Then his hand returned to your jaw, tilting your face upward again so you couldn’t escape his gaze.

“You’ll stay like this until I say otherwise,” Chrollo said. “Kneeling, waiting, empty.”

He stepped back only a fraction, enough to loom but not enough to free you. His thumb stroked your lip again, lingering at the corner of your mouth, before pulling away to let you ache in the silence he left behind.

Your thighs had begun to tremble from kneeling, a dull ache spreading through your calves. Chrollo hadn’t moved for what felt like minutes, just watching, letting you feel the weight of the position he’d put you in. His thumb was still at your lip, the faint pressure a constant reminder of who was dictating the pace.

When he finally shifted, it wasn’t hurried. His hands slid down from your face, one into your hair again, the other to his belt. He undid it with a quiet efficiency, eyes never leaving yours.

“I told you you’d stay empty,” he said, voice even, “but I never said I would.”

He guided you a little closer with the grip at the back of your neck. Not rough, not a yank — a steady, unyielding pull that gave you no room to think. His fingers threaded more firmly into your hair, his palm pressing against your scalp as he freed himself with the other hand.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there like that, hard and heavy in front of you, the scent of him hitting your nose before the reality of it. Then he tilted your head up until you were looking at him through your lashes.

“You’re going to take me,” he murmured. “No hands. Just your mouth. Until I’m finished.”

He didn’t shove himself in. He traced himself along your lips first, slow enough to leave a slick line, making you open a little at a time. Only when you parted did he ease forward, the weight of him filling your mouth gradually, his other hand keeping you still.

“Good,” he breathed, as you adjusted around him.

He set his rhythm with the same precision as everything else he did. Not frantic thrusts, but measured, deep strokes, sliding over your tongue until you gagged softly and he held you there just a fraction longer than necessary. His thumb stroked the side of your neck, feeling the movement of your throat as you swallowed around him.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

When your eyes met his, something flickered there — not heat, not tenderness, but possession. He rolled his hips a little deeper, sighing softly at the friction, his fingers tightening in your hair as his composure started to fray at the edges.

“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself, the low sound vibrating against your lips. “Stay there. Take me. Don’t stop.”

He used your mouth like that for long, drawn-out strokes, until his breathing went heavier, his thumb pressing harder into the side of your throat. When he was close, he held you still, forcing you to take every inch of him until his muscles went taut.

The sound he made when he finally spilled into you was quiet but sharp, a hiss between his teeth. He kept you there, still and kneeling, while he shuddered through the last pulses, his grip in your hair firm enough to keep you in place but never cruel.

Only when he’d finished did he exhale and ease his hold, pulling back slowly. He used his thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth, smearing what he’d left behind as his breathing settled back into its usual, measured cadence.

“You’ll swallow,” he instructed softly. “Then you’ll stay exactly as you are.”

His tone was calm again, as if nothing had happened, as if you were just another piece in one of his quiet rituals.

The bitter tang lingered on your tongue, heat still burning your throat as you swallowed like he told you. His hand remained at your jaw until he felt it, until he was satisfied you hadn’t disobeyed.

Only then did he release you.

The loss of his touch made you sway slightly on your knees, but he didn’t reach to steady you. He straightened his clothes with a casual precision, tucking himself away and fastening his belt as though nothing at all had happened.

And he left you there.

Chrollo glanced down at you, calm and unreadable, the faintest curve of his mouth like an afterthought. “You did well,” he said, voice low and measured. “For now.”

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, not tender, not cruel — just a gesture to remind you who had placed you there in the first place.

Then he turned.

Just like that.

He didn’t lift you, didn’t offer comfort, didn’t give you the release that still ached low in your belly. He walked away, retrieving his book, sliding back into the same quiet seat he’d occupied before — a silhouette in shadow, unmoved, unbothered.

And you were left on the floor, the cool sting of the concrete seeping into your knees, his presence weighing on you even from across the room.

The ache between your legs felt unbearable in the silence. But you stayed where you were, because you knew he meant it — you’d remain kneeling until he decided otherwise.

You weren’t sure how much time passed. Minutes. Longer. All the while, his eyes occasionally lifted from his book, flicking over you in casual, possessive checks. As though you were no different from a weapon or an object, waiting to be used again when he chose.

The cement chilled your skin until it ached. Your knees had gone past pain and into numbness. You didn’t know how long you’d been there anymore; time felt as thick as the air in the warehouse.

Chrollo sat exactly where he had been, book open, legs crossed, his profile all calm angles. If not for the faint dampness still clinging to his lower lip, you could almost believe the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Your pulse jumped when you heard a door somewhere in the hall open and shut. Footsteps—quiet, light—approached.

Feitan.

He appeared in the doorway, eyes flicking from you to Chrollo. He stopped mid-step, his head tilting just slightly, a tiny furrow between his brows. You could see him take in your swollen lips, the way you were still kneeling, hands behind your back, and how Chrollo didn’t even look up from his page.

Feitan said nothing, but the silence was pointed.

Chrollo turned a page in his book. “We’re in the middle of something,” he said mildly, without glancing up. “Leave.”

For a heartbeat Feitan didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you, narrow and unreadable, then shifted to Chrollo’s. There was a flicker of something—challenge, maybe—but then he stepped back and melted into the corridor again. The door clicked shut.

Only when you were sure you were alone again did Chrollo speak.

“You wanted to be seen,” he murmured without looking at you. “You were.” He marked his page and finally closed the book. His eyes lifted to yours, the calmness returning like a blade sliding back into a sheath. “Now you know what it costs.”

He stood, moving with his usual grace, and came to you at last. His hand slid under your chin, tilting your face up. He studied you the way one might study an artefact: noting every tremor, every flicker of defiance or submission in your expression.

“Stand,” he said quietly.

Your legs wobbled as you obeyed. He didn’t help you; he simply watched you struggle to find your balance, then reached up to smooth a strand of hair from your face. The touch was startlingly gentle after everything else.

“You’ll eat, then you’ll rest,” he said. “When I want you again, I’ll come for you. Not before.”

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth one last time, wiping away the last trace of him. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing, your body aching and your head full of him.

Two days later, after another spar, Feitan had been sharper than usual, movements quick, precise, designed to keep you pinned, your body straining under his weight more than once. And each time, his eyes lingered too long — on your mouth, your throat, your wrists. Testing. Pressing.

Chrollo had been watching again, silent as ever, though this time he didn’t wait until later to act.

When you left the training room, bruised and aching, you caught the shift in the air behind you. Feitan hadn’t followed you. Chrollo had gone to him.

You lingered just past the door, breath shallow, and heard the scrape of steel against its sheath — deliberate, not aggressive.

“Chrollo.” Feitan’s voice was low, clipped. “What you do with her. Not my problem.”

A pause.

“But when you leave her like that, on the floor? When you let me see? That’s sloppy.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any threat.

Then Chrollo’s voice, soft, measured. “You think I wasn’t aware you saw her?”

Feitan didn’t answer.

“I allowed it.”

Another pause, then the faint shuffle of feet on cement, Feitan stepping closer. “You’re testing me.”

Chrollo’s tone didn’t waver. “I’m reminding you of your place.”

The quiet stretched taut, and though you couldn’t see, you could feel Feitan’s grip tightening on his sword, the urge to act restrained only by something sharper — calculation.

“You treat her like a weapon,” Feitan rasped finally. “You forget weapons cut both ways.”

Chrollo chuckled softly, not amused, but entertained. “And yet, you’re the one bleeding.”

The sound of footsteps — Chrollo moving, calm, unhurried — until his voice drifted closer to where you stood just outside.

“Stay away from her, Feitan. She belongs to me.”

No raised voice. No threat. Just a fact, as quiet and immutable as law.

The door opened, and you barely had time to step back before Chrollo slipped through, book in hand, expression perfectly composed. He didn’t acknowledge that you’d been listening, didn’t need to. He simply brushed past you, his presence pulling you along in his wake.

Feitan didn’t follow. But you felt the weight of his silence like a blade at your back.

The clash came sooner than you expected.

It wasn’t planned — nothing in the Troupe ever was — but the air was heavy, brittle, ready to snap.

Chrollo had pulled you into his room, as he always did, silent until his back pressed to the door and his hand slid up your thigh, fingers ghosting higher with deliberate patience. You were already pliant against him, already breathing too fast, when the knock came.

No — not a knock. The door simply opened.

Feitan stepped inside without hesitation, blade in hand, eyes cutting first to Chrollo, then to you. He said nothing, but the intent radiated off him: a warning, a claim, a challenge.

Chrollo’s hand didn’t leave you. His thumb pressed higher, teasing, reminding you who had you pinned.

“You’ve grown bold, Feitan,” he said softly. “Interrupting me here.”

Feitan’s eyes narrowed. “You flaunt what you think is yours. I take it as invitation.”

A pause.

Then Chrollo smiled — small, cold. He shifted, guiding you down onto his lap, his hand sliding beneath your clothes in one fluid movement. Your breath hitched, body arching despite yourself.

“Invitation?” Chrollo echoed, his lips brushing your ear. “No. This is demonstration.”

His free hand captured yours, dragging it down to where he was already hard beneath his trousers. He forced your palm against him, making you stroke him while his own fingers slipped against you, slow, calculated, sending sparks racing through your limbs.

“You see?” he murmured, eyes fixed on Feitan as he worked both of you at once. “She obeys. Even with you watching. Especially with you watching.”

Feitan’s jaw tightened, blade twitching as though he might draw it — but he didn’t move. He watched, silent, his stare heavy on every sound you made, every tremor running through you as Chrollo pushed you closer to the edge.

Your hand worked over him under his guidance, his breath deepening against your throat. His fingers inside you matched the rhythm, slow but unrelenting, until you were gasping, torn between shame and unbearable need with Feitan standing less than a meter away.

“Look at her,” Chrollo said, his tone still maddeningly calm, though his own hips pressed harder against your palm now. “And understand. She’s mine.”

The words hit harder than the pleasure itself, forcing you to ride the wave of his control while Feitan’s stare carved through you.

And when Chrollo finally spilled hot and sudden against your hand, his groan low against your neck, he didn’t let you come. His fingers slowed, retreated, leaving you trembling and aching, unfinished — but marked.

He licked the taste of his own release from your palm, his eyes never leaving Feitan’s.

“Do you understand now?” he asked quietly, voice edged in steel.

Feitan didn’t answer. But the blade’s tip scraped against the floor, slow, promising.

This wasn’t over.

It started small.

A brush of his shoulder against yours in the corridor. A spar that went on a beat too long, his weight pinning you harder than necessary, his breath grazing your ear as he leaned in.

“You tremble different now,” Feitan murmured once, when his blade hovered at your throat. “Not from fear.” His eyes dropped lower, to your mouth, then lower still — to where your body pressed against his leg, helpless, aching. His lips curled faintly. “He leaves you empty.”

You shoved him off, snarling, but the heat in your belly betrayed you. He didn’t chase — just smirked, filing away the reaction like a knife tucked in his sleeve.

The next time, he pushed harder.

You’d stayed behind after a job, muscles sore, head buzzing, when Feitan cornered you against a wall. His hand pressed flat against the surface beside your face, his body close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off him.

“Does he make you beg?” His voice was quiet, sharp. “No. He makes you wait. Makes you ache.”

Your pulse hammered. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

Feitan tilted his head, studying you with that same flat, cutting stare. Then his hand ghosted lower — not touching, just hovering at your hip, enough to make you lean back against the wall.

“He won’t let you come,” Feitan whispered. “But I would.”

Your knees weakened at the blunt promise, shame heating your skin. He didn’t press, didn’t touch you where you wanted it most. He only leaned back, the faintest grin twisting his mouth as he let the words sink in.

“Think about it,” he murmured, before walking away.

That night, when Chrollo pulled you into his room again, you couldn’t stop the thoughts circling. His hands on you were careful, controlled, denying you more than giving. And every time his fingers slowed, every time he pulled back just before you tipped over the edge, Feitan’s words stabbed through your mind.

He won’t let you come… but I would.

And Chrollo noticed. He always noticed.

It happened after a raid. Everyone was tired, scattered across the hideout in varying states of bloodied satisfaction. You’d slipped off to catch your breath, pressing your back to the cold wall of an empty corridor.

That’s when Feitan found you.

His eyes raked over your flushed face, your restless hands. He didn’t need words to know what it meant — the denial Chrollo had been grinding into you night after night.

“You burn,” he said, voice flat but edged with something sharper. “Not from fight. From him.”

You shook your head, but the heat between your thighs betrayed you. He stepped closer, close enough that the metallic scent of steel and blood still clung to him.

“You want release?” His tone wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

Your throat worked. “…Yes.”

The smirk that ghosted across his lips was small, vicious. He didn’t waste time — his hand slid under your clothes, fingers finding you already slick, already aching. His touch was nothing like Chrollo’s: rough, fast, merciless. He didn’t tease. He didn’t hold back.

“Pathetic,” he hissed, watching your legs tremble as he worked you harder, faster. “One touch and you break.”

You bit your lip to smother the moan that rose, but it slipped free anyway. Heat flooded your veins, your body arching helplessly against the wall as his hand brought you to the edge — and this time, he didn’t stop.

The climax tore through you, raw and sudden, your cry swallowed in his palm when he clamped it over your mouth. He held you there until you sagged, trembling, against him.

Then he pulled back, licking his fingers with a wicked grin.

“He never gives you this,” Feitan murmured. “Remember who did.”

And he left you there, shaking, your body still humming with the aftershocks.

But you didn’t have long.

That night, Chrollo summoned you. His gaze lingered the moment you stepped inside — too sharp, too knowing. He didn’t need proof. He could see it on you: the looseness in your steps, the faint satisfaction in your eyes that he hadn’t allowed.

“You’re glowing,” he said softly, almost amused. “And I didn’t grant it.”

Before you could answer, his hand closed around your throat, pulling you flush against him. His eyes burned colder than you’d ever seen.

“You forget,” he murmured, “your body is mine. Every gasp, every shiver, every release.” His thumb pressed hard under your jaw, making your pulse pound against it. “You will not come for anyone but me.”

He shoved you onto the bed, straddling you, his hand pinning your wrists. This time, there was no patience, no calculated denial. His movements were sharp, demanding, his voice a constant murmur against your ear:

“Say it. Say you belong to me.”

And when he finally let you fall apart beneath him, wrung out and broken open by his hand and his mouth, he didn’t stop until your voice was raw from saying it again and again.

When he was finished, he left you trembling, marked, spent — not from tenderness, but from possession.

“Remember this,” Chrollo said as he wiped his hands clean. His gaze locked with yours, calm once more. “If Feitan gives you release, it’s because I allowed it. If he takes you further…” His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “…then he signs his own death.”

A few nights later, the trap closed.

You’d been left aching again — Chrollo’s hands had been slow, his voice soft but implacable as he pulled away at the last moment, leaving you trembling on the sheets.

“Patience,” he murmured, brushing your cheek like he hadn’t just denied you. “Show me you can wait.”

Then he left, book in hand, without another glance.

Hours later, you found yourself alone in one of the training rooms, fists clenched, body still humming with need. That’s where Feitan appeared.

He didn’t smirk this time. His eyes were dark, serious, his body a coiled spring as he approached.

“You’re shaking again,” he said quietly. “He left you empty again.”

You tried to step back, but he followed, his hand catching your wrist and pinning it lightly against the wall. Not a threat. Not yet.

“I can do more than just finish you,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath brushed your neck. “I can give you what he won’t.”

His free hand ghosted over your stomach, down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you tremble.

“You think he’ll kill me for this?” Feitan’s lips curved faintly. “He will. But you’ll remember before he does.”

His fingers slipped under your waistband, finding you slick, needy, just as before. But this time he was slow, careful, circling, teasing, coaxing you higher instead of just dragging you there. His mouth brushed your ear as he whispered:

“Tell me if you want it. Or tell me to stop. This time, you choose.”

Your heart hammered. The choice was real — more real than anything Chrollo had ever offered.

What you didn’t know was that Chrollo was already watching.

Hidden in the shadows, his eyes were as unreadable as the pages of his book. He’d set this up deliberately, leaving you aching, knowing Feitan would come. This was his test.

Would you break? Would you take what Feitan offered, knowing it meant betraying Chrollo’s control? Or would you deny yourself, even when your body screamed for it?

The air between all three of you vibrated with it — temptation, control, risk.

Feitan’s fingers pressed a little deeper, his thumb circling, drawing a low sound from your throat. “Decide,” he hissed. “Him or me.”

And from the shadows, Chrollo’s voice slid out, soft and deadly:

“Yes. Decide.”

═══════ ═══════ ══════

click here for chrollos ending

Eren Jaeger x Reader PT.2

click here for part 1

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

The days after the confrontation were unbearable.

Mikasa hardly looked at you, but when she did, her eyes were sharper than blades. She didn’t say the words again, but the warning still hung in the air: stay away from him.

And Eren?

He was worse.

He lingered, hovering near you, eyes finding you in the mess hall or during drills, but he never came closer. Never touched. Never kissed. His silence was louder than his words had been that night, when he admitted he wanted you — and her.

Every time you looked at him, the bruise on your cheek ached all over again.

It came to a head after training one evening, when you found him alone in the stables. The smell of hay and leather filled the air, his hands gripping the wooden post so tight his knuckles were white.

“Eren,” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. “Don’t.”

But you couldn’t stop. “You can’t keep running from this. From me.”

His shoulders tightened, breath heavy. “I told you. I can’t choose.”

The words carved into your chest. “Then don’t. Keep her, keep me, keep driving yourself insane until you destroy us all.” Your voice cracked, tears threatening. “But I’m done being second. If you don’t choose, I’ll walk away, Eren. For good.”

That finally made him turn. His green eyes burned, wild and pained, like a storm trapped in his chest. He closed the distance in three strides, his hand gripping your wrist tight.

“You think it’s that easy?” he growled. “You think I can just cut her out of me? She’s been my whole life—”

“And what am I?” you snapped, shoving against his chest. “Just a distraction? Someone to keep your bed warm when she’s not there?”

His grip tightened, but this time his voice broke. “No. You’re the one I can’t stop thinking about.”

Your breath caught, your heart slamming against your ribs.

“I fought it,” he said hoarsely. “I tried to ignore it, to go back to her, but I can’t. Every time I look at you, I want you more. I don’t want to want you — but I do.” His forehead pressed to yours, trembling. “And I’m done lying to myself.”

The words sank into you, heavy and sweet and terrifying all at once.

“So?” you whispered. “Who do you choose, Eren?”

For a moment, silence stretched again, like it always did — but then his lips crashed onto yours, fierce and certain this time. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you against him like he’d die if he let go.

“You,” he growled against your mouth. “It’s you.”

The kiss deepened fast, hungry and desperate, years of tension snapping all at once. He pushed you back against the stable wall, his body caging yours in, his tongue fucking into your mouth until you were gasping for air.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, yanking it up, your nails dragging over the hard muscles of his chest. He groaned, low and rough, biting at your lip before tearing the shirt over his head.

“Been dying to touch you,” he muttered, his hands sliding under your clothes, rough palms dragging over your waist, your ribs, up to your breasts. He squeezed hard, thumb brushing your nipple until you arched into him with a sharp moan.

His grin was feral. “So sensitive…”

You tugged at his belt, frantic, and he helped, shoving pants and underwear down enough to free his cock — hard, thick, flushed. The sight alone made your mouth water, but there was no time. Not with the way he was looking at you like he’d devour you whole.

He shoved your pants down just enough, his fingers brushing your soaked folds. “Fuck, you’re wet,” he rasped, sliding two fingers inside you without warning. The stretch made you cry out, your back arching against the wall as his thumb circled your clit, merciless. “You’ve wanted this as bad as I have.”

“Eren—” Your voice cracked as you clutched at his shoulders.

“Say it,” he demanded, his mouth hot against your ear. His fingers pumped faster, wetter, curling deep inside you. “Say you’ve been wanting me.”

“I’ve wanted you,” you gasped. “So bad—fuck—”

That was all it took. He yanked his fingers out and lined himself up, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch as he pushed inside stole your breath, a sharp burn that melted into overwhelming fullness. He groaned into your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he bottomed out.

“Shit… so tight,” he growled, holding still for one heartbeat before snapping his hips forward, hard.

You cried out, nails raking down his back as he fucked into you, each thrust rougher than the last, the sound of skin slapping echoing through the stable. His hands gripped your thighs, hauling you up so your legs wrapped around him, his cock driving even deeper.

“Mine,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “You hear me? You’re mine now.”

The pressure built fast, unbearable, your cries growing louder as his thrusts pounded into your sweet spot. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing hard. “Come for me,” he ordered, voice low and demanding. “Right now.”

Your body broke apart around him, pleasure crashing over you so hard you screamed his name. Your walls clenched tight, milking him, and he groaned, thrusts turning frantic.

“Fuck—gonna—” His jaw clenched, his teeth digging into your shoulder as he came inside you, hot and thick, his cock twitching deep. He held you tight through it, his hips grinding to spill every drop inside.

When it was over, the world was nothing but ragged breaths and the smell of sweat and hay. He kept you pinned against the wall, forehead resting against yours, his body still trembling.

“You,” he said again, quieter this time. “It’s always been you.”

The stable smelled of hay and sex. Your body still ached from the way he’d taken you, but the ache was softened by the warmth of his hands, careful now, as if afraid you’d shatter.

Eren pressed lazy kisses down your shoulder, his hair sticking damp to his forehead. For once, the restless fire in him was quiet — not gone, but tamed, if only for now.

“You okay?” he murmured against your skin.

You nodded, though your legs trembled when he set you down. He caught you before you could stumble, his arm hooking around your waist.

“You can’t walk,” he said with a crooked grin, smug but soft.

“Maybe because someone nearly broke me,” you shot back, though your voice lacked bite.

His grin faded, replaced by something heavier. His thumb brushed your cheek — the same one Mikasa had bruised days ago.

“I should’ve chosen sooner,” he admitted, voice low. “I should’ve stopped hurting you. But I was scared.”

You searched his face, the honesty in his green eyes, the weight of his words. “And now?”

His jaw set, firm and certain. “Now I’m not scared. I don’t care if she hates me. I don’t care if the whole world hates me. I’m not letting you go.”

The knot in your chest finally loosened, and for the first time in weeks, you believed him.

It didn’t take long for Mikasa to find out. She always knew when it came to Eren.

The next morning, her stare burned hotter than ever as she saw you at his side. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clenched at her sides, but she didn’t speak.

Not until Eren stepped in front of you, his body a shield, his voice hard.

“Don’t touch her again,” he said flatly.

The words hung in the air like steel. Mikasa’s eyes flickered — rage, hurt, betrayal — but she didn’t move.

For once, she turned and walked away.

It didn’t feel like victory, not with the weight of her silence, but Eren’s hand slid into yours and squeezed, grounding you.

The next few days felt different. Lighter.

Eren stayed closer than ever — not the restless circling he used to do, not the stolen glances he never admitted. Now, he walked with you openly, his hand brushing yours, his body always angled toward you like a shield.

During drills, he barked at you to keep your guard up, but his gaze lingered longer, sharp with something that wasn’t just frustration anymore. When you slipped during ODM practice, his arms caught you before you hit the ground, his chest heaving.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he growled, holding you tighter than necessary.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, embarrassed, but he didn’t let go until Mikasa called his name from across the field.

Even then, he stayed.

And later, when everyone else went to bed, you caught him sneaking into your room, his grin crooked.

“They’ll notice,” you whispered, though you still pulled him in.

“Let them,” he muttered, pressing his lips to yours. “I’m not hiding you anymore.”

The barracks were too quiet for what you were about to do. Every breath, every creak of wood seemed louder in the dark. But once Eren slid into your bunk, his body heat wrapping around you, subtlety evaporated.

“You know this is risky,” you whispered, already tugging him down into a kiss.

“Don’t care,” he muttered against your lips, his hands sliding under your shirt, gripping your waist with bruising force. “I’ve been waiting all day.”

His mouth devoured yours, hot and desperate, teeth scraping, tongue pushing past your lips like he wanted to own every inch of you. He pushed you onto your back, his weight heavy above you, and the thin blanket tangled around your legs.

Clothes came off in clumsy, frantic motions — your shirt bunched at your wrists, his pants shoved halfway down his thighs. The moment his cock pressed against your entrance, you were already dripping, your body clenching around nothing in anticipation.

He slid inside in one long, rough stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch tore a cry from your throat, too loud in the silence. Eren groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as he held himself deep.

“Fuck,” he panted, his hand clamping over your mouth when you gasped again. His green eyes burned down at you. “Shh. You’ll wake everyone up.”

But then his smirk curled, wolfish.

He pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the sound of his cock sliding wetly into you obscene in the quiet. You whimpered into his palm, your nails digging into his back, and he started thrusting harder, faster, the bed creaking under every movement.

“You like this, don’t you?” he growled low against your ear. “The risk of everyone hearing how good I fuck you?” His pace quickened, rough, his hips slamming into yours until you were struggling to hold back sobs of pleasure.

You nodded frantically against his hand, your eyes rolling back as he angled deeper, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

“Good girl,” he rasped, releasing your mouth just to hear you cry out. “Let them know who you belong to.”

Your moans spilled free, needy and desperate, echoing off the thin walls. Eren groaned with each thrust, his voice breaking, filthy words tumbling out — “so wet for me,” “taking me so deep,” “mine, you’re mine” — until you shattered around him, your climax tearing through you with a scream you couldn’t bite back.

He snarled, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate, chasing his own release. “Shit—gonna fill you up—” His cock pulsed deep inside as he came hard, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle his own groan. Hot, thick spurts flooded you until you were dripping down your thighs.

For a long, breathless moment, all you heard was the creak of the bed and the sound of your ragged breathing. Eren collapsed against you, still buried deep, his chest heaving against yours.

“You’re… so loud,” you whispered, flushed and shaky.

He smirked into your neck, kissing the marks he’d left. “So were you.”

The sunlight woke you before the teasing did. You stretched, sore everywhere, Eren still sprawled half on top of you, his arm draped lazily across your waist. You thought maybe you’d gotten away with it — maybe no one had heard.

Then Connie’s voice cut through the hall.

“Oi, Jaeger! Next time, keep it down! Some of us actually like sleeping through the night.”

Laughter erupted. Jean’s voice followed, dripping with sarcasm. “Seriously. I thought a titan broke in. Took me five minutes to realize it was just you two going at it.”

Sasha snorted, muffling her giggles through food. “I didn’t know Eren could moan like that. Sounded like you were dying.”

Your face burned hot enough to ignite. You buried it in Eren’s chest, mortified. “Oh my god…”

But Eren? He just groaned, stretching like it was nothing, the laziest grin spreading over his face. “They’re just jealous,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Not my fault I make her scream louder than the titans ever could.”

The hall erupted again — laughter, groans, Jean shouting “shut the hell up!” — and you smacked his chest, horrified.

He caught your wrist, kissing your palm before nuzzling back into you. “Relax. Let ’em talk. I’ve got nothing to hide anymore.”

Eren Jaeger x Reader

Ft. Mikasa Ackerman

⚠️ Suggestive scenes, 18+, slight angst ⚠️

⁺‧₊ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Training had ended hours ago, but the sting of Mikasa’s glare lingered longer than any bruises. You’d gotten used to it — the way her eyes followed you whenever you were within arm’s reach of Eren, as if you were a knife aimed at his throat.

But sometimes… you swore Eren noticed you too.

Like the way he leaned close when you were paired together for gear checks, his hair brushing your cheek when he murmured, “Your straps are loose. You’ll fall out of the sky like that.” His fingers lingered longer than necessary, tightening the buckles on your harness, brushing against your hip until you shifted under the heat of his touch.

Or the time at dinner when Jean and Connie were arguing about who could take down more titans in a sprint, and you laughed — really laughed. Eren’s head had snapped toward you, his mouth curling in a grin so sharp it stole your breath.

“You always laugh at the dumbest shit,” he teased, nudging your knee under the table.

Your pulse raced, but then Mikasa sat down beside him, sliding her plate between the two of you, her arm wrapping possessively around the back of his chair. Just like that, the grin was gone.

It always ended like that. Every stolen moment pulled back into her orbit.

You should’ve been used to Mikasa by now. But she had a way of catching you alone — cornering you in the armory or pinning you with words sharper than her blades.

“You think he doesn’t notice,” she said one evening, her voice low, deadly calm, “but he does. And so do I.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“You are,” she cut in, eyes narrowing. “You’re trying to take something that isn’t yours. Stay away from him.”

Your breath caught. You wanted to tell her that Eren wasn’t hers either, but the words died in your throat.

Because in a way, he was.

And yet, Eren didn’t make it easy to stay away.

After a late patrol, the two of you walked back together. His jacket was slung over your shoulders, heavy and warm, because he’d noticed your shivering.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” he said with a half-smile. “What, you too proud to ask for help?”

You rolled your eyes, tugging the fabric tighter. “Maybe I just didn’t think you’d care.”

He stopped walking, his gaze dropping to your face. “I care.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest — but then he looked away, raking a hand through his hair. “Mikasa’s gonna kill me if she sees you wearing that.”

And the moment slipped away, like all the others.

The mess hall was loud, buzzing with drunken laughter and clattering mugs, but all you could feel was Eren’s thigh pressed against yours. Too close. Every time he shifted, his heat bled into you until your skin prickled.

You’d been drinking too fast, laughing too freely, and he noticed — of course he noticed.

“You’re flushed,” he said, his lips curving in a grin as his breath brushed your ear. “Can’t handle your liquor, huh?”

“Maybe I just like the way it feels,” you shot back, leaning into him more than you should’ve. The alcohol made you reckless.

Eren’s gaze dropped to your lips, then dragged back up to your eyes. His fingers slid beneath the table, settling heavy on your thigh. His hand was warm, calloused, and bold. “You’ve been staring at me all night,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched. “Because you keep looking back.”

Eren’s eyes darkened at your words, his jaw flexing like he was holding back something reckless. Then, without a word, he pushed his chair back, grabbed your wrist, and stood.

“Come with me,” he muttered, his voice low, rough.

Your heart jumped into your throat as he tugged you through the mess of tables and drunken soldiers, ignoring Connie’s slurred joke and Jean’s half-hearted shout. He didn’t let go until he’d shoved open a side door and pulled you into a dim, empty storage room.

The door slammed shut behind you, muffling the noise of the mess hall. The air was colder here, quieter — but the heat radiating off Eren pressed against you as he sat down with you on an empty table, his hand still wrapped tight around your wrist.

The tension snapped like a whip. His mouth crushed against yours, hard and hungry, and the taste of alcohol was sharp on his tongue as it slid past your lips. His hand gripped your thigh, dragging you sideways until you were straddling him in full view of the table’s shadows.

You gasped against his mouth, but he swallowed the sound, his hands roaming up your back, gripping your waist so firmly you thought he’d leave bruises. His teeth grazed your lower lip, biting until you whimpered.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he rasped, breaking the kiss only to bury his face in your neck. His teeth scraped your skin, sucking hard enough to leave marks. Your hips rolled against him, shameless and needy, and he groaned into your throat. “Keep doing that and I’ll take you right here.”

The alcohol made everything sloppy, desperate — your fingers clawing at his shirt, tugging it up, his hand slipping under yours to palm your breast roughly. His thumb brushed your nipple, making you moan into his mouth as he kissed you again, deeper, dirtier, like he couldn’t get enough.

Your hips ground harder against the obvious bulge in his pants, and his head tipped back, his jaw tight as he groaned low in his throat. “Shit, (Y/N)…”

You tugged his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours, your kiss messy and wet, spit slicking your chin. He didn’t care. His tongue fucked into your mouth with the same intensity as his hands gripping your hips, dragging you hard against him like he wanted to mold you into himself.

For a fleeting second, you forgot about everything else — Mikasa, the risks, the ache in your chest. All you knew was Eren, hot and desperate, everywhere.

Until the door slammed open.

“Mikasa—”

You froze, your lips still swollen against his, your body straddling his lap when her voice cut through the haze.

Her eyes were wild, dark with rage, and before you could move, her fist cracked across your cheek. The world went white with pain. You collapsed sideways, gasping, your hand flying to your face.

“Mikasa, stop!” Eren’s voice thundered, full of anger you’d never heard before. He yanked you up, holding you against his chest, shielding you with his body. His arm locked tight around your waist, his glare fixed on her. “That’s enough!”

Her chest heaved, her fists trembling at her sides. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Eren.”

“I said that’s enough!” His voice cracked, furious. Without another word, he dragged you out, away from her, his hand gripping yours so tightly it hurt.

Your cheek throbbed where Mikasa’s fist had landed, hot and raw, but all you could feel was Eren’s arm locked around your waist. He half-dragged, half-carried you down the hall, his breath coming fast, his jaw tight.

“Eren—” you tried, but your voice broke.

He didn’t slow. “Don’t talk. She had no fucking right to touch you.” His grip tightened like he was afraid you’d slip away.

When he finally stopped, it was outside in the cold air. The night pressed in, heavy and silent compared to the chaos of the mess hall. He turned you to face him, his green eyes wild, darting over your face as if searching for more damage. His thumb brushed the edge of your bruised cheekbone, so gentle it hurt worse than the punch.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice raw. “I should’ve stopped her sooner. I should’ve—”

“Eren.” You caught his wrist, holding it against your face. “It’s not your fault.”

But the way he looked at you — like you were fragile glass he’d let crack in his hands — made your chest ache more than the bruise ever could.

The silence stretched until it snapped, and your words spilled out, rough and trembling.

“You can’t keep doing this to me,” you whispered. “You can’t kiss me like that, touch me like that, if you’re just going to run back to her after. I’m not strong enough to be in-between. You have to choose, Eren. Her or me.”

His breath caught, his jaw flexing hard enough to crack. He looked at you like he wanted to speak, like the words were clawing at his throat — but none came out.

Instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips softly against your bruised cheek. A kiss so tender it made tears sting your eyes.

“I like you,” he said finally, voice breaking. His hand lingered on your jaw, warm and trembling. “I do. But I like Mikasa too. I don’t know how to stop.”

The words split you in half — relief that he wanted you, despair that you weren’t enough.

Your heart pounded as you forced the question out, even though you feared the answer.

“Then who is it, Eren? Who do you choose?”

He froze, his green eyes flickering with a storm of conflict — want, guilt, rage, longing — before he looked away, silent.

And in that silence, you realized you didn’t know who he’d choose.

⁺‧₊ ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: CLIFFHANGERRR 🤓 Ill leave it up to whoever reads this to decide the next part I had to make it realistic sorry about mikasa punching yall but honestly i dont think none of us is winning that fight unless we shoot her ass

i love eremika tho 🫶🏽

Aki Hayakawa x Reader

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

Requested by: @wiefu My baby boo bae bear luv u happy birthday sexy

You had only been with Public Safety for a few weeks, but already you’d learned how quickly the grind of devil hunting swallowed people whole. Colleagues smiled politely in passing, but you rarely lingered long enough for real conversation. You weren’t interested in being pulled into empty chatter, not when every day carried the risk of ending beneath a devil’s claws.

Still, there was one man who seemed to notice your quiet resistance to camaraderie: Aki Hayakawa.

He was steady in a way few others weren’t. Always arriving earlier than everyone else, his suit pressed, his sword tied to his hip with an almost ritualistic care. His words were measured, his gaze piercing but not invasive. Like you, he didn’t waste breath on frivolity. You both had different walls, but they mirrored each other in shape.

At first, it was just curt nods exchanged across briefing rooms. The faintest acknowledgment that you saw something of yourself reflected in him. It grew when Denji’s antics grated on your nerves. His whining, his carelessness, his obsession with petty goals—it had you clenching your teeth more than once.

One evening after Denji had stormed out of a meeting, grumbling about work, you muttered under your breath, “He’s going to get himself killed one of these days.”

When you looked up, Aki’s eyes were already on you. His voice was quiet but weighted.

“You’re not wrong.”

It was the first time you’d heard him speak to you directly. The simple agreement carried something unspoken—recognition, almost relief—that someone else understood the exhaustion Denji brought.

Over the following weeks, that small exchange opened a crack in your careful distance. In the field, you found yourselves naturally falling into step with one another, working without needing to speak much. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was steady, grounding. The brush of his arm as he shielded you from a sudden strike, the way his eyes lingered a fraction too long when checking you for wounds—it made your chest tighten in ways you weren’t used to.

And sometimes, in the quiet of late evenings after Denji had already passed out on the couch, you’d sit across from Aki at the kitchen table. He smoked, you sipped tea, and though few words passed between you, the silence felt almost sacred.

The night it all shifted was heavy with rain. You and Aki returned from patrol soaked through, Denji trailing behind with his usual complaints. By the time you reached the apartment, Denji had already kicked off his shoes, heading straight for the television.

Aki set his sword down gently, water dripping from his dark hair, his jaw tight. You peeled off your damp coat, shivering, and when your eyes met his, there was something there that hadn’t been before. A question. A restraint stretched thin.

“Denji.” His tone was sharper than usual.

“What?” Denji turned from the couch.

“Out. Get your own dinner tonight.”

“What? Why the hell—”

Aki’s gaze cut like steel. “Now.”

Denji groaned, muttering curses as he grabbed his jacket, stomping out into the hall. The door shut behind him, leaving only the hush of rain and the faint scent of cigarettes lingering in the air.

Aki locked the door. Slowly. Purposefully. Then he turned to you.

Your pulse quickened, the air suddenly thick. He stepped closer, each movement unhurried but deliberate, his wet hair clinging to his temples. You didn’t step back. You couldn’t. His presence held you there, rooted, every ounce of his quiet intensity burning against your skin.

“You’re always so distant,” he murmured, his voice low, almost hushed as though the rain might overhear. “And yet… with you, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.”

His hand lifted, hesitating just before brushing a strand of damp hair from your face. His touch was feather-light, but it sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

The restraint in his eyes warred with something darker, needier. He leaned closer, his breath grazing your lips, his composure fraying at the edges.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, giving you that out, his control still intact even as the tension between you coiled tight.

But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up, fingers curling around his tie, tugging him closer until his mouth finally claimed yours.

It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either—it was heated, restrained passion breaking free, every ounce of caution melting into raw, aching want. His lips moved against yours with deliberate pressure, and when his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you deeper into him, you couldn’t hold back the soft sound that escaped your throat.

He pressed you against the wall, his body firm against yours, the scent of rain and smoke and steel enveloping you. His hands explored carefully, reverently, as though memorizing every line of you. When his lips trailed down your throat, lingering at the rapid flutter of your pulse, you shivered beneath him.

“Aki…” His name slipped from your lips, fragile but weighted.

That seemed to unravel him. His hands slid beneath your shirt, warm against chilled skin, and his breath hitched softly against your collarbone. There was hunger in his touch, yes, but also restraint, the constant pull of his control—like he wanted to devour you but also hold you intact, safe in his arms.

The couch was too close, the hallway too narrow. He led you to his room with unhurried determination, shutting the door behind him, cutting the world away until it was only the two of you and the sound of your hearts straining against your ribs.

What followed was nothing short of cinematic. The rain outside tapped against the windows like a rhythm, underscoring the way his hands roamed your body with aching precision. Clothes fell away slowly, deliberately, every layer revealing new pieces of yourselves to one another.

His kisses grew deeper, more consuming, as he laid you back against the sheets. The weight of him above you was grounding, his touch reverent, his breath uneven as though he, too, couldn’t believe he was here with you. Every movement was deliberate, not rushed, his stoicism bleeding into the way he made you feel—controlled, steady, and utterly devastating.

When he finally joined with you, it was with a quiet groan against your ear, his forehead pressed to yours as though he needed the closeness just as much as the act itself. His movements were measured, building in intensity with each rise and fall, passion unraveling into something rawer, something neither of you had the words for.

The world outside ceased to exist—only the rhythm of your bodies, the warmth of his breath against your skin, the unspoken understanding that you had both found something rare in each other.

And when the storm inside you both finally crested and ebbed, he held you close, his lips brushing your temple. For once, his composure slipped entirely, his arms tightening as though he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The rain continued its song outside, but within that quiet room, you found harmony in the silence between you—two guarded souls finally breaking their distance, tangled together in something fragile, beautiful, and achingly real.

The night you spent together had left a mark on Aki that wouldn’t fade. He told himself it was just a moment of weakness, that discipline would return, that his focus would sharpen again in the line of duty.

But the opposite happened.

The more time passed, the more you consumed his thoughts. He could be in a briefing with Division 4, hands folded neatly, his face unreadable as always—and then his eyes would flick toward you across the table. He’d remember the feel of your skin under his palms, the way your breath hitched when he pressed into you, the quiet moans you tried to stifle against his shoulder.

Every time Denji opened his mouth, he had to work harder to keep from glancing at you, because he knew your expression would match his irritation perfectly—and then his mind would stray, wondering if your lips would part the same way when you whispered his name again.

It was maddening.

One evening at the office, you brushed past him in the narrow hallway, the faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the air. The touch was innocent—barely there—but it was enough to ignite that ache low in his stomach. He caught your wrist before you could move on, pulling you into the nearest bathroom stall and locking it with a sharp click.

You gasped softly, your back against the metal, and he towered over you, his jaw clenched, restraint hanging by a thread.

“Aki—someone could—”

“I don’t care.” His voice was rougher than usual, low and frayed.

His lips crashed against yours, desperate, urgent, nothing like his usual composed self. His hands roamed beneath your shirt, tracing the curves of your body as though reminding himself you were real. When he pressed against you, hard and insistent, you felt just how badly he’d been holding back.

The stall was too cramped, the angle awkward, but none of it mattered. His need outweighed everything else. He muffled your soft moans with his mouth, swallowing them like a starving man. Every roll of his hips was desperate, almost punishing, as though chasing away the fear that he might lose you in the field the next day.

When you came undone around him, trembling against the cool metal, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. He bit back a groan, spilling into you with a shudder that seemed to shake something loose inside him.

But it didn’t end there.

Driving back from a mission one night, Denji dozing in the backseat, Aki’s knuckles gripped the wheel tight, his eyes fixed on the road. You sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed, your skirt riding just a little too high from the long day.

He kept stealing glances. Each one made his pulse climb until the tension was unbearable.

When Denji was dropped off, and the apartment was finally quiet, he didn’t even make it to his own room before pushing you up against the door, the faint smell of cigarettes clinging to him as he buried his face in your neck. His restraint was gone, his urgency raw and unfiltered.

The couch. The kitchen counter. The backseat of the car parked outside under the dim streetlight. Anywhere he had you, he took you like it might be the last time—every kiss deeper, every touch rougher, every sound you made etched into him like a scar he never wanted healed.

It wasn’t just lust. It was fear.

One night after you both collapsed into his bed, sweat cooling on your skin, Aki pulled you against him, tighter than usual. His lips brushed your temple, but his voice was hoarse, breaking in a way you’d never heard before.

“Quit.”

You blinked, pulling back slightly to meet his eyes. He wasn’t stoic now. His composure was gone, his jaw clenched not in discipline but in desperation.

“Quit. Your job.” He repeated, his fingers trembling slightly where they held your wrist. “Stay here. With me. I can’t—” He swallowed hard, lowering his forehead against yours. “Every time you go out there, it feels like I’m already losing you. And I can’t do this if I don’t know you’ll come back.”

The raw plea in his voice silenced you. A man who had built his life on walls and control, begging you for something selfish, something vulnerable. His arms locked around you, as though if he held you tightly enough, the world outside wouldn’t be able to take you from him.

For once, Aki Hayakawa let his fear bleed into his desire, and it left him undone, trembling in your arms, whispering the one truth he could no longer hide.

“Please. Stay with me. Let me keep you safe.”

The decision hadn’t been easy. Public Safety had been your life, your anchor, the one thing that gave structure to the chaos of the world. But after the nights with Aki, after hearing the way his voice broke when he begged you to stay, something in you shifted.

You wanted him more than you wanted the blood and smoke of devil hunting. You wanted the rare calm that came with his presence, the harmony you both found in silence. And so, one morning, you handed in your resignation.

Denji scoffed and accused you of going soft. Himeno gave you a knowing look. Aki didn’t say anything at first—just lit a cigarette with trembling fingers, his jaw tight. But when you stepped close and touched his arm, he exhaled slowly, relief pouring from him in a quiet, unshakable wave.

Life changed after that.

You stayed at his place more and more until your belongings blurred together with his. Mornings began with his steady presence beside you, hair falling into his eyes as he smoked by the window. Nights ended with his arms around you, pulling you back against him like he was afraid you’d slip away in your sleep.

But Aki also changed.

His stoicism softened, replaced by something warmer, more protective. He hovered more than he admitted—pulling you away from Denji’s reckless behavior, insisting you avoid crowded streets, his eyes flicking toward shadows as if the Gun Devil might step out of them at any moment. Losing his family had carved a wound so deep it never healed, and now that he had you, he wasn’t going to let fate take you away.

Then, you also changed.

It was subtle at first.

Your body shifted—hips rounding, your chest fuller, your moods tugging harder than usual. You didn’t notice it, writing it off as stress or the comfort of no longer working in the field. But Aki did.

He noticed everything.

The way your appetite changed. The way your hand lingered unconsciously over your stomach. The faint flush in your cheeks that seemed permanent now.

And then it clicked.

He caught himself staring at you one morning, his cigarette burning down forgotten between his fingers as you moved around the kitchen. Your shirt hugged you differently, your figure curving in ways that made his heart clench—not from desire, but from realization.

You turned to find him watching you, eyes wide, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“What?” you asked, confused.

He stepped closer, setting the cigarette aside, his hand trembling slightly as it brushed your side, then your stomach. His eyes softened, almost disbelieving.

“You’re…pregnant.”

The words landed like a strike of lightning. You froze, your breath catching.

“I—what? No, I—” You froze, your heart stuttering at the words. Then you let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “No. I’m not. I would know if I were.”

His gaze didn’t waver. Those sharp eyes of his—eyes that missed nothing in battle—held yours firmly.

“You’ve been different. Your body’s changing. Your moods. I can see it, Y/N.”

Heat flushed through you, irritation prickling under your skin. Maybe because part of you knew he wasn’t wrong, and that truth scared you more than devils ever could.

“You’re imagining things. Stress is getting to you.”

But Aki didn’t argue further. He simply straightened, his jaw set, his expression unreadable in that infuriating way only he could manage.

“Then take a test.”

Later that evening, you found yourself sitting on the closed lid of the toilet in the bathroom, your hands trembling around a slim white stick. The silence pressed in around you, broken only by the faint ticking of the wall clock and your uneven breathing.

Aki stood outside the door, not pacing, not speaking—just waiting. Patient, but with the weight of a man bracing for impact.

The seconds dragged into minutes. Your heart thundered as you glanced down at the small window. Two lines. Bold. Unmistakable.

Your breath caught, your throat tightening. All at once the denial you’d clung to collapsed under the undeniable truth in your hands.

The door creaked softly. “Y/N?” Aki’s voice was careful, low, as if afraid you’d shatter if he spoke too loud.

You couldn’t answer. Your eyes burned, your fingers clenched around the test. When the door opened, he saw the tears trembling in your lashes, the way your hand shook as you held it up.

For a heartbeat, his stoic mask wavered. His lips parted, and something raw, something unguarded flickered across his face. He dropped to his knees in front of you, taking the test from your hand with a reverence you hadn’t expected, as though it were a fragile treasure.

Then his hands framed your face, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice was hoarse, breaking in ways you’d never heard before.

“I told you. I knew.”

This time, you didn’t argue. You let yourself collapse into his arms, the weight of denial giving way to something heavier—but also sweeter. His embrace tightened around you, protective and unyielding, and for the first time since he’d spoken the words, you let yourself believe them.

But the look on his face left no room for doubt. He’d pieced it together long before you had. And instead of panic, instead of fear, his lips curved into something rare, something almost sacred—joy.

“Y/N…” His voice broke, and he pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat slamming against his ribs. “We’re going to have a family.”

For the first time since you’d met him, Aki’s composure shattered completely. He buried his face in your neck, his breath ragged, words spilling out in a rush he couldn’t contain.

“I’ll protect both of you. I swear it. I’ll never let the Gun Devil touch what’s mine.”

His grip was desperate, fierce—an oath carved into flesh and bone. The trauma of his past still haunted him, but now, for the first time, he had something new to fight for. Not revenge, not duty—you. The life growing inside you. The family he thought he’d never have.

That night, he worshipped you with a reverence that bordered on holy. His touch was softer, slower, his lips tracing your skin as though etching prayers into you. He moved with the quiet urgency of a man who knew the weight of loss, but also the fragile miracle of gain.

Every kiss was a vow. Every whispered moan was answered by his promises—of safety, of devotion, of love he could no longer contain.

When he finally sank into you, it wasn’t raw lust like before—it was harmony, unity, the intertwining of two lives into one future. His hands held you carefully, protectively, as though shielding both you and the tiny spark of life inside.

And afterward, when you lay tangled in the sheets, his arms wrapped around you, he whispered it again and again like a prayer against your skin:

“You’re safe. Both of you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Not ever.”

Outside, the world was still dangerous, the Gun Devil still lurking in shadows of memory. But inside that room, with Aki’s arms anchoring you and his lips brushing your temple, you felt untouchable.

Teacher! Sebastian Michaelis x Teacher! Female Reader

A/N: This takes place in the Black Butler: Public School Arc before Ciel and Sebastian finds Derrick & The others

⚠️ NSFW ⚠️

The oil lamp sputtered on your desk, casting your chambers in warm shadow. You’d stayed late again—grading, preparing, anything to fill the silence. Weston had a way of feeling heavy at night, its corridors too long, its rules too rigid, its traditions smothering. And lately…its shadows seemed to whisper.

A knock startled you. Before you could answer, the door opened.

“Still awake, Miss [L/N]?” The low, refined voice curled through the room, smooth as silk, sharp as steel.

Sebastian Michaelis stepped inside, tall, composed, every movement deliberate. Another teacher—or so you thought. His presence always unsettled you, though you could never place why. He was courteous, professional…but the way his crimson eyes gleamed in lamplight stirred something dangerously primal in your chest.

“Mr. Michaelis,” you said carefully, setting down your pen. “It’s late. Did you need something?”

His lips curved, not quite a smile. “Only a moment of your time.” The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet locked you both inside.

He moved closer, until he loomed over your desk. His gloved hand brushed across the papers you’d been marking, but his gaze never left yours. “You work too hard. Do you never allow yourself…indulgence?”

Something in his tone struck deeper than it should have. Your throat tightened. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

That was when his restraint broke.

He seized your wrist, tugging you up from your chair with effortless strength. In one swift motion, he turned you, pressing you back against the desk, his body flush with yours. His mouth captured yours before protest could leave your lips—rough, consuming, tongue sliding past your teeth like he owned the right.

Heat shot down your spine, shock and hunger warring in your veins. You should have pushed him away. You didn’t.

His hands were everywhere—clawed fingertips dragging over your waist, your thighs, leaving faint pricks against fabric. He tore at the buttons of your blouse, lips trailing down your throat, sharp teeth scraping until you gasped. That sound pulled a guttural growl from his chest, inhuman, dangerous.

The skirt rode high as he lifted you onto the desk, pushing your legs apart with knee and hand. His gloved fingers hooked beneath your underwear, ripping them with a sound that made you shiver. The ruined fabric fluttered to the floor.

“Such fragility,” he murmured, voice slipping lower, less human. “And yet—so responsive.”

Two fingers slid into you, unrelenting, stretching, curling until your head fell back. He set a merciless rhythm, stroking that sensitive spot inside until you moaned his name, nails clawing into his jacket. His eyes burned brighter—hellish crimson—and for an instant, you thought you saw the faint silhouette of wings cast against the wall.

He didn’t let you catch breath before he replaced his hand with the hard length of him, driving in with one brutal thrust that forced a cry from your throat. The desk groaned under the force, papers scattering to the floor. He filled you completely, hips snapping forward in a punishing pace.

He rasped, fangs bared, aura heavy and suffocating. His hand gripped your throat, not enough to choke but to hold you still, to feel your pulse thrumming wildly. His other hand clutched your hip hard enough to bruise, claws piercing faint crescents into your skin.

The collision of bodies, the wet sound of him plunging into you again and again, the scent of sweat and heat and something darker—all of it blurred into a haze. You tightened around him, pleasure spiraling higher, and his composure faltered. His growls deepened, primal, every thrust harder, faster, like he needed to stake a claim inside you.

When you shattered around him, crying out his name, his head dropped to your shoulder. With a snarl, he drove himself as deep as he could and spilled inside you, shuddering, the sound torn from him almost feral.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. His chest heaved against yours, claws still biting into your skin as though he couldn’t bear to release you. His forehead rested on your shoulder, breaths ragged, aura curling possessively around you.

And then—just as quickly as it had came undone—his composure returned.

He drew back, eyes still glowing faintly, expression unreadable. His thumb brushed your cheek almost tenderly, a strange contrast to the violence he’d just wrought. He studied you as though you were something alien—something he couldn’t quite categorize.

Finally, he spoke.

“Now, Miss [L/N]…” His voice had cooled, smoothed, but the hunger remained. “Tell me what you know of Derrick Arden. And the others who’ve gone missing.”

Your stomach dropped, still trembling from his touch. “What…?”

“Do not feign ignorance,” he said, leaning in until his lips brushed your ear. “You spoke with him before he disappeared. Tell me what you know.”

His hand tightened on your hip, reminding you of just how easily he’d held you down moments before. His crimson gaze pinned you, sharp, merciless—and yet beneath it, something flickered. Something not hunger. Something not possession. Something he didn’t even recognize in himself.

For the first time in centuries, Sebastian Michaelis realized he could care.

And that truth unsettled him more than any information you could give.

Your chambers were too quiet. The lamp guttered low, the scent of sweat and sex still hanging in the air. You sat perched on the edge of your desk, blouse half-buttoned, your thighs trembling from what he had done to you.

And yet Sebastian stood immaculate. Not a single dark hair was out of place, not a wrinkle in his uniform. Only the faint crimson glow lingering in his eyes betrayed the inhuman heat still coursing through him.

“Derrick Arden,” he repeated, the syllables precise, edged. “Tell me what you know of him.”

You shook your head, still breathless. “I don’t… I don’t know anything. He came to me about an assignment, that’s all. He was distracted, but I assumed it was nothing more than the usual pressures. The next morning, he was gone.”

Sebastian tilted his head, regarding you like a hawk circling prey. His hand reached out, gloved fingers lifting your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze. “Distracted,” he murmured. “How so?”

“He seemed tired. Nervous, maybe. But students often are.” You swallowed hard, unnerved by the crimson depth of his stare. “He never hinted at anything. I swear it.”

The words rang true. He could feel it. He could taste the truth in your voice, in the frantic drum of your pulse. Humans were open books to him—pages he could tear apart with ease. And yet…he lingered, eyes searching yours for something more, something that had nothing to do with Derrick Arden.

His thumb brushed over your lower lip where he’d cut you earlier with his fang. A drop of dried blood still marked the corner. His own breath hitched faintly—an imperceptible slip.

“You truly know nothing,” he said at last, though his voice was softer now, less demand and more contemplation.

“I told you.” You pushed his hand away, but the gesture lacked strength. He’d stolen that from you with his body.

Instead of leaving, he leaned closer, his mouth ghosting over your ear. “You’re fortunate I believe you. I am not often so…merciful.”

A shiver raced through you. His presence was suffocating, but it wasn’t fear that knotted in your stomach. It was something far more dangerous.

He should have ended it there—taken your answer, turned, and walked away. But Sebastian didn’t move. His hand traced down your arm, gloved fingertips grazing the back of your hand. Gentle. Curious. Almost…hesitant.

What was this?

He’d had countless humans beneath him. Countless souls begging, screaming, pleading. But you were different. He didn’t crave the marrow of your essence, didn’t salivate at the thought of tearing you open and feasting. Instead, he craved the sound of your voice, the way your body yielded under his, the fire in your gaze when you tried to resist him.

It unsettled him. It infuriated him.

Because Sebastian Michaelis was a demon. And demons did not care.

“Mr. Michaelis…” you said softly, your voice unsteady. “Why are you really here?”

His smile returned—polished, sharp, practiced. “Simply doing my duty as a fellow teacher, ensuring the safety of my students.”

But the words tasted like ash in his mouth.

His eyes swept over you one last time, memorizing the disheveled lines of your blouse, the bruises blooming beneath his gloves, the defiance in your gaze despite it all. Something dark and possessive tightened in his chest.

He turned toward the door, every line of his body screaming elegance, composure. But his hand hesitated on the knob. For the first time in centuries, he almost didn’t trust himself to look back.

And yet he did.

“Miss [L/N]…” His crimson eyes softened for only a fraction of a second. “Lock your door. Weston can be…unpredictable at night.”

Then he was gone.

And you were left alone, your heart hammering, unaware that you had just unsettled the most unshakable demon to ever walk the earth.

╭──────────.★..─╮

Timeskip

╰─..★.──────────╯

The night outside Weston was thick and silent, but inside Sebastian’s mind, there was no peace.

He should have dismissed you. He should have taken your truth for what it was, cataloged it, and turned his attention back to the task his young master demanded of him. And yet—he found his steps leading him back to you. Again and again, like a moth lured to flame.

Demons didn’t feel. They devoured. But tonight, his body betrayed him.

Your chamber door was locked, just as he had instructed. Still, he slipped the latch with a flick of his hand and let himself in. The soft glow of lamplight still lingered, though you’d clearly tried to sleep. You stirred when you sensed him, sitting up in your bed, covers pooling at your waist.

“Mr. Michaelis?” your voice was husky, wary, but not unwelcoming.

“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, though his tone was lower than usual. “I find myself…restless.”

He didn’t wait for permission this time. In three strides he was at your bedside, tugging you into his arms and pressing his mouth to yours. The kiss was fierce, hungry—but not the same hunger as before. It wasn’t about dominance or information. It was something darker, softer, infinitely more dangerous.

You gasped against him as he pushed you back into the pillows, his weight settling over you. His gloves fell to the floor, discarded, and when his bare hands touched your skin, his claws scratched lightly—danger nipping at tenderness. He dragged your nightdress up, lips roaming down your throat, fangs grazing without breaking skin.

He growled against your collarbone, the sound rougher than he meant it to be. His hips rolled against yours, hard and needy, betraying his carefully cultivated composure.

You whispered his name like a prayer, and that was all it took. He freed himself, guiding your legs around his waist, and sank into you in one deep thrust. The air left your lungs, replaced with a broken moan.

This time, he didn’t pound into you with punishing force. His rhythm was steady, deep, dragging out every sensation as though memorizing the shape of you around him. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes burning red but softer now, almost…vulnerable.

You clutched at his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he obeyed without thought, burying himself deeper. Every sound you made unraveled him further, shredding the fragile line between demon and something far more human.

When you came around him, tight and trembling, he let go as well, spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan, his claws carving into the sheets on either side of your head to stop himself from breaking you apart.

Silence followed, broken only by your unsteady breaths.

And then—something unthinkable happened.

You shifted closer, tucking yourself against his chest as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Within minutes, your breathing evened out, soft and steady, your head resting on him.

Sebastian froze.

He should have risen. He should have left before dawn, as he always did, before humans woke and remembered. But instead…his arms moved of their own accord, curling around you, holding you there. His clawed fingers traced absent circles along your back, gentle.

He stared into the darkness of your room, the weight of you warm against him. Something inside him twisted, alien and unwelcome—and yet, he didn’t reject it.

For the first time in centuries, Sebastian Michaelis understood.

He didn’t want your soul. He wanted you.

And as you slept peacefully in his arms, he allowed himself the smallest, quietest smile.

A demon had no right to such a thing.

Dom! Levi Ackerman x Female Reader

FT. Erwin Smith, Hange Zoe

⚠️ NSFW, hair pulling, spit, overstimulation, dirty talk ⚠️

18+

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The mission had been brutal from the start—too many titans, too few options, and every second a gamble with death. Orders had been clear: hold formation, bait the enemy in tight, strike only when the chance was certain. But when you saw a struggling recruit about to be snatched up, your body moved before your brain could stop it.

You broke rank.

Gas hissing, wires snapping out, you launched yourself toward the titan’s nape without waiting for the signal. The recruit’s terrified scream echoed in your ears as you twisted through the air, blades flashing. Steel cut deep, hot blood spraying as the titan crumbled beneath you.

For a moment, it felt like triumph. Until you realized you’d flown directly into the path of another, bigger titan.

You froze. Its hand raced down toward you—fast, unavoidable—only for a flash of silver to cut through the air. In the span of a heartbeat, the titan’s head exploded in a spray of steam, Levi landed gracefully on the roof beside you, blood spattering across his cloak.

His glare burned hotter than the sun. He didn’t say a word then, not with titans still bearing down on you both. But the sharpness in his eyes told you what waited when the mission was over.

And now here you were, chest still pounding, adrenaline still burning through your veins as Levi dragged you into his office and slammed the door.

The mission still burned in your blood. You could feel the sting of wind on your face, the smell of titan steam clinging to your clothes, the weight of Levi’s eyes on you the moment you’d broken formation.

“You’re out of your fucking mind.” His voice was low, deadly, each syllable deliberate. “Breaking formation, ignoring orders—do you get off on nearly dying?”

Your jaw clenched, heat rising in your chest. “I saved him. That recruit would be dead if I hadn’t moved.”

Levi’s glare sharpened. “And you would’ve been dead if I wasn’t there to clean up after you.” His tone cut like glass, but his voice faltered on the last word. His fists curled at his sides, trembling. “Tch. You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it.”

You stepped closer, refusing to back down. “I’m not weak, Levi. I can fight. I did fight.”

The vein in his jaw ticked. For a second, it seemed like he might explode—or worse, turn away. Instead, his restraint shattered.

In two strides he was on you, caging you against a desk with his hands slamming down on either side of you. His mouth crushed against yours, furious and hungry, teeth clashing, tongue forcing yours into submission. The kiss stole your breath, bruising, angry—and yet you clung back, meeting his fire with your own.

Papers scattered as he shoved you onto the edge of the desk, ink spilling, wood groaning under the force of your body hitting it. His hands yanked at your jacket, tearing it open, the sharp rip of fabric echoing in the quiet room.

“You think you’re invincible?” he snarled against your lips, tugging your shirt down past your shoulders. His eyes raked over your exposed skin, equal parts furious and desperate. “You’re not. You’re reckless. You’re mine.”

You smirked, breathless, tugging at his cravat until it came loose in your fist. “Then prove it.”

Something broke in him. His hands flew to your thighs, spreading them wide, pulling you to the very edge of the desk. His mouth latched onto your throat, biting hard enough to make you gasp, then soothing the sting with a slow drag of his tongue. His fingers found the fastenings of your pants, ripping them open with ruthless precision.

Your breath hitched as his hand slipped between your legs, fingers stroking you through your soaked underwear. His movements were rough, precise, but his hand trembled ever so slightly against you, betraying the fear buried beneath his rage.

“Dripping already,” he muttered, voice low and filthy as his thumb pressed harder against your clit. “All because I’m angry? You like this, don’t you? Pissing me off until I ruin you.”

You whimpered, your hips grinding against his hand, the friction deliciously maddening. “Levi—”

He cut you off with a kiss, swallowing your moan as he shoved your underwear aside and pushed two fingers inside you. The stretch burned, his pace merciless, curling and thrusting until your legs trembled against his hips. His lips never left yours, tongue dominating, claiming every sound you tried to make.

When he finally pulled his hand away, you gasped at the loss—only to cry out when he freed himself, hard and heavy against your thigh. He didn’t give you time to think. One rough thrust, and he was buried inside you to the hilt, the sudden fullness stealing your breath.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, voice ragged. “So tight—always so fucking tight.”

The desk rattled as he set a brutal pace, each thrust slamming deep enough to make your vision blur. His hands bruised your hips, holding you still as he used you, anger bleeding into desperation. Yet even in the roughness, his thumb slid back to your clit, rubbing you in quick, skilled circles that sent sparks shooting up your spine.

“Look at you,” he growled, pulling back just enough to watch your face twist in pleasure. “Moaning for me like we weren’t just arguing.” His thrusts quickened, sharper, needier. “You drive me insane. Can’t fucking lose you.”

Your nails dug into his back through his shirt, your voice breaking on his name as your orgasm hit, your body convulsing around him. He groaned low in his throat, lips crashing onto yours again, swallowing every cry as he fucked you through it, relentless.

Levi wasn’t done. Not even close. His grip on your hips was unyielding as he pulled out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. He studied you for a moment—sweat on your brow, lips swollen from his kisses, thighs trembling where they clung to his waist.

“Tch,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Look at you. Wrecked already, and I’ve barely started.”

Before you could catch your breath, his hand was in your hair, fisting hard and yanking your head back. You gasped at the sting, your back arching against the desk. His lips hovered over yours, his breath hot and sharp.

“Open.”

Your lips parted instinctively. Levi spat into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. The filthy act made your core clench, heat flooding your body. You swallowed without hesitation, and his smirk deepened.

“Good girl.” His voice dropped to a rasp that sent shivers through you. “You know your place.”

He shoved back into you with one brutal thrust, knocking a choked cry from your throat. The desk screeched against the floor with the force of his movements, his pace unforgiving. Every thrust was sharp, precise, like he was determined to remind you who commanded both the battlefield and your body.

Your nails clawed at the edge of the desk, your legs trembling as he pounded into you. But Levi wasn’t satisfied with your hands there. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, holding you down effortlessly as he fucked you harder.

“You don’t get to move unless I tell you to,” he growled, his free hand gripping your jaw to force your eyes on him. “Understand?”

“Y-Yes, Levi—”

He slammed deeper, cutting off your words with a broken moan. His thumb pressed to your clit again, ruthless in its pace, dragging you toward another orgasm before your body had even recovered from the first.

“Pathetic,” he hissed, watching you squirm, your eyes glassy with pleasure. “One orgasm and you’re already falling apart. You think this is punishment? I’ll show you punishment.”

Your second release hit harder, tearing through you until your body shook violently beneath him. But Levi didn’t slow. His thrusts stayed relentless, his thumb never leaving your clit. You writhed against him, overstimulated, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Too much?” His tone was mocking, but the gleam in his eyes was feral. “You can take it. You will take it.”

When you whimpered his name, voice breaking, something in his expression softened—not enough to stop, but enough to tilt his head and press a bruising kiss to your lips, swallowing your cries as his pace pushed you to a third climax.

By the time your body convulsed again, your voice was raw, your thighs trembling uncontrollably. He finally let your wrists go, but only to grab your throat, holding you firmly while he buried himself deep, fucking you through your trembling release.

“You think I’ll let anyone else see you like this?” he rasped, his forehead pressed to yours as his own climax built. “Fucked stupid, begging, dripping down my desk? No. You’re mine. Always mine.”

His hips stuttered as his release tore through him, spilling hot inside you as he groaned your name into your mouth. His hand loosened at your throat, shifting instead to cup your jaw with surprising gentleness, his thumb stroking your tear-streaked cheek.

For a long moment, the office was filled only with the sound of your mingled breaths, his body heavy over yours. Then he kissed you—slow, deep, the kind of kiss that didn’t belong to a man who had just fucked you into tears.

“Don’t you ever,” he whispered, voice frayed and tender against your lips, “ever scare me like that again.”

And even though your body was wrecked, overstimulated and aching, you knew he’d pull you back onto his cock again the moment your legs stopped shaking—because Levi Ackerman didn’t just fuck recklessly. He owned, he punished, and he cherished in the same breath.

He doesn’t give you time to collect yourself.

Before your leg can steady, Levi hauls you up from the desk by your wrists and flips you over the edge so your knees land on the worn wood. Your face is inches from the scattered papers; the smell of ink, sex and him presses in. He stands behind you, hands on your hips like iron clamps, pupils blown wide with something hard and hungry.

“You still think you’re invincible?” he breathes, voice low and certain. His hands squeeze your hips and then he pushes into you from behind without ceremony. The slant of the desk makes every drive hit a place so deep it collapses your knees. You cry out, fingers scrabbling for leverage on the edge.

“Answer me,” he snaps, slow enough that every syllable lands. His free hand threads into your hair and yanks your head back. You turn, face to face with him in the reflection of the window—his jaw tight, nostrils flared, eyes black and possessed. You see nothing soft there. Only command.

“No,” you choke. “No, Levi.”

He laughs once, short and cruel, then slams harder. “Good. Remember that.” He owns the sound you make, swallows it, smirks against your temple. His pace is relentless — not the sloppy pounding of hunger, but precise, surgical, each thrust measured to break you down.

He drags a hand across your throat, thumb pressing where your pulse thrums. “You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you sob into the wood. The words are hot and helpless and exactly what he needs.

“Louder.” His palm tightens, the grip bruising, and the desk creaks under the force.

You scream it then; the room answers in a ragged echo. He bites down on the skin of your neck, not hard enough to leave a mark he can’t control, just enough to steal air and sanity. The friction, the heat, the sense of being utterly commandeered sends a bright, tearing rush through you. He pulls out only to rim you with two fingers, slick and cruel, before ramming back in, full and occupying.

“You like being told what to do, don’t you?” he taunts, voice a low rasp that vibrates through your spine. “You like being punished for being reckless. You like when I remind you—who—keeps—you—alive.”

“Please,” you beg, because begging is what keeps him near. Under that dominance is a current of something that wants you safe even as he breaks you. “Please, Levi—”

He responds by dragging you up, shoving you back until your spine arches and your chest hits the edge of the desk. He hooks his fingers under your thighs and lifts, positioning you so your legs dangle wide, exposing you entirely. The angle is cruel and exquisite; you’re helpless, hung on his will.

He moves faster, balls deep and steady, and every thrust is an order. “Look at me when I fuck you,” he demands, jaw rubbing against your ear. You obey, eyes focusing on his—on the scar in his knuckle, the burn of his stare, the way his mouth curls when he’s pleased. Your vision tunnels into the plane of irate affection he offers without apology.

He leans forward and spits, letting it drip down the valley of your breasts before forcing you to swallow. The act is filthy and owning; you feel it burn straight to your core. “Swallow. No whining.”

You do. You always do. The taste of him is a tether.

He speeds up, then slows to press his thumb hard on your clit in a vicious rhythm timed to his thrusts, each circle coaxing you toward the edge. He’s an expert in breaking you: building, almost letting you fall, then dragging you back by the hair of your teeth. Your body bucks and twists under the onslaught, tears pricking, legs clamping around his hips despite the position, wanting to keep him close.

“You think you’ll be allowed to ruin yourself for anyone?” he growls between thrusts. “Think again. You don’t get to be everyone’s hero. You’re my problem to keep.” The degrading sweetness of it slices through you — you aren’t ashamed; you’re overwhelmed by the intensity of being owned.

When you tremble on the verge, he rips his hand away. The sudden void is cruel. You cry out, claws scrabbling at the desk, nails catching wood. He watches you collapse into need with the kind of hungry amusement that makes your skin shiver. Then, as if rewarding obedience, he pulls you up by your hair and flips you again — onto your back this time, across the desk’s broad surface, arms pinned above your head.

The desk edges bite into your shoulders as he stands between your legs, surveying you like territory he means to mark. “Look at you,” he sighs, amused and vicious. “So fucking pliant.” He kneels, palms pressing into the table to steady himself, and devours you with his mouth. Tongue, teeth, wet heat—his mouth maps you out, finds the places that make you dissolve.

He pushes two fingers into you and works them hard, pounding a rhythm different from his cock, fingers curling inside with deliberate strokes that make your belly clench. He alternates between his mouth on your clit and the merciless press of his hand driving you towards another peak. Your world narrows to sensation: the bite of his teeth, the wet press of his tongue, the sharp, disciplined thrusts of his fingers.

“You want to cum?” he asks, voice silk and poison. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He takes it anyway, fucking you with his fingers until you choke on the need. Then he pulls back, watching your body twitch in denial, eyes bright like a predator’s in twilight.

“You won’t cum until I say so,” Levi tells you flatly. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper, the single syllable trembling.

“Good.”

He positions himself and slowly, torturously, begins again. His pace is a clever weapon of delayed mercy — enough to make your hips arch, not enough to let you fall. He toys with you, speed raisings and dropping, grinding and then pausing, thumb rubbing right where you’re most tender before pulling away. Each refusal is a razor; each granted stroke is a brand.

Your breaths come in ragged pulls, body stretched taut, nerve endings singing. He leans close, so close you can feel his breath fanning your face. “Say my name when you cum,” he orders. “Say it like you mean it.”

You stare at him through the haze of want and say it, the sound raw and crackling: “Levi.”

He laughs, and it’s a sound that shakes the beams. “Again. Make it mine.” His thrusts become a metronome of ownership.

“Levi—” you cry out, but he doesn’t let you finish; he jerks his hips with a force that steals your voice and forces the sound into a groan of surrender. He times his release with yours this time, the friction and pressure building in perfect synchronization until you pop like a struck chord, spilling over him in a quake of noise and wet.

He keeps going through your orgasm, relentless, until your muscles clench around him like a cage. He groans low, his own release hot and shocking as it fills you. When he collapses over you, breath heaving, you expect at least a moment of gentleness.

Instead, Levi huffs and flips you back once more, dragging you to the floor beside the desk. He props you up against his thigh like a trophy and kneels between your parted legs for one final, humiliatingly tender act: he takes you in his mouth. Long, methodical licks, suckling the remaining slick from you, his hands threading through your hair to hold your head as he works you with a deliberate, possessive skill that leaves you raw and already aching for more.

“You taste like mine,” he murmurs into your skin, voice cracked with satisfaction. “Think about that whenever you get cocky on the field.”

Your body is too wrecked to argue. You can only acknowledge the truth in the way his name threads through your bones.

He pulls up, stands, and in one brutal gesture he scoops you up and sets you on his lap, facing him. His hand fists on your shoulder, holding you flush against his chest, and he kisses you. This time the kiss is laced with rough admiration — the kind reserved for survivors and fools who mean the world to him.

“Rule number one,” he whispers against your lips, so soft it almost feels like a promise: “You don’t get to throw your life away. You fight with me — not for your martyr fantasy.” His thumb sweeps a wet line across your lower lip as if to check you’re still there.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I’m yours.”

He clicks his tongue, displeased and pleased all at once, leaning back to study you as if memorizing the aftermath. “Damn brat,” he mutters. Then his voice drops, a rare softness folded under the scowl. “Don’t do it again. Ever.”

You nod, body trembling, mind still foggy on the edge of lingering orgasm and the ache of exertion. Levi’s hands are on your hips again, firm and possessive. He eases you off his lap, lifts you like you weigh nothing and carries you to the desk chair, setting you down in a way that says you’re both prized and punished.

He sits behind you, fingers dragging lazy paths down your spine, occasionally squeezing exactly where you need pressure. In the lull, he presses a thumb along your cheek, wiping the wet around your eyes with a clumsy tenderness that makes your heartbeat spike in a different way.

“Good,” he says simply, and you know he means everything and nothing — that you were reckless, you were ridiculous, and you were his. He reaches for his shirt and drapes it over your shoulders like a shield, not a courtesy but a claim. Then he picks up the scattered papers with a mechanical efficiency, smoothing them back into order as if the world must go on be orderly after what you two did to it.

When you finally find your voice, it’s small and ragged. “Levi?”

He looks up, the hard line in his face softened by dark amusement. “What.”

“Will you—stay?” The question surprises even you; it’s not just about the immediate safety. It’s about the hand that steadies you and the man who can be feral and gentle in the same heartbeat.

He snorts, and for a heartbeat you think he’ll refuse, scold, walk away. Instead, he leans down and presses his forehead to yours, an intimate touch that says more than possessive words ever could. “Only because you’re an idiot who can’t be trusted to keep breathing without me.”

You laugh then, a brief, tear-tinged sound, and he answers with a half-smile of his own — jagged, rare, and wholly his.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now sleep. You’ll need to be ready when the next mission comes. And don’t even think about pulling that stunt again.”

You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, smelling him — soap, sweat, ink. The world is messy but safe enough when he’s the one holding you down.

“Fine,” you say into his collar. “I’ll listen.”

He grunts, satisfied, and for the first time that day you let your eyelids slide closed, body spent, heart still pounding — tethered to the man who is both your scourge and your sanctuary.

You were barely holding your eyes open, body heavy and sore as you sagged against Levi’s chest. His shirt hung loose over your shoulders, the scent of him clinging to every inch of you. Levi’s hand idly rubbed circles against your thigh, and for once, you felt safe enough to let yourself drift.

Just as you were about to sink into sleep, the sound of a doorknob turning snapped your eyes open.

The door creaked.

“Levi,” came Erwin’s calm, deep voice, “I was hoping—”

He stopped dead.

Behind him, Hange leaned in with her usual enthusiasm, only for her grin to freeze mid-sentence. “Hey, Captain, do you know wh—oh.”

The silence was catastrophic.

You blinked, realization dawning as your foggy brain caught up. You weren’t in Levi’s office. You were on Erwin’s desk. Ink stains, the stack of meticulously arranged reports, the heavy chair—it all screamed commander, not captain.

Levi didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He just looked up, deadpan as ever, his hand still possessively resting on your thigh. “Tch. Wrong door.”

Erwin’s brows lifted ever so slightly, his blue eyes flicking from Levi, to you draped boneless across him, back to the absolute chaos of his once-pristine desk. A faint muscle twitched in his jaw, but his tone stayed maddeningly calm. “This is my office.”

“Not anymore,” Levi replied flatly.

You choked on your own breath, burying your face into Levi’s chest to hide. Heat spread across your cheeks like wildfire, but he didn’t so much as twitch.

Hange, meanwhile, was fighting a losing battle with her laughter, hand clamped over her mouth, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Ohhhhhh,” she sang, rocking back on her heels. “So that’s why there was all that noise. I thought Levi was murdering paperwork.”

Levi’s glare shot across the room like a blade. “Get. Out.”

Hange doubled over laughing, her voice muffled through snorts. “Oh, don’t mind us, we’ll just leave you lovebirds to… file your reports.” She winked at you as she dragged Erwin out by the arm.

The door clicked shut behind them, silence heavy in their wake.

You groaned into Levi’s chest. “Kill me now.”

“Tch.” He smoothed a hand over your hair, eyes narrowing at the door. “If they say a word about this, I’ll kill them first.”

Despite the mortification, you laughed weakly, curling tighter against him. “Levi… we really just… on Erwin’s desk.”

Muzan Kibutsuji x Reader

⚠️ Suggestive content, Blood, slight angst (I think) ⚠️

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙ ‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙ ‿̩͙⊱༒︎

You should have been nothing.

Another human wandering through the night, another fragile soul waiting to be crushed underfoot. Muzan had stepped over thousands like you without a second thought. He told himself that was all you were: a pawn, a name to remember only long enough to use.

But when his gaze fell on you in the lamplight of the market, something shifted.

You were ordinary, and yet not. Through you, Muzan saw an opening—a tenuous connection to Tanjiro Kamado and that cursed sister of his. A thread to pull, a pawn to sacrifice. He should have moved on. He should have used you and discarded you like all the rest.

And yet, he lingered.

Your smile—unafraid and unflinching—stayed with him long after he turned away. You looked at him not with the terror that most mortals instinctively bore, but with curiosity. It disgusted him that he noticed. It disgusted him more that he cared.

For days he haunted your steps, weaving himself into your routine like silk binding around flesh. At first it was calculated—approaching you on quiet streets, offering his hand when you stumbled, speaking with that velvet voice he wore like a mask. You thought he was kind, perhaps enigmatic.

He thought you were useful.

That was the lie he repeated whenever his eyes lingered too long on the curve of your throat, on the way your pulse fluttered beneath his gaze. That was the excuse he gave himself when he found reasons to remain in your company.

It is strategy, he told himself. Not weakness.

And yet weakness was exactly what it felt like when he caught himself thinking of you even in the company of his demons.

One night when the air itself seemed to conspire against him, you stood before him in your small room, shadows spilling across the floorboards. He had followed you inside without asking, as though he had every right, and you—foolish, trusting—had not pushed him away.

“Do you understand what I am?” he asked softly, his hand ghosting along your jaw. His thumb pressed lightly where your pulse leapt.

“I don’t think you’re as monstrous as you want me to believe,” you whispered.

That was what broke him.

He hated the words. He hated that you looked at him and did not see the terror he wanted you to. He hated that instead of killing you where you stood, he closed the distance and crushed his mouth against yours.

The kiss was fierce, almost punishing. He moved like a man starved, every motion claiming rather than offering. His hands gripped too tightly, pulling you against him as though he might vanish if he let go. Heat spiraled between you, your breath catching as he pressed you back, lips devouring, teeth grazing skin.

Every sound you made tore at him—half pleasure, half agony. Each gasp was a victory he should not have wanted, each touch a sin he despised himself for committing. The great Kibutsuji Muzan, undone by a human girl. It was intolerable. It was intoxicating.

He told himself he was conquering you. That every kiss, every shuddering breath, was proof of his dominion. But in truth, it felt like drowning.

When it ended, he sat back, staring down at you with crimson eyes. His chest heaved, his hands trembled—though he hid it quickly behind a sneer.

“You disgust me,” he murmured. But the venom in his tone was not for you. It was for himself.

And yet, the next night, he came again.

And the night after that.

Each time he swore it would be the last. Each time he told himself it meant nothing, that you were still just a pawn. And each time, he gave in to the same weakness, pressing you beneath him, consuming you with a hunger that shamed him as much as it thrilled him.

By the fifth night, he could no longer bear it.

Your humanity gnawed at him—fragile, fleeting, offensive to everything he was. The thought of losing you to age, to weakness, to the smallest wound was unbearable. The contradiction of his desire and his loathing tore at him until he could not endure another moment of your mortal imperfection.

On the fifth night, your body had softened against his in the aftermath of his intimacy. Muzan leaned over you, his eyes glowed in the dark, sharp and merciless. “You will not remain human,” he said finally, voice sharp with decision. “I will not allow it.”

Your lips parted in confusion, but before you could speak, his claw nicked your skin. His blood—thick, potent, venomous—flooded into your veins.

The scream that ripped from your throat was unlike any other sound you had ever made. Your body writhed, convulsed, every nerve set aflame. Muzan held you down, watching with rapt fascination as your humanity shattered.

And then—silence.

Your eyes snapped open, crimson and unearthly. The transformation was instantaneous, perfect. You had taken his blood without hesitation, without faltering. A feat few could manage.

Muzan froze. His disgust crumbled into awe. His lips parted into the faintest smile.

“You are… magnificent,” he breathed

But the price was steep.

Your memories were gone, erased by the flood of his blood. You looked at him with emptiness where recognition had once been. Muzan told himself it was better this way. A blank slate. Easier to shape. Easier to control.

And yet, as nights passed, something stirred in you. Subtle at first—a glance that lingered too long, a small laugh at words he hadn’t meant to be humorous. You tilted your head when he spoke, eyes narrowing as though you were trying to read him, trying to understand him.

Obedience shifted into something warmer. Something dangerous.

Muzan, who had loathed himself for ever desiring you, now found himself savoring every sign that your loyalty was not born of fear but of choice. The more you clung to him, the more his disgust twisted into reverence. He had made you, shaped you, elevated you above the fragile weakness of humanity. You were his creation, his equal, the only one worthy to stand at his side.

And he, the eternal king, found himself nearly bowing to you in his thoughts.

One night, as you stood before him with crimson eyes burning as brightly as his own, you spoke words that solidified his obsession.

“I am yours. I will destroy them all for you. Tanjiro Kamado. Nezuko. The slayers. Even the sun itself.”

Something inside Muzan—something he would never admit—quaked. He reached for you, his fingers brushing your jaw, softer than they had ever been.

“Together,” he whispered, almost worshipful, “we will end this world of vermin. Together, we will reign in the light they once denied us.”

And when you smiled at him, not with emptiness but with conviction, Muzan realized the truth he had once despised:

He was no longer disgusted.

He was enthralled.

You were no longer his pawn.

You were his queen.

And though the shadows of Tanjiro and Yoriichi still haunted him—reminders of the fear he tried so desperately to bury—Muzan now believed he could overcome even that. Not because of his own power, but because with you beside him, he no longer felt alone in his eternity.

In you, he saw not weakness, but salvation twisted into darkness.