ranch

The community outreach event had seemed harmless enough when the day started. SWAT volunteered at them a few times a year, and while Jack would never admit it out loud, he usually enjoyed them. It was difficult to have a terrible day when half the crowd consisted of elementary school kids who thought every volunteer spent their workday hanging off helicopters and kicking down doors like they’d seen in cartoon movies. Crowds seemed to swarm the park despite the heat with tents stretching across the grass to make it easier to find shade. Multiple organizations from both Pittsburgh and visiting cities stationed next to their tents that lined the walking paths. 

Families drifted from booth to booth carrying melting snow cones and bags stuff with pamphlets and stress balls printed with specialized branding they would probably throw away before they got home. Somewhere behind him, a group of children were taking turns climbing through an armored vehicle while another one of his SWAT buddies attempted—and failed—to maintain order. 

Jack was halfway through answering a little boy’s very serious question about whether he’d ever fixed up a ninja when movement across the path caught it attention. 

Truly, it wasn’t even your face that got him first; it was your posture. 

He’d seen you enough to recognize the specific way you stood with your weight shifted slightly onto one leg while reading something. Your hair was pulled back like you always had it, and from a distance, framed by the movement, he was sure that you were 100 percent standing across from him. 

His first thought was confusion, because you were supposed to be working. He knew you had a shift scheduled until seven, and while he knew that was subject to change all the time, you usually let him know when they did. 

Jack frowned and glanced at his watch. 

Maybe you’d gotten off early, maybe you’d decided to surprise him (at the wrong booth he thought), or maybe you’d gone and volunteered for . . . the Chicago Fire Station tent? Each guess seemed more ridiculous than the first. 

If this had happened six months ago, he would have let you at it. However, ever since he kissed you in that parking lot after spouting nonsense about seeing his double about five times before you finally figured out he was the real Jack, he’s been pretty protective of you. He was your boyfriend for crying out loud. Seeing you over there at a random booth when you were supposed to be at work made something curl inside his chest. 

He liked the idea that you might have let him known you got off early, he believed in himself to show that you shouldn’t be worried he’d be mad if you chose to spend your time somewhere else, but a simple call or text wouldn’t have hurt. 

So, through his confusion, Jack did the only thing he knew how do to: talk it out like a grown ass man and not get angry or possessive. 

“Hey, sweetheart!” he called out, already walking over to the booth with his limping gate. “Did you get off early or something?” 

The sound of his voice had you looking up at him, and he willed himself to not get lost in your eyes. 

“Can’t believe Robby let you have the afternoon. Did he hit his head or something? Don’t think I’ve ever seen him give a resident the day off, especially during a weekend,” he muttered the last bit to himself. 

Now, see, since Jack was so close to being distraught about you not texting him, he failed to noticed the very confused look on your face while he talked at you. 

He stopped when he was finally over at the booth and about a foot away from where you were standing. “Did I make you mad or something, sweetheart? If you wanted to spend your day off by yourself, I wouldn’t have cared. Just thought you might have wanted to let me know.” 

His first warning should have been your lack of response after the first term of endearment that seemed to always make you swoon when he used it. 

But again, his brain was befuddled with ideas of him making you so upset you’d rather stand over at the firefighter tent than over with him just across the path. 

At this point, Jack was rambling. “I get it, our relationship hasn’t been going on for that long, and before that you had men kissing the ground where you walked, but I’d really like this to work, I want us to work. And if that means you’re volunteering as a firefighter on the weekends, I’ll take it. But you couldn’t have picked up . . . I don’t know . . . a safer hobby? You’re usually not the one with destructive tendencies—” 

“I’m really sorry to say this, sir, but I have no clue who you are,” you interrupted. 

Against all odds, Jack’s never quiet brain ceased all functioning. Because when you stopped him from talking, he finally looked at you, like, really looked at you, and it clicked that the woman across standing right in front of him wasn’t actually you. 

She had your eyes, your nose, and your mouth, and for one completely ridiculous moment, Jack wondered if he’d somehow developed a concussion without noticing before profession instinct won out over common sense. 

“Oh,” he breathed, a heated flush climbing his neck at a rapid pace. “Oh, no.” 

Seeing his absolute embarrassment, the not-you giggled softly. “While I’m partially endeared, I think you have me mistaken for someone else.” 

Jack ran a hand down his face. “I see the appeal of getting run over by oncoming traffic now.” He huffed. “I sincerely apologize for the last three minutes; you quite literally have my girlfriend’s face.” 

“Well, I can assure you that I am most definitely not your girlfriend.” 

Jack’s eyes quickly caught on the very sparkly ring on her finger that he certainly did not put there. The sight rewired his brain. For the next small moment, Jack contemplated drowning himself in the watercooler nearby until the not-you reached out her hand. 

“Richards.”

He took her hand and shook it. “Abbot. Jack Abbot.” 

She smiled warmly at him. “So, Jack Abbot, does SWAT include you mistaking women for your partner or is that just a you-thing?” 

Oh, she had your jokes. 

“Would it help to say that she went a few weeks going around finding men that looked like me?” he mentioned sheepishly. 

“A bit.” She paused before continuing. “Really, I should have stopped you the first time you called me sweetheart, but seeing you grovel was really nice.” 

“I don’t think I’d count that as nice. Maybe highly embarrassing and dignity-disgracing.” 

“You sound like my husband.” 

“Is that a good thing?” 

“I haven’t decided yet. But all things considering, I think there’s a possibility that it is a very good thing.” 

Jack continued to eye her carefully, part of his brain still unconvinced that this wasn’t you pulling a prank on him. In the small moment, he quickly noted all the visible differences: her hair was greying at the edges, her neck held a small burn pattern, and, most importantly, her eyes didn’t hold the softness yours did when you looked up at him. 

“I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around this.” 

She cocked her head. “Well, what does your-me do?” 

A fondness melted across Jack’s face as he thought of you. “She’s a senior resident at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. She’s actually there right now, which is why I was so confused to see you standing here.” 

“Ah, the root of the groveling then.” 

“Could we maybe move past that? I do have a reputation to uphold.” 

“It was actually quite funny.” 

“I’m still considering jumping into traffic. Seems much less humiliating than this.” 

“Well, if there’s a time to do it, now might be a good time since this is the largest group of first responders I’ve ever seen. Might even send my husband to drive his firetruck to get on sight first.” 

Husband?

“Where I am driving to, baby?” a new voice sounded, causing Jack to tear his eyes away from not-you’s face. 

And somehow, in that moment, finding your doppelganger was not the most interesting part of Jack’s day. That was now taken by looking his right in the same-hued eyes. The man across from him was quite literally a spitting image: same salt-and-peppered curls, same nose, and same stature. However, the man across from him most definitely had both feet and was donning a heavy bright yellow coat. 

The man—probably not-you’s husband—also looked at him with a weird type of awe you’d only get if you somehow found one of your seven look-a-likes, which he had. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the man muttered. “Your doctor wasn’t lying.” 

Jack sputtered. “My doctor?” 

He nodded. “Yep. Came up to me yelling because she thought you went through another mid-life crisis. But at least now I get to tell you that I am most definitely the hotter firefighter version of you.” 

Not-you punched his shoulder. “Brett,” she hissed. “Don’t be mean.” 

“He can take it,” Brett shot back. “If he’s my double, he can surely take it.” 

Jack stared between the couple before saying, “Well, now that the universe hasn’t entirely imploded on itself, I should probably head back to my tent before my brain actually takes on any more damage than it already has.” 

He had just started to turn slowly, wanting to get back to the SWAT tent asap, when not-you’s voice called out easily. “Take care, Abbot! Hopefully the other me won’t be too surprised to hear about this.” 

“She’ll be utterly delighted,” he called back, shaking his head with a wide smile plastered on his face. 

_______________________

By the time Jack had gotten to the hostage situation, it had already been dragged out to the point he knew it would consume the rest of his afternoon in a way it always seemed to. One minute he was finishing paperwork, and the next he was standing behind a patrol vehicle and waiting for the green light to head in. This particular situation was apparently lengthy because the man in question had fled from out of state. Jack wasn’t too sure which one, but mentions of the west coast had him questioning how dangerous the man inside the building was if he’d fled halfway across the nation. 

The entire scene buzzed with controlled tension. Patrol officers maintained the perimeter while detectives moved in and out of the command post. Ambulances waited several blocks way in anticipation of the worst-case scenario: a mass killing. Nearby, Jack’s eyes caught the flashes of cameras as reporters hovered at the edges of police tape like vultures circling a dying animal, hoping someone would accidentally tell them something useful. 

Jack hated hostage situations simply because they were slow. Hours just ticked by while they waited around for somebody else to make a mistake. It was hard for him to stay still, a big reason why his career choice after the army had been an attending position in an emergency department; there was hardly ever time for boredom. Which is why when he let his attention drift toward the command post after standing still for less than a second, he spotted your familiar figure near one of the folding tables. 

Every coherent thought he’d ever had left his brain. 

He harshly blinked once like the action would rid his sight of the hallucination. But when he opened them back up, you were still there, standing inside the command center, wearing a vest that clearly had Detective written across the front. 

You were standing with one hand resting against your hip while studying something spread across the table. Your hair was pulled back, a radio hung from your shoulder, and a badge sat clipped to the waistline of your pants. 

Jack stared long enough for his assistant medic to notice. 

“Abbot? Are you okay?”

“No,” he managed to get out. 

“Oh.” 

“My girlfriend is apparently a detective.” 

The medic looked at him, then over to the command post, then back at him. “Isn’t your girlfriend a doctor?” 

“That’s what I thought until approximately two seconds ago.” 

Jack continued to stare. There had to be a perfectly normal and reasonable explanation for why you were working during an active hostage situation. Maybe the Pitt had sent you over to help identify a victim, maybe someone inside was related to a patient, or maybe Robby had finally snapped and decided trauma medicine wasn’t stressful enough for you. 

Jack’s stomach dropped when you looked up, because the big problem here was that you absolutely should not have been standing in the middle of an active police station and not that your features didn’t quite match the ones in his memories.

But before common sense could stop him, Jack started walking. One of the negotiators called out after him but was ignored. He was about halfway over to you when you narrowed your eyes at his approaching figure. 

The expression should have warned him, but all it did was convince him that you’d been hiding a double life because you gave him that exact look every time he tracked mud into your apartment no matter how many times you reminded him to take his shoes off. 

“Sweetheart,” he called. “What are you doing?”  

You continued to stare, and Jack just kept going. 

“Actually, before you answer that, why are you dressed like a detective?” 

Silence followed. 

“Did someone recruit you?” 

He watched you slowly lower the file you were holding; again, Jack pressed onward because apparently humiliation was included in his list of recreational hobbies just under getting shot at. 

“You know what?” he asked, eyebrows all furrowed. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know. Every time I think I’ve figured you out, you do something that completely rewrites my understanding of reality.” 

Your eyebrows climbed high than he’d ever seen, but even that wasn’t enough to get him to stop talking. 

“Sir—” 

“Because, honestly? I was prepared for a lot of things when we started dating. Long shifts? Fine. You move into trauma surgery and leave me downstairs? Fine. The occasional thirty-six-hour workday where you survive entirely on caffeine and spite? Fine.” 

Several detectives had stopped what they were doing; Jack failed to notice. 

“What I wasn’t prepared for was finding out that you’ve secretly joined the police department in your spare time.” 

“Sir—” 

“And if that’s what happened, I have just a few questions. Most of them are about paperwork—” 

“Do you smell burnt toast?” you suddenly asked, halting the next words out of Jack’s mouth that suddenly tugged into a frown. 

“What?” 

“Any numbness in your left arm?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Blurred vision? Because right now, you’re either having medical emergency, or you’ve mistaken me for somebody else.” 

Jack stopped talking, which was a miracle in itself, and it gave him a small moment to actually look at you without the lens of confusion or concern. In one blink, he instantly wanted the earth to swallow him whole. 

“Oh.” 

You—or suddenly and visibly not you—tilted her head. “Yeah.” 

“It’s happening again.” 

“What’s happening again?” 

Jack dragged both hands down his face, and for several seconds, he wondered how long fleeing the country would take. Unfortunately, that would mean never seeing the real you ever again, so he had to face this version of you like a man. 

“I am so sorry.” 

A very apologetic man. 

The woman laughed, and to his absolute horror, it sounded enough like your laugh that Jack’s head started spinning. 

“It’s fine,” she stated after her laughter slowed. “I’ve had worse introductions.” 

He peered at her. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” A sigh flooded his lips. “You have my girlfriend’s face, but she is definitely not a detective.” 

“Understandable. Home for me is a long way from here, guessing she lives in the area.” 

Jack nodded. “Works here too as a doctor. Which, speaking of, I’m Jack Abbot, volunteer SWAT medic.” 

She shook his head. “Detective Bryant. LAPD.”

Detective. Of course this version of you had a job that matched the hardened look on your face. While his version of you still held a small bit of softness around your cheeks, this woman looked like she’d seen brutal death after brutal death. He felt his heart clench. Pittsburgh was kind to you in a way Los Angeles was mean to her. 

His hazel eyes went wide. “Shit, that’s how far the suspects from? Long way for everyone.” 

Her hands gripped at her vest, knuckles going white. “Yep. We’ve been tracking him and his gang since last month. His group sadly killed my husband’s partner before he fled.” 

So the second not-you also had a husband . . . 

“Oh,” Jack breathed. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Thank you,” she responded, peering up at him. “He was a good guy, that’s why we’re all hoping this goes smoothly.” 

Jack glanced over his shoulder. “You and me both. I’d rather not have to wheel one of them out of here on a gurney again.” 

“Again?” Her eyes (that looked exactly like yours) widened. “I hope then my husband’s squad gets through just fine then.” 

“Aw, hell,” a deeper voice grumbled over your look-a-like’s shoulder. “This day just got a whole lot stranger.” 

“Speaking of my husband,” she muttered before glancing toward the new comer. “Sammy, this is—” 

“Jack Abbot as I live and breathe,” Sammy drawled out, hand already reaching out. 

Another part of Jack’s brain stilled, because where Brett Richards could have been in twin, this man looked like a twenty-year-younger Jack. He barely remembers himself at that age, but the similarities were uncanny. This . . . Sammy was the Jack that was in his wedding picture, standing next to his first wife, that you insisted he kept on the mantle of his house. 

Jack was quick to grasp his hand tightly. “Guessing you remember from . . .” he trailed, letting the man who looked very much like him fill in the gaps. 

“Yeah, I remember. Kinda hard not to when a woman starts talking to you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. But now that I’m looking at you, it all kinda makes sense.” 

“At least it is for one of us. I think my head’s still spinning,” he tried to joke. “At least nothing’s exploded.” 

“Yet,” not-you teased. “At least not yet.” 

Sammy smiled brightly. “We’re hoping nothing blows up. That would make all of our jobs a lot harder.” 

“And would add more paperwork,” Jack added. “I should get back to the squad just in case someone decides to be a hero.” 

Sammy nodded. “As long as it’s not you or me. We both have someone to get back home to.” He wrapped an arm around not-you’s shoulders. “Don’t think your doctor would like it very much if she had to patch you up.” 

Jack chuckled in response. “Absolutely not. She’d probably give me a worse wound if I showed up injured.” 

“I don’t know her, but damn right she would,” Sammy’s version of you agreed. “It was, uh, nice meeting you, Jack. Hope you don’t run into another me again.” 

“Knowing how the universe works, I’m sure there’s a few more coming.” Jack took a step before pausing to look back at the couple. “By the way, this was somehow much better than meeting the firefighter.” 

Sammy frowned. “You met him too?” 

“Let’s just say his ego was big enough to feed a small army.” 

“Firefighters,” Sammy mumbled. “It’s always the firefighters.” 

“Amen, brother.” 

Jack kept his hands in his pockets as he walked back over to his SWAT group, ready for this day to be over and with a silent prayer that he wouldn’t run into any more versions of you in the days to come. 

Oh, how wrong his prayers were, because the universe did as it pleased.  

_______________________

By the time Jack made it to the grocery store after a grueling twelve-hour shift, life seemed to be working against him. 

His prosthesis was hurting more than normal, his back ached, and on top of it all, the weekend he was planning to spend with you had to be rescheduled because, of course, the day shift was short this weekend, so Robby had to ask you to come in. So, Jack was there, at the grocery, debating whether generic noodles would finally be the thing that ended his relationship. 

It wasn’t as serious as he was making it, but you had once claimed that you could taste the difference between seven brands of spaghetti. While Jack remained convinced you were lying, he was also fairly certain that no one on earth possessed that level of culinary sophistication. You were a trauma resident who recently joined a surgery fellowship. Half your meals came from vending machines, cafeteria food, and whatever happened to be left in the physician’s lounge whenever you finally remembered that eating was actually really important to the human body. And the fact that you somehow had strong opinions about pasta seemed suspicious.

Still, he’d learned very early on in your relationship that questioning those opinions usually resulted in lengthy lectures. 

So, he stood in front of a wall of nearly identical boxes with his shopping basket hanging from one hand and his phone in the other, squinting at the list you’d sent him three hours ago when you should have been asleep before your shift. 

The list itself looked normal. 

Milk, eggs, bread, coffee pods, pasta*.

What made it significantly less helpful were the additional notes you’d attached. 

*not pasta; the good pasta. 

Whatever the hell “the good pasta” meant. He rubbed a tired hand over his face, letting it rest against his chin, fingers scratching at the few days’ worth of stubble that you complained about before he left for his shift. 

“You are a menace,” he muttered to himself, making the elderly woman beside him look deeply concerned, to which he pretended he hadn’t spoken at all. 

His attention dropped back to his phone as he reread the text conversation for what was probably the fifth time. 

What makes pasta good? 

That means the good one, Jack. 

I’m sorry, sweetheart, but that’s not an answer. 

You’ll know it when you see it! 

I probably won’t. 

I believe in you! <3 

He smiled as he scrolled through the messages, but that meant he wasn’t paying attention when he rounded the corner into the aisle. However, just as he happened to glance up to see where he was going, he spotted you at the end. 

Immediately, every other thought vanished. 

His eyes trailed from your face and down toward your shopping cart, or at least, what he assumed was your shopping cart. The thing was loaded with groceries that were definitely not on the list: fresh vegetables, fruit, actual ingredients, enough food to sustain a small village. He frowned deeply at the sight. 

It wasn’t like you hated grocery shopping; between your added hours with the surgery fellowship, you simply never had the time. Most weeks, Jack barely convinced you to buy enough food to just survive. And the sight of you voluntarily pushing a cart filled with produce was concerning enough that he started walking over before he could think too hard about it. 

“You know,” he called out, “I think this is the most vegetables I’ve ever seen you buy at one time.” 

At the sound of his voice, you looked up, and Jack smiled. 

“You finally decide to start listening to me?” 

You stayed quiet. 

“I’m serious. Last week I found three energy drinks and a packet of crackers in your apartment, and you claimed that was enough to last you the weekend.” He stopped beside your cart and pointed. “Actually, no. Hold on; are those Brussels sprouts?” 

Your eyes widened as you followed his finger down to the green vegetables. 

“Sweetheart,” he pouted. “If Santos is forcing you to buy those, you can tell me. I’ll tell her to lay off.” 

When you only blinked slowly, Jack missed the warning sign completely. 

“But come on, you spent three days arguing with me about vegetables,” he continued. “Three. Entire. Days. And now you’re buying enough produce to open a farmer’s market.” 

Silence stretched between you and him until you said, “I’m sorry.” 

Jack nodded. “You should be.” 

“No. I mean I’m sorry, but I have absolutely no idea who you are.” 

The words hit him like a freight train, and for a second, he simply stared until he felt his soul leave his body. 

Universe three; Jack Abbot zero. 

In this moment, he would’ve preferred if the earth opened up and swallowed him whole. Of course his luck wouldn’t have let him just continue on with his life after finding your double twice. He wondered if he were becoming you: a doppelganger magnet, or if he were just lucky—unlucky in his opinion—to make the same mistake three times in a row. 

However, seeing another version of you meant that at least she chose another version of him. He at least let himself look closely at this one. Under the grocery store lights, her skin held a tan that he’d barely seen around the bi-polar weathered Pittsburgh. He wondered if she was from somewhere sunny. But unlike the firefighter’s wife or the detective, her eyes held a brightness that rivaled his version of you’s eyes. Jack had to guess that she might be pared with a smiley version of himself. 

And if this interaction went anything like the others, he’d meet him soon enough. 

Jack must have been staring for a while, because in the next moment, she snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Do you have a problem, sir?” 

He shook his head instantly. “Sorry, this is just . . .” he trailed. “This is the third time this has happened?” 

Third-you looked utterly confused. “What’s the third time?” 

“The third time I’ve mistaken a stranger for my girlfriend.” 

That seemed to stun her. “The third time?” 

“Shockingly, yes.” 

Her head tilted. “That’s either incredibly romantic or deeply concerning, if you ask me.” 

“I’m leaning more toward mentally unstable,” he joked, thankfully making her let out a soft giggle. 

The sound had comfort blooming in his chest. If there was one thing that stayed the same, it was your laugh. 

“You probably have the correct answer,” she agreed. 

A soft inhale whistled through his nose as he offered out his hand. “Jack Abbot.” 

She hummed when she shook his, letting the hum of the overhead light fill the silence between them. The entire time, he felt her eyes on him, almost looking like she was trying to look into his soul and find the darkness in it. That was another difference that he noticed between you and her. 

You always seemed to treat people with an undying kindness, never once looking for the bad in them. Your personality is exactly what made you an amazing doctor in Jack’s eyes. Where he was all judging and sullen and closed in, you were warm and bright and open to whoever walked through the door of the Pitt. 

This version of you was more like Jack than he’d like to admit, even if she exuded a warmness in her eyes. She seemed trusting enough, but he could tell it was only reserved for the people closest to her. 

He shifted his weight, the pain of his prosthesis surging through his spine. “Sorry again that I thought you were my vegetable-hating girlfriend.” 

“It’s fine,” she stated. “I’m glad to know that your version of me is being taken care of.” 

Jack looked around. “Now, it probably won’t happen, but right about now, the version of me somehow pops up as well.” He glanced back at the woman in front of him. “Do you happen to have one?” 

At the mention of his double’s possibility, this version of you’s face softened. “Yeah. My fiancé I’m guessing.” 

He watched her twiddle with the ring on her finger, and for the first time since meeting the first one of your doubles, Jack’s chest twisted with an aching want. Before he could ask another question, a voice sounded from the other end of the aisle. 

“Babe?” 

Jack followed the sound of the voice and froze, while not-you looked over her shoulder and waved. 

“Over here!’ 

And like clockwork, another version of him was walking towards him. This one, like Sammy, was younger with auburn curls Jack hadn’t seen in almost a decade yet also didn’t carry the easiness that the officer had. This version of Jack reminded him of the time right after he lost his wife: all hard around the edges and looking like life had chewed him up, spat him out, and danced on his corpse. He also donned the same tired expression that suggested that life also routinely tested his patience. 

Even worse, he looked just as startled. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, but this time, Jack wasn’t going to be the first to say anything. 

Finally, the man spoke. “Did she ever find better coffee?” 

Jack, against every screaming muscle, lifted the backet. “She’s started making it at home.” 

He nodded once. “Good.” 

This version of his’s you looked up with wide eyes. “Andrew?” 

The now-named Andrew looked down and completely softened. “Remember that doctor I told you about? The one that sat with me when Craig got hurt?” 

A realization flashed across her face. “Oh.” She glanced back at Jack. “That actually makes a lot of sense now.” 

Jack continued to stare just like Andrew was staring back at him, almost calculating like he could see Jack’s next move. But apparently, Jack new how to surprise both of them. 

“Now that introductions are over, do either of you know what good pasta looks like?” 

Andrew blinked once before reaching for a box overhead, and Jack couldn’t help but notice the scars and split knuckles on the man’s hands when he took the box from him. 

“You sure?” he asked with a smile. 

He got another nod. 

“The box just looks right.” 

And when Jack was leaving the store, Andrew-Cody-and-almost-Mrs.-Cody-approved pasta in bag, he couldn’t help but notice that yes, the box did look correctly like the good pasta. And for once, Jack thanked the universe. 

_______________________

Jack’s champagne had gone lukewarm around the time the fifth filthy-rich billionaire talked to him like he wasn’t a doctor himself. 

Now, he wasn’t above a little ass kissing to bring in large donations; the Pitt, like any hospital, ran much smoother when a large donation came in every so often. But while this older man talked and talked about the importance of strong-head doctors, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander. This year, the banquet location had been done up to the nines, and Jack wondered who had much the big donation to make sure this looked like a presidential ball rather than a bi-monthly gala that he’d been to way too many times to keep track of them all. 

The large open space was filled to the brim, and Jack knew it was probably in violation of a few OSHA codes, but that wasn’t his department of health and safety. So, he just let this close-to-dying man continue on with his speech as a favor to Robby, who had somehow mastered the ability to make Jack’s attendance request sound more like an obligation. 

If anything, Jack would’ve rather happily spend his evening literally anywhere else, preferably next to you. And a quick glance down at his watch told him that the evening was far from over. He fought to swallow down a groan, until he spotted you across the way, taking small sips from your own glass. 

He let his eyes roam the dark dress that hugged your body and the way your hair was pinned back from your face. The outfit was very far from your regular scrubs, but honestly, Jack would still look at you the same even if you were wearing a potato sack. 

For a moment, a wave of gratitude washed over him, because obviously, Robby must’ve invited you too. Jack should have expected it. His friend had spent months insisting that Jack needed to participate more in events that didn’t involve gunfire. You being here must have been some type of Pavlovian incentive. 

The realization that you were there improved his mood so dramatically that he immediately abandoned the conversation he had been trapped in and started making his way across the banquet hall. 

“Sweetheart,” he said as he approached. “I know you’d probably be back home, but man am I glad Robby invited you too.” 

You looked over at him with a smirk. “I was wondering when you’d come over.”

At this moment, Jack should have taken a second to pause, to remember the past three times that this had happened. Because, really, he should have noticed that the woman standing in front of him, although looking a lot like you with similar eyes and facial structure, looked exactly like she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth while her hands suggested she knew her way around beating someone to death. But alas, Jack Abbot’s greatest strength and failure at the same time was loving his woman to the point that, once he saw her face, he couldn’t shut up. 

His brows pinched. “You’ve been here this entire time? I’m sorry, sweetheart, I would have tried to find you earlier when I got here.” He looked around as he spoke. “Robby didn’t even tell me you were coming, that little fucker.” A sigh heaved from his chest. “I hope you’ve had a better night than standing and listening to rich bitches act like they normally do.” 

You, for some odd reason, looked downright pleased at his distraught, taking a sip from your glass with a sly smile. “Hmmm, tell me sir, what exactly do rich bitches do?” 

Again, the answer should have set him off, but the few glasses of champagne plus the pregame drink he had beforehand really diluted his inhibition. 

“Wave their money around like they own the world,” he muttered. 

“I mean, some of us do.” 

Some . . . of . . . us . . . do . . . 

It was almost as if a giant lightbulb went off behind Jack’s eyes. “Oh fuck.” 

And suddenly, the features that had seemed just like yours melted away. However, where Mrs. Richards had been nice, and Detective Bryant had been just, and future-Mrs.-Cody had been warm, this version of you looked downright evil with her stilettoes that looked like they could kill a man with a single stomp. An idea like that finally had Jack pausing, another lightbulb going off. 

“Please tell me that you don’t sacrifice people to Satan too, because if so, I will need to admit myself into a psychiatric hold.” 

She took another sip from her glass. “And what if I do? Seems like you already know me.”

“You somehow look a lot like my girlfriend, but last I checked, she saves lives, not sacrifices them.” 

She laughed, but this time, it did not sound like yours. Each time her laugh came out, it sounded like a million dollars were spent each time. “Doctor, do you spend all your charity galas trying to find women who look like your girlfriend?” 

“I spend my charity galas trying to find a way to leave.” 

“You don’t enjoy them?” 

“I don’t enjoy listening to . . .” he paused, brain scrambling for another word. 

“Rich bitches?” the woman provided. “Go ahead; I don’t mind.” 

Jack winced. “Billionaires who hold money over our heads.” 

Her eyes glanced around the room before stopping on the man Jack had just been talking to. “You think anyone would miss him if he disappeared.” 

He followed her gaze. “You know that entire sentence just solidified the idea that you do actually sacrifice people.” 

“You didn’t answer my question, doctor.” 

“I’m beginning to think you’re toying with me.” 

A fire lit behind her expression. “You’re catching on. I do enjoy playing with my food, you’re right.” 

“Now I really want to find a way out. Maybe the fire escape and jumping off the roof might be my best bet,” Jack said in hopes to get the conversation away from ritualistic human sacrifice. 

“Good. I’d get my body easier by the end of the night.” 

A literal chill ran up his spine while this version of you stood like what she’d just said was meaningless conversation. While Jack might have been a bit unsettled by the other ones, he had never been as nervous as he was right now. When he failed to say anything else, the woman waved a hand around her face. 

“Relax, doctor. I’m mostly joking.” 

Still, that did nothing to ease the feeling building inside his chest. 

“Mostly is still in that sentence,” he muttered, hand reaching to pick up another flute. “I’m not sure that did much to make me relax.” 

“We are strangers after all.” She turned to face him completely but did not hold out a hand when she introduced herself. 

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Like . . . those Danforths?”

Her grin widened. “Again, you sound like you already know me.” 

“It’s hard to not when you look like someone I love but have the last name of the richest family in the world. This is definitely right out of a fanfiction or something.” 

“Or something. You still have yet to hand over your name, doctor,” she teased, but it landed weirdly in Jack’s chest. 

“Promise to not use it in your next ritual?” 

“On Satan’s head.” 

“Darling, are you scaring the poor doctors again?” someone said behind Jack, thankfully ending that conversation. 

For a moment, Jack let himself relax, finally out of the claws of the woman’s manicured hand. However, when the person rounded Jack to stick himself to the woman’s side, he blanched, because yet again, the man across from him looked like a version of himself. Well, a version of Jack who apparently wasn’t a doctor, sneezed into million-dollar tissues, and hunted people down as a hobby instead of volunteering for SWAT. 

The man’s eyes (the same hue as Jack’s) lit with glee. “So, the little dove really wasn’t lying when she said we shared a face.” 

His nickname for you burned a jealously Jack didn’t know he had, and now this couple was looking at him like a piece of meat to prey upon. Not knowing what else to do, Jack set down the now-empty flute on the bar. Danforth-you looked up at—yes, you had a very large ring on—her husband with fluttering eyes. 

“I wasn’t scaring him,” she whined. “Just making sure that we picked a good one. The last one wasn’t fun at all.” 

Again, that sounded way too sacrificial for Jack to relax or feel comfortable in the couple’s presense. 

“Brother, there you are!” Robby shouted like divine intervention. Hands landed down on his shoulders with a squeeze. “Gloria’s going to have my head if we’re not in the conference room for the next showing.” 

Jack tried (and failed) to give the Danforths a smile. “It was . . . lovely speaking to you two, but duty calls, right?” 

Before he could turn to leave, not-you reached into her clutch and pulled out a piece of paper. “For your hospital, doctor. Some of us rich bitches actually do care about your cause.” 

Jack was hesitant to take it but eventually did. His eyes widened like a cartoon when he saw the number of zeros. “I think this is a mistake?” 

“I don’t make mistakes, Dr. Abbot” she replied, closing up her clutch. “Titus, darling, I think we’re also needed somewhere else.” 

“Ah, yes, it is that time, isn’t it.” He smirked over at Jack. “Nice meeting this version of me. Say hello to your dove for me.” 

Words escaped Jack as the pair turned and left, leaving just him and Robby, who looked close to fainting, alone at the bar. 

“That’s it. No more galas for both of you,” Robby announced while steering Jack into the direction of the conference room. “Even if we get millions for the hospital, I am not losing you both to your Satan-worshipping twins.” 

Jack let out a large sigh. “Sounds like a good plan, brother.” 

_______________________

Jack was done. 

D-O-N-E; done. 

After the last version of you had been one look away from draining his blood dry while he lied across a black table, he believed that everything was out to get him. The first version of you had been okay; she was nice. The second crept into unsettling territory, but by the third and fourth, Jack was tired of second guessing himself every time he saw your eyes looking back at him. 

However, that didn’t mean he entirely walked right past the restaurant when he noticed you sitting by yourself at a table in the middle. No, he outright paused by the large window, chest curling at the thought of you eating alone. He glanced up at the restaurant’s sign, and a small glimmer of recognition bloomed. 

North & Vine had made quite the stir a few months ago when news articles poured in with reports that the beloved restaurant might lose its Michelin star. But since then, Jack was pleased to see that it had been able to keep the one and also win another. 

The area about North & Vine was beautiful at the edge of downtown, tucked between two older brick buildings and lit with the kind of warm amber lighting that convinced people they could afford appetizers even if they couldn’t. Getting a reservation was also unheard of if you hadn’t placed your name on the list by almost three months in advance. 

Which, that was another reason as to why Jack was so confused when he stood there watching you. To his knowledge, you’d never spoken about wanting to go. If you had, Jack would have made it possible. But there you were, sitting alone, looking contempt as hell with a plain glass of water in front of you. 

The other reason was because you had just texted him a few hours earlier with a selfie in front of the nurses’ station with the words: currently fighting for my life. 

It was beyond him how you’d apparently gone from that to peacefully waiting for a dinner. And apparently that mean that the situation alone deserved an investigation. So naturally, Jack walked inside and was immediately hit with the best smelling food he’d ever smelled before. 

But he wasn’t there to stop and smell the mashed potatoes; he was a man on a mission. He walked up to the hostess podium with a smile and pointed toward your table. 

“I know here.” 

The hostess smiled and moved to let him pass. 

Now, after four other encounters, Jack should have known better that the “you” sitting at the table probably wasn’t really you. But he didn’t. No lessons had been enough to stick in his head, because if there was one thing Jack Abbot learned about loving you, it was that he’d recognize you anywhere. 

Unfortunately, the universe kept proving that statement technically incorrectly every time. 

As he approached the table, nothing felt off at all. At least the other times, the other versions of you had looked different. The firefighter volunteer shirt, the detective vest, the beach-going outfit, the dress that looked like it costed more than his life was worth: they all were things Jack knew you wouldn’t wear. 

So seeing you in comfortable clothing, any of his regular alarm bells had gone silent. Because of this, he had no issues sliding into the empty seat across from you with a confused smile. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” he asked. 

You looked up at him, almost taken back by his presence. “Not that I know of?” 

His eye brows pinched. “You texted me a few hours ago that you were fighting for your life at work.” 

“I don’t think so,” you replied, pulling out your phone from the small purse by your side. Your lip twisted before you looked back up at him. “And really, I couldn’t because I don’t have your number and—” 

“You don’t have my number?” Jack pushed out. “How is that possible—” 

“And really, it’s because I don’t know who you are.” 

Jack froze in his spot across from the now fifth version of you. Under the warm glow, it was downright uncanny how she looked exactly like you. If Brett was his spitting image, this woman was yours. Everything down to your phone color was the same. However, now that he was taking the time to look, once again, he found a nice-looking ring on her left finger. His face dropped in humiliation. 

“I am so sorry,” he muttered, hands coming up to cover his face. 

He missed the way she softly smiled at him. “It’s okay, really. You seemed innocent enough.” 

“I’m five seconds away from going back to the kitchen to drown myself in mop water.” 

She giggled. “I’m sure that this interaction isn’t bad enough to warrant that reaction.” 

“If you only knew how many times I’ve mistaken a stranger for my girlfriend then you’d understand that, yes, I’m having a believable reaction.”  Jack dropped his hands back down to the table and leaned back in the chair. “Jack Abbot, and now I’m seeing that you are not my girlfriend.” 

“Nice to meet you, Jack,” she stated, resting her chin against her hand. “Have you tried getting a bit more sleep?” 

He sighed. “My job sadly doesn’t allow for extra nap times, I’m afraid.”

That seemed to pique her interest. “Oh? What do you do?” 

“I’m the night shift attending at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.”

“That makes sense,” she said before picking up her water for a sip. “You look like the type to have that kind of job.” 

Jack pursed his lips. “Should I be offended by that?” 

“Not at all.” She paused. “I just mean that you look like the type of man to care for others more than you care for yourself. It’s admirable.” 

Her words hit him right in the gut, because you had said something similar to that during his and yours first argument after a SWAT raid had gone wrong, leaving him with a little more than a graze that time. His saliva suddenly felt thicker in his mouth as he swallowed it down. He guessed that this you was more similar to his you than he first thought. 

“That’s . . .” he trailed, not knowing if he wanted to say what he was thinking. “You sound just like her.” 

“Smart woman.” 

She was also right with that as well. 

For the first time since meeting your parallels, Jack felt comfortable enough to enjoy just sitting there to the point he wanted to see if there were any more similarities between the two of you. However, he was stopped short when a waitress stopped right at the table. 

“Mrs. Reilly? Chef wanted to talk to you.” 

“Thank you for letting me know,” she responded, already collecting her things before smiling back down at Jack. “Have a lovely evening. And if you ever want to bring your version of me here, I’ll make sure you get a table.” 

“Thank you,” Jack managed to spit out right as she turned to walk toward the back kitchen door. 

He had half a mind to leave, but he felt glued to his seat when the door swung open, revealing yet another mirror image of himself. He watched as the Mrs.-Reilly version looked at the man with love in her eyes while she spoke to him with a smile. The two glanced his way, his counterpart’s eyebrows also rising as he lifted a hand in a weird and awkward way. 

Jack smirked and waved back, rising to his feet to leave. He could have stayed, but seeing the two together just showed him how much he actually missed you. And if the universe decided to be kind to him, he hoped that he’d never have to miss you again if the ring in a shoebox back at his place had anything to say about it. 

_______________________

The universe, apparently, had decided it wasn’t quite finished tormenting him. 

By this point, he’d stopped trying to understand its ways. Five women with identical faces to yours should have been enough ground for him to quit life and move to New Zealand under a different name and become a sheep farmer. He didn’t know how much more humiliation his body could handle. At least now he though he knew what to look for: eyes that didn’t hold a special warmth for him, smiles that didn’t quite tilt correctly, faces that weren’t structure enough to form the face that belonged to the woman he loved. 

Every single encounter had taught him that much. Which was why he barely looked up when he entered the Pitt’s lobby and spotted you standing near the elevators. Finally, he had learned all the rules; he wasn’t going to say anything to you, humiliation be damned. 

Jack Abbot was going to win this war. 

The lobby bustled around him with usual chaos; he had nearly tripped over a patient in the hall and almost ran into Perlah as she crossed the floor to Trauma Room one. Somewhere, he heard pager buzz, and the ambulance light made him wince. 

Really, Jack wasn’t even supposed to be there, but you had just happened to leave your lunch in his truck . . . again. You could have gone without it, but apparently it consisted of an approximately fourteen-dollar takeout meal that you’d been excited about all morning. The number of times he’d rescued your forgotten meals was beginning to feel less like a favor for his girlfriend and more like a second job (that he really didn’t mind doing). 

When he stopped by the elevators, you finally glanced up. From the corner of his eye, Jack took in the similarities: your hair color, shoe brand, and surprisingly, a hospital ID. This one was close—very close. But not quite enough for him to say something. The others had ruined him. A few weeks ago, Jack would’ve walked right over. Now? Now he barely gave this sixth version of you a second glance. 

“Nope,” he muttered. “Not falling for it this time.” 

His voice had been just loud enough that your ears picked up on it. You turned and looked at him with a pinched face and deep frown. 

“Jack, what are you talking about?” 

“Nothing.” He pressed the elevator button, willing the machine to open quickly. “Absolutely nothing.” 

“Jack,” you stated, so very confused as to why he was acting like this.

He ignored you. This was exactly how the nonsense started. Familiar face, familiar voice, and the next moment he was somehow discussing ritual sacrifice with a stranger. But not today; today, he was smarter; today, he was prepared. 

“Nice try, but I’ve learned my lesson,” he said, eyes still glued to the elevator doors in front of him. “You look close enough that last week this might have worked.” 

You stared at him. “Are you having a stroke?” 

“See?” He finally pointed over at you. “That’s exactly the kind of thing she’d say.” 

If he took a moment to look over, he’d see the horrified look on your face. 

He sighed loudly. “Look. I’ve done this enough to know better—hey!”

You had grabbed his wrist and yanked him along. “Come here.” 

Jack stumbled forward. “What—” 

The direction you were pulling him was right into an open room. He didn’t even have a moment to react before you pushed him down right onto the bed. Your fingers held his face, and he winced when your pen light flashed in his eyes. 

“When was the last time you slept?” you questioned. “You’re not having a stroke because your face is perfectly fine. Is this dehydration? Concussion? Did you hit your head?” 

All while you were spitting out question after question, Jack stared ahead at you to the point that he finally guessed the universe was on his side, because after five different versions of you, this had to be his.

Mrs. Richards looked nice. 

Mrs. Bryant looked confused. 

Soon-to-be Mrs. Cody looked guarded. 

Mrs. Danforth looked bloodthirsty. 

Mrs. Reilly look endeared. 

But you? 

You looked at him with such concern that he could practically feel your love from him spilling out from your body. Suddenly, the ring in his pocket felt very heavy. 

“Sweetheart—” 

You ignored him. “Maybe this is a rare case of amnesia. Jack, what’s my name—” 

He grabbed your hands and held them. “Sweetheart, I’m fine. Actually, right now, I’m better than fine, unless you’re about to tell me that you don’t know who I am before another one of my doppelgangers reveals himself as either your husband or fiancé.” He faux shivered. “I cannot do that again.” 

You blinked slowly. “You met them?” 

“Sadly.” 

“You interacted with them.” 

“Extra sadly.” 

“How is the universe still standing?” 

He chuckled loudly. “Maybe because every version of me has a special version of you. We keep the world balanced, sweetheart.” 

An oomph left his chest when you all but threw yourself into his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around you, keeping you against him. A helpless laugh escaped from your throat at the idea of Jack running into different versions of you. 

“Were you contemplating running into traffic after each one?” you asked. 

“Every single fucking time,” he replied with a groan. “Any small body of water also looked enticing for a drowning.” 

“I know right.” You finally pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “But at least you’re still here.” 

Jack closed his eyes when your hands rested against his cheeks. One of his hands rose and rested on top of yours. Even through all the drama, through all the embarrassment, he still had you, the one who truly cared for him through everything, even if you thought he was having a stroke. His other hand reached down for his pocket. 

“This wasn’t how I wanted to do this,” he said softly, “but after running into versions of you that weren’t mind, I realized that I’ve waited too long to do this.” 

He heard you softly gasp when he raised the ring. 

“I know six months isn’t that long, but damn it, sweetheart, I don’t know if I can wait any longer. You are the best thing that’s happened to me in forever. I really didn’t know if  I’d been capable of loving someone like I love you after losing my wife. But seeing that you still belonged to someone that looked like me in every version of you’s life, I wanted to have that, to have you.” 

Tears started falling down your cheeks as he spoke, hazel eyes never wavering from yours. 

“Will you please do me the honor of being my wife. Not a firefighter’s, not a cop’s, not a man who looks like he holds the baggage of the world’s, not a Satan-worshipping billionaire’s, and definitely not a chef’s wife, but the wife of a grumpy, old night shift attending who likes to get shot at on the weekends.”  

You were silent, but your head was nodding. 

Finally, your voice rang out with “Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times, yes.”

With shaking hands, Jack slipped the ring onto your finger before bringing you in for a kiss. He shivered at the feeling of the metal heating up against this skin, and his finger played with the diamond as his lips moved against yours. He wasn’t kissing you like he had six months ago, but it still held the same warmth and steadiness that his kissed always had. 

Jack pulled back after a while and rested his forehead against yours. “I’m glad you’re actually you.” 

You smiled and giggled. “And I’m glad you’re actually you, too.” 

His nose brushed yours before he pulled you into another kiss. 

Take that universe. 

🏷️ permanent tags: @dumb-fawkin-bitch @nofinnn2 @books-thingys-andstuff @nyxmoretti @glitterquadricorn @itzpixiebabe @xoxoloverb @macbaetwo @cerberus101 @thorfemmes @goddess-of-spring @staygoldsquatchling02 @obi-wansgirl @phantom-101 @fly-me-away @xblackcatx @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @aoi-warrior @keepingitundercover @sofianotvergara @shawnhatosysrightbicep @straykids1011 @vicky066 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @sepidehmoafiglazer @multiversalfandomwriter222 @bellamys-girl1 @violet1661 @damoclesdarling @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @fancyvoidtragedy

You wouldn’t say that you have favourites, per se. It’s hard to describe a casual situationship as anything but that, but you’d say that Jack Abbot treats you better than every ex boyfriend you’ve ever had.

You’d met him by chance, in the most ridiculous meet cute way. Something you’d write about, in fact.

You had been in your local bookstore, silently celebrating your first traditionally published novella. After three years of self publishing, dealing with Amazon (ew) and indie contracts, you’d scored a deal with a traditional printing house.

It had been kind of surreal, seeing your name on a book in a chain bookstore, something you’d dreamed of since your age had been in single digits. You’d been stealthily signing a couple of copies, hiding them in the stack, too lost in your own world to notice the older man when you’d taken a step back and almost tripped right over him.

Holding a copy of your book to your chest, you’d felt warmth rush to your face, embarrassment almost entirely overwhelming you when you realised he wasn’t not just some older guy, but handsome. Broad shoulders, salt and pepper curls, bright hazel eyes, and, if the black scrubs he was wearing were any indication, a doctor.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” you had said, mortified, but he had just smiled at you, a lopsided little smirk that made the creases at the corners of his eyes more prominent.

“Don’t be. Yours?” He had asked, nodding at the book and pen in your hands.

You had been surprised, nodded, half expecting him to say something derisive about chick lit and porn in written form, but he hadn’t. He’d just smiled at you again, told you he’d noticed you signing a couple of the books.

He had been curious, sweet, bordering on flirty, and when he’d picked up a copy of your book and asked you to sign it for him, you’d taken a risk and added your phone number beneath it. You’d never expected anything to come from it, but he’d sent you a text just a few hours later.

Over the next few months, you’d gotten to know Jack better. He was an emergency medicine physician, a senior attending at a level one trauma centre. He worked the night shift. He was an army veteran, a widower, an amputee.

He was your friend, first and foremost, but you were comfortable enough with each other to let that friendship blur into sex without any sort of expectations.

Jack was still grieving his late wife, and you weren't really looking for anything serious; you wanted to primarily focus on your career, on letting your creativity bloom.

It was a good, practical, happy arrangement. Jack was lonely, you were lonely, and he made far more money than a guy who was technically single could ever need, in his words.

So while a lot of your relationship was built on friendship, on keeping each other company, there was also a part of it that was decidedly built on erotica.

Sexts, heated makeouts, long afternoons or, on his days off, nights of multiple rounds of mind blowing sex. You had no idea how a man of fifty had the stamina that Jack does, but you sure as hell had no complaints.

While you weren't together, there was an exclusivity to your arrangement. You both had attachment issues, but the maturity to know it and discuss it.

Said discussion had come about when you'd been discussing the idea of not using condoms anymore; you had had permanent contraception done in your late twenties, so it wasn't like you were going to get pregnant any time soon. Or ever, for that matter, which you preferred.

"Why would I seek out anyone else's company, sweetheart? We get along just fine, don't we?" Jack had said.

Regardless, he'd provided you with a screening to put your mind at ease, even though you hadn't asked.

You'd been pretty upfront; like him, you weren't looking for a label, but you liked the relationship you had. You weren't interested in having this sort of thing with anyone else, not when Jack was so good to you.

He took you out to nice restaurants, occasionally bought you little gifts. Jewellery, books, little trinkets for your bookshelves at home.

For a not boyfriend, he was considerate, too. He'd bought your favourite skincare products and perfume to leave at his place, bought you flowers for each chapter of your next novel you finished.

When your laptop had crapped out on you, he'd replaced it as soon as he'd heard about it. 

You sometimes weren't sure if you felt right about letting him spend so much money on you, but he'd just waved his hands.

"Don't exactly have anyone else to spend it on. Besides, I like spoiling you. You deserve it, and you don't expect it. Just like I don't expect anything in return."

Sometimes you accompany him to events if he wants a plus one. You're beautiful, according to Jack, and he likes showing you off.

"My girl's a writer," he would say proudly each time he introduced you to somebody, so open and confident that nobody judged your choice of career.

Tonight is one such night; Jack tells you he has an old army friend coming down from Boston for work. A chef, he says, owns a Michelin star restaurant up that way.

They're catching up for a couple beers and rounds of pool at a bar Jack likes, and he wonders if you'd like to come along.

You don't see why not. This isn’t totally out of the ordinary; you hang out with Jack often enough, have met his best friend once or twice. Besides, you know – and like – the bar he’s talking about.

By around six thirty, you’re stepping into the bar in a pair of high-waist jeans, a deep wine red tee that shows just a peek of midriff, and a washed out black denim jacket. Cute, put together, but casual enough that you don’t feel like you’re trying too hard.

That’s another thing you like about Jack; you never feel like you have to be someone you’re not. He’d told you once – whilst he was inside you, of all times, your wrists pinned above your head in one big, gentle hand – that he didn’t care if you were wearing a casual grungy look or a pretty dress, he was always one step away from pushing you against the nearest wall. That he thought you were beautiful no matter what you wore.

It was difficult to hear things like that and not feel a little something for him, though you knew that was pretty natural, and not something to be explored. Not right now, or necessarily ever.

You spot Jack by the bar, leaning against it casually, looking far too good in a black t shirt and cargo pants, talking to someone you can’t quite see.

You’re not too sure what to expect; he hadn’t told you much about his friend, only that his name was Grant, he was ex army like Jack, they’d done a couple of deployments together, and he was from Boston.

You were expecting another guy around Jack’s age, like his friend from the trauma centre, sure. What you decidedly were not expecting, was for him to so closely resemble Jack.

Grant stands a little taller, has a bit more ease to his posture, which after spending so much time with Jack, you recognise as a trait the latter doesn’t have due to being an amputee.

His hair is a little longer, more of a tangled mess of salt and pepper curls than Jack, but he’s no less built, has stupidly thick biceps that are on the border of obscene peeking out of a white t shirt. White shirt, black jeans, laced up dark boots.

You’re staring and you know it, cough and blink rapidly, completely missing the almost knowing smirk that the two gorgeous older men share.

The bar is a nice temperature, the music loud enough to be heard but not overbearing, so you can still hear each other talk.

You slot into the conversation nicely, find Grant just as easy to talk to as Jack, even if he seems a little more cautious, a little more careful.

Two pints and a couple of games of pool later, and the three of you seem to be getting along just fine, all comfortable with each other, laughing and joking. You can tell they’ve known each other a long time – over twenty years, Grant tells you when Jack goes off to grab another round of drinks after they finally get you to agree to play a round, rather than just watching.

That explains their easy dynamic, you think as you step around the pool table, try to balance the cue properly in your hands.

It’s not that you don’t know how to play – you most certainly do – it’s just been a while and you’re not so confident around this incredibly handsome near stranger. After a couple of failed attempts at lining up a shot, you huff, consider just giving up.

Grant watches you for a moment, as if trying to decide something, then circles the table and tilts his head slightly, before he steps behind you, your back against his chest.

His firm hands are gentle as he adjusts yours, guiding your body into a different stance. “There you go. Now try.”

His voice is low, raspy, just like Jack, but there’s a little more hoarseness to his. You suppose that’s to do with having to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen, which must be deafening.

Close to your ear, you have to resist the shiver that threatens to run down your spine. He’s so warm and solid against your back, his arms against yours as you line up your shot with his help. You sink the right ball, look up just in time to meet Jack’s eyes as he returns from the bar; you feel your face heating again, feel almost guilty, until you notice the smirk on his face, the glint in his eyes.

For the first time this evening, you start to wonder whether he has an ulterior motive for inviting you out tonight. More importantly, you realise, you want that to be the case.

You get your wish at around nine, when the bar starts to get busier, filling up with college students, and Jack suggests heading back to his place. Not just you and him. The three of you.

The suggestion isn’t entirely surprising; he’s made a comment or two about the idea of bringing a third person into the mix once or twice. Never another woman, though. Jack gets off on getting you off, on having control of the situation, sure, but he’s not interested in making you watch him fuck another woman.

However, what he does like is the way you look when you’re overstimulated, totally fucked out and needy. He likes spoiling you, after all, and this is no different.

You end up sitting between the two older men on Jack’s couch, feeling a little nervous and giddy until Jack kisses you first, clearly the more extroverted of the pair. That or perhaps he’s simply more comfortable with you.

Regardless, when you break apart, it’s entirely clear that the other man is interested, based on the way his hazel eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you.

Somehow, you get the feeling that he won’t be the one to initiate; he seems kind of shy, at least not the same kind of introvert as Jack. That doesn’t bother you, not in the slightest. In fact, you think it’s kind of endearing. Endearing and attractive.

You lean in to kiss him, brush your lips against his at first; it’s not a case of you being nervous, more the idea of making sure that he’s okay with it too.

At first, he doesn’t move, but then perhaps two heartbeats later and he’s pulling you in closer. Two pairs of big, warm hands roam your body as you lean into him, part your lips and let him lick into your mouth.

He kisses differently to Jack, of course. Jack kisses with a sort of self assurance, a quiet confidence. Grant is a little more cautious, not quite hesitant, but with the air of taking his time to figure out what exactly you respond best to.

Idly, you hope that translates over to everything else, too.

You find yourself pressed between them both, alternating between who you kiss while the other kisses your throat, only pausing when the three of you get to your feet, stumble, all three of you almost giggly, to Jack’s bedroom.

“’s easier in here,” he’d said, nodding down at his right leg, or rather, the half of it that’s titanium. Not like you needed an explanation; you’d long since learned to adapt to the physical limitations that came with Jack’s disability.

Grant doesn’t question it either, but that isn’t surprising – they’ve known each other for so long, you suspect since before Jack lost his leg.

You expect there to be a certain amount of awkwardness, or at least to be a bit uncoordinated, considering there’s three of you. Somehow, though, it just works, and you manage to get both of them shirtless.

That in itself is an achievement, considering they work together to get you naked; you’re gently pushed backwards onto the bed while Jack sheds his pants, sits on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic, before he’s settling himself behind you, unclasping your pretty lace bra and tossing it aside.

His warm hands cup your tits as you feel his hardened cock pressing against your ass, making you inhale sharply. You love his cock. Are intimately familiar with the thick, heavy length of him, the freckles at the base, the vein along the underside that, when you drag your tongue along it, always makes him groan.

The mystery here is Grant.

The other man removes the rest of his clothing with that same sort of quiet caution, that same caution finally giving way to blatant desire when he sees the way you look him up and down, slowly.

Fuck, he’s handsome. His biceps and pectorals look like they could be carved from marble, there’s a slight softness to his belly, and like Jack, he’s covered in freckles.

“Beautiful,” you breathe before you can help yourself, and only then do you let your gaze wander further south.

With the physical similarities between the two men, you shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that his cock is pretty, too. Just as thick, slightly curved, achingly hard.

You’re about to say something else, but then he’s joining you on the bed, gives Jack a look before the latter is adjusting you so that the other man can settle comfortably on his belly between your thighs, nudging them apart and settling there.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he brushes two fingertips along the damp fabric of your panties, has the audacity to smirk as he looks up at you. “Soaked,” he all but murmurs, raspy voice soft as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.

He waits for you to lift your hips so he can pull them down slightly, then tugs them the rest of the way down with his teeth.

You whimper softly as the ruined fabric is tossed aside and he settles himself back between your spread legs, planting open mouthed kisses on your inner thighs.

That he’s a tease doesn’t remotely surprise you. What you like is the way he occasionally glances up at you as he kisses inwards, as if silently checking in with you.

Perhaps it’s because you’re so used to Jack, who knows you and your body so well by now that he touches you with a sort of ease that only really comes after months of intimacy, but this sends a thrill through you.

Speaking of Jack…

He resettles himself behind you, leans in to kiss along your bare shoulder, up your neck, his hands still cupping your tits, thumbs brushing back and forth across your nipples slowly.

“You gonna be good for us?” He breathes into your ear, just as Grant presses an open mouthed kiss to your core, making you whimper and nod.

“No, you use your words,” Jack corrects you almost immediately, settling into that comfortable, confident dominance that you adore.

Just as you open your mouth to answer, Grant chooses that exact moment to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, moaning as he drags his tongue through your slick folds. You whimper again, go to roll your hips without even thinking about it, but then just as quickly as he started, he’s pulling away from you, just a little, looking up at you with a little smirk on his face. “Jack asked you a question, honey.” His warm breath fans across your sensitive skin. In that moment, you think you might do anything, say anything, so long as it results in getting his mouth back on you.

“Y-yeah, I’ll be good.” You answer shakily, breath catching in your throat as you feel the purr of approval rumbling in Jack’s chest as he resumes kissing your throat.

Based on the way he touches you, featherlight brushes of his fingers across your nipples, smoothing his palms over your curves and back up again, he’s pleased with your answer. He keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other resting at his side.

Meanwhile, Grant resumes the slow, almost languid licks of your folds, intermittently sucking on your clit, moaning into you as you drip slick onto his tongue.

He’s so busy with work, the first to admit he has no life outside of his restaurant. No real hobbies, certainly no time for anything resembling a stable relationship. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he spent a night with someone that wasn’t just a quick hookup.

Grant’s always loved going down on his partners. Loves the way it makes them react, loves the intimacy, and there’s a part of him that just loves the taste. You’re no different, reacting beautifully as he makes out with your pussy, drinking down your slick and teasing your entrance with two fingertips.

He eats you like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, making absolutely zero effort to disguise the way he moans into you, the obscene slurping of his tongue and the filthy groan he gives you when he finally pushes his fingers inside you.

“Ohhh, god-” you gasp as he presses one last kiss to your puffy clit before he’s wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, sitting up as he slowly curls his fingers inside you. Jack shifts behind you and you realise he’s stroking his cock with his free hand.

“’s okay, baby, ‘s okay to want him, too-” Jack purrs into your ear, the hand that isn’t wrapped around his thick shaft sliding down to circle your clit in time with the warm fingers pressed knuckle deep inside your pussy.

You kind of assumed that was the case, but it’s still almost relieving to hear him confirm it out loud, so blatantly stated.

“Your pussy’s delicious, honey,” Grant murmurs, rests his head on your thigh for just a moment, looks up at you with pussy drunk eyes.

He kisses his way back up your body, pausing to pay more attention to your nipples, kissing and licking them, making you writhe against Jack, who laughs softly in the vicinity of your ear.

“Gonna tell us what you need, honey?” Grant breathes, brushing his lips against yours, massaging your g-spot before he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine pathetically as he maintains eye contact, licks his fingers clean with an obscene groan.

“Inside-” you breathe as Jack’s fingers circle your clit. “Want you both-”

The older men exchange a look, silent communication, a smirk, before Jack removes his hand too.

“Up you get, sweetheart. Turn over for us, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, turn onto your front, wait for Jack to move back a bit so he can lean against the headboard. Once he’s settled, you crawl up the bed to get closer to him, feeling the mattress dip a little as Grant moves up behind you, runs his palms over your ass as you settle on your hands and knees, giving him a beautiful view of your slick soaked folds, your soft skin.

Meanwhile, you’re very distracted by Jack’s cock. Fuck, you love his cock. It’s thick and fat and the perfect length, a smattering of freckles dusting the base.

You can’t help yourself – you lean in and press little kisses along the underside, from base to tip. Jack looks down at you, brushes his hand over your cheek as you look up at him, keep eye contact as you kiss the fat tip of his cock, already drooling precum.

Behind you, Grant holds your hips in one hand, grinds against you slowly, resting his equally gorgeous cock on your ass for a moment before he shifts again, wraps his hand around his shaft to guide the tip to your dripping entrance.

You’re so fucking wet. He doesn’t remember the last time someone wanted him so badly. In a moment of briefly selfish relief, he’s glad you’re not too preoccupied with blowing Jack just yet, so he can hear the moan you give him as he presses a couple of inches deep inside you.

He lets out an almost whimpering groan at the feeling of your warm, wet walls enveloping him, the way you angle your hips to give him better access.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, his hands on your hips to steady himself as he slowly stuffs you full of his cock. Your attention is back on Jack by now, sucking on the tip of his cock again, before you take him in deeper, flattening your tongue so you can lick him at the same time.

It’s filthy, obscene, the way you moan around him as Grant’s hips finally meet your ass, the soft, breathy groans he rewards you with, the low almost growls Jack gives you from above.

You start to bob your head, trying to silently demonstrate how much you love sucking his cock as the other man starts to move, slowly grinding against you until he’s so deep you think he might kiss your cervix. Your appreciative moan is a little muffled, but it’s enough to encourage him.

They move almost in sync, Jack gently rolling his hips up, just enough that he’s encouraging you, whilst Grant starts to give you slow, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to the stretch of him inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, breathless, “fuck, your pussy is perfect, baby-”

The praise makes you tighten around him, brief and involuntary, which draws a truly obscene groan from him, a rumbling purr that’s almost immediately echoed by Jack as you swallow around his cock.

Jack loves when you blow him, loves how sloppy and passionate you get with it, drooling all over him as you lick and suck, moaning around him as Grant picks up his pace behind you.

He steadily builds up a good rhythm, eventually giving you full, heavy thrusts, shifting to plant one foot on the mattress to give him better leverage. His hands are firm on your hips, but not bruising, guiding you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts.

“Nngh, mmmffff, fuck-”

He’s vocal, raspy voice dropping an octave lower as he grunts and groans, practically purring as he feels you getting tighter around him. The entire time as he works you up to the edge, you keep giving Jack all your attention with your mouth, wrapping one hand around the base of his shaft and stroking him, making him grunt.

“Mmmffff, shit, sweetheart, your fuckin’ mouth-” Jack groans, cups your face in one hand, brushes his thumb back and forth across your cheek.

“Doesn’t she take our cocks so well?” he asks, looks over your shoulder at Grant. Both of the gorgeous older men are a little flushed in the face, hazel eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Nnh, such a good girl-” Grant agrees, giving you a particularly deep thrust that has you mewling.

You’re getting so close, hovering right on the edge of your climax, and they know it. Jack can tell by the change in pitch of your moans, Grant can feel you getting tighter around him, the increase in your already copious slick.

“Ohhh, you’re getting close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Jack coos knowingly, “c’mon, we both wanna hear what you sound like when you cream all over his cock.”

Taking that as permission, you pull back from his cock, albeit a little reluctant; he really does taste delicious, clean and slightly salty, but there’s also a part of you that wants to focus entirely on your own impending orgasm.

Without having to focus on trying to make Jack feel good at the same time, you can give over to your utmost base instincts, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of Grant’s velvet soft cock pressing in and dragging out of your soaked pussy, moaning obscenely when one big hand leaves your hip to circle round, press his fingers to your swollen, aching clit and start to draw tight little circles around it.

That’s all you need, you think, you’re right there, but then he leans down over you, blankets his body with your own, just to be able to purr into your ear.

“There you go, honey, just let go. Let go for me, nnn; I’ve – I’ve got you...”

That’s what finally sends you crashing over the edge, your moans echoing around the bedroom as the tension in your core snaps, your thighs trembling with each wave of the intense, sudden orgasm.

He can feel a little trickle of your cum and slick soaking his cock, dripping out around him and onto the sheets, but all that serves to do is make him throb inside you, just prolonging your orgasm as he holds you against him.

You’re dimly aware of Jack’s familiar grunts; through the haze of your climax, you register him in front of you, one big, freckled hand wrapped firmly around his cock, giving his shaft a few slow, precise strokes as he watches his friend fuck you.

And god, does he.

Grant fucks you through your release, just keeps going, clearly chasing his own orgasm now.

His thrusts become more erratic with each one, grunting on every second impact.

“Mmff – mmm – nnngh -”

He makes no attempt to be quiet, and neither does Jack; their deep, masculine groans mingle with your breathy, high pitched moans as the room echoes with the lewd, wet sound of Grant’s hips colliding with your ass, Jack stroking his cock, matching the rhythm.

You know the tells of when Jack’s close; you lean forward again, wrap your lips around his cock, replace his hand with your ow, stroke him and bob your head, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around him until he’s groaning, bucking his hips up involuntarily.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it sweetheart, suck my fucking cock-”

He runs his mouth when he’s close, so filthy that it makes you shiver, determined to get him there; just as you look up at him, make eye contact, he groans, tips his head back, giving you a beautiful view of the prominent muscle and veins in his neck, before he’s spilling down your throat.

You swallow every drop, lick him clean as Grant works you up to another orgasm; it’s only when Jack’s pulled his softening cock out of your mouth, brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, that his friend pulls out of you, gently maneuvers you onto your back.

He carefully pushes one of your thighs up to your chest, lowers it to wrap around his waist as he presses back inside you, groaning appreciatively at the way your walls almost immediately begin to flutter around him.

“Ohmygod, yes, fuck me-” You beg, your moans almost immediately swallowed in a filthy, greedy kiss, your fingers flying to his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase.

Thankfully, he’s merciful, gives you what you ask for, starts to all but pound you into the bed, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into the side of your neck, giving you intimate access to the huffed, breathy, whimpering moans he makes as he chases his release, fucks you through your second orgasm.

It’s only when you’re on the way down that he finally falls over the edge too, groaning a long, drawn out moan as he fucks his spend deep into you in a series of deep, erratic thrusts.

You gasp and whimper, still taking shuddering breaths and mewling softly by the time he eventually starts to go soft inside you. He stays above you, so you wrap your limbs around him, stroke his broad, freckled back as he peppers your shoulder, neck, and face with little kisses.

After he eventually pulls out of you, he follows Jack’s directions to the en suite, brings warm washcloths and a towel to help you clean up. Jack slips his prosthetic back on, heads out to the kitchen to grab chilled water for the three of you, giving you a lovely view of his ass as he goes.

The three of you work together to strip the bed, change the sheets, thanks to you completely ruining the existing ones, before finally, you’re lying in clean sheets between the two men.

“Mm, that was unexpected,” you hum, trailing your fingertips over Jack’s chest, brushing through the soft greying curls that grow there.

“Good unexpected?” Grant asks, and you turn your head to give him a long, slow kiss, breaking it to repeat the gesture with Jack.

They may look alike, but their kisses, confidence and mannerisms are so different. You kind of love it.

“Very good,” you assert, and both men laugh, exchange knowing smirks.

“Well, man, I guess you know what this means,” Jack says, lightly trailing his fingers up your sides, over your curves.

“Mm?” Grant sounds just like you and Jack, exhausted and satisfied. He genuinely doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way.

“No being a stranger.” Jack clarifies, and you giggle as his friend tuts.

“You know I have the restaurant. And you work a ridiculous schedule, too.” Grant hums, “but, I’m pretty sure I can find time. And hell, if you ever find yourself in Boston...”

You nod eagerly, too blissed out to try and be coy. As a matter of fact, you will be in Boston relatively soon for a book tour, and Jack has promised to come with you.

“We’d love to catch up with you again, but you know, she’s a big girl, she can always come visit on her own,” Jack purrs, curls into your side, nuzzles against your shoulder.

Grant raises an eyebrow at you, a silent question. You turn to kiss Jack’s temple before you lean up to kiss the other man again, liking the plush firmness of his lips. “Mm, it’s a date,” you confirm, and you swear both men give you approving little purrs as you finally settle down to sleep.

Part 2? Let me know!

Brett Richards

Brett believed all pranks should be funny. That was the whole point of a prank: the laughs, the camera, the pointing fingers yelling Ha-ha, you fell for it. Pranks that weren't funny were just rude jokes, the ones that made you feel hollow instead of feeling joy.

Which was why when you casually mentioned that you had shaved, he at first didn't realize what you were talking about.

"That's nice, sweetheart," he casually muttered back, face too buried in his recent book to notice you looking at him oddly.

"I really thought you would react more," you replied, equal in a lower tone like you were talking more to yourself than him.

Again, Brett really had no clue what you were talking about. You shaved your legs on the regular, your armpits when you planned to wear a tank top that allowed him to oggle more than usual. Hell, you've even mentioned shaving your toes before nail appointments . . . that he payed for. Something, something not wanting them to see any toe hairs while their eyeballs were inches away from the small flower design they were painting.

He settled on a light scoff while turning the page. "Why would I react more? You shave all the time."

It wasn't until the next morning when you walked through the living room with a clear path to the backyard pool that Brett had put in specifically for you, when it all clicked in his mind. His eyes, never innocent ones, had trailed from the glittery sun-tan stuff you put on your collar bones and shoulders, down to the bikini top that left little to his imagination, then further down to the even smaller bikini bottom that perfectly cupped your . . .

The horrified noise that left his mouth had you pausing.

"What?" you yelped, scared that Brett had seen something. "What is it?"

Brett's eyes were wide as he walked toward you before he fell on his knees, hands rising to grip your hips tightly. In fear, you stepped closer and grabbed hold of his shoulders.

"Brett, what the fuck is happening?"

"You-you," he stuttered. "You shaved?"

You took a step back and looked down. "Huh?"

Brett said nothing. His finger slightly trailed up your leg, and his forehead pressed into your lower stomach, right against the waistline of your bikini bottom.

"You shaved," he repeated, voice hollow and tinged with . . . grief? "Why did you shave?"

Your brows pinched together until you realized that he hadn't understood what you meant when you said you shaved the other day. You rolled your eyes and huffed.

"I told you I shaved yesterday, and all you said was That's nice, sweetheart," you imitated in a deep voice that was no where close to his timber.

He tore his eyes away from your center and glared up at you "How could you do this to me? To us?"

"Brett, it'll grow back. I just didn't want it poking out while I swam. It's no biggie."

Well, apparently to him, this wasn't just "no biggie;" this was a colossal "biggie;" a right hook to the gut; he knew a gun shot to the head would be less painful to him than you shaving your bush without consulting him first about it; bikini be damed.

"But-but she was so pretty," he whined, and you found yourself wondering if you were dating a fifty-year-old fire chief for a wining frat boy who looked like his favorite bong was taken away. "And you just murdered her in cold blood." His face dipped back into your stomach, hands still gripping your waist. "Please tell me this is a prank, that I'm dreaming."

His words were muffled, but you got the gist.

"Baby," you said softly. "They don't make bald caps for pussy. And I can assure you that you and I are both awake."

He huffed even louder, the sound making a giggle rise from your chest. You pushed back his curls and forehead until he was looking back up at you with those puppy eyes you adored.

"If I had known you'd be this distraught, I would have just trimmed it," you tried to placate him. "Just didn't think Captain Brett Richards would be having a mental breakdown because I shaved my bush."

"I'm not having a mental breakdown," he argued, lips jutting in a pout. "I'm mourning. There's a difference."

"Yes. Sorry. Mourning." You nodded along. "Can I go swim now? The UVs at its highest, and I want to tan before I swim."

Grant looked upwards and thought for a moment. "Only if you promise you won't shave again all summer."

"How about I'll only trim it down. Compromise?"

He stayed silent before finally spitting out, "Fine. But I will be supervising."

"Sure, babe. Sure."

Jack Abbot

If you had known the consequences of the thing you did in the shower 23 minutes and seventeen seconds ago, you would have double guessed about proceeding with what you planned to do: shave your bush down.

However, what you hadn't planned was for Jack to walk right in, just as you were finishing up, and witness as to what he recalled as "the worst crime Pittsburgh has ever seen." You were sure that he was about three seconds from calling someone, but he did something even worse.

He had reached into the shower, turned off the water (even if you had yelled Hey!), gently pulled you out (because safety around slippery surfaces was a giant priority), and sat you down at the edge of your bed. He took two large steps over to his backpack, pulled out his laptop, and set it up to the projector you'd bought to watch movies on.

But now, Jack had taken over and was now projecting an almost downright powerpoint that had multiple slides about the benefits of keeping hair down there.

"Your body grows hair, my love," Jack stated, standing next to the projection like a speaker on those TedTalk videos. "If you were meant to have it short or have no hair at all, then your body would already be made like that."

"Is this really necessary?" you asked with narrowed eyes at the number of slides he had left.

(He was only on slide 3/184.)

He tutted gently in response. "Yes, it's necessary. You're going behind my back and shaving in places you never need to shave." He clicked to the next slide. "You need to understand that pubic hair does so much for your body. It's a built-in defense system, it helps reduce friction, it's a barrier for harmful bacteria, lowers STI risks, keeps pheromones trapped—"

"Hypocrite," you grumbled, arms crossing over your chest. "You shave your chest hair."

Jack huffed. "We're not talking about me; we're talking about why you thought it was a good idea to take your bush away from me."

"Your bush? When has a part of my body ever been yours?" you shot back. "If I want to shave it, I can ass hat."

At least Jack had the decency to look guilty with his hazel eyes dropping down toward the ground. "That's not what I was meaning."

Your eyebrows rose. "Oh; it wasn't? So now, any time you shave your chest hair, I can say that you're taking that away from me? Because it's the same thing, Jack."

"To me it's not."

"But to me it is," you pressed. "But if you really wanna play this game, maybe I'll just call Robby. He has all that chest hair under his scrubs. Maybe he has a powerpoint about the medical properties of chest hair. Would you listen to your work husband instead?"

"We're not calling Robby, and okay, I see your point." He leaned against the wall. "I guess I just don't understand why you even shaved in the first place."

You suddenly looked down at your bare knees. "Kelly from work said her husband liked it better shaved. Thought you might feel the same."

Jack froze for a nanosecond before he stalked over in his uneven gate. He stopped in front of you and lifted your chin with a pointer finger, hips folding so he could lean in close.

"Listen to me," he said softly. "Kelly's husband is boy. Boys don't know how to appreciate a natural woman's body." His other hand trailed up your center, fingers lightly grazing your skin enough to bring goosebumps to the surface. "Men—real men, like me—don't mind stuff like that. We actually enjoy it, my love."

You shivered, not knowing if it was from the chill on your still-slightly damp skin or the sheer intensity of Jack's gaze. He stepped in closer, bullying your legs apart for him to stand between your thighs. You kept your eyes on his and swallowed thickly while he softly pressed you back into the comforter.

Jack placed a hand right next to your head and bent down even further, his clothed chest barely hovering over yours. Your two hands lifted and came to place on his shoulders.

"Can I show you?" he muttered against your lips. "How a real man enjoys what he's been given."

You nodded. "Yes please."

"But going forward, you better think twice before you take a razor down there."

Grant Reilly

Grant knew something was up the moment you walked into the kitchen.

Some might have called him creepy for noticing, but he'd rather call himself a caring and attentive boyfriend. But what was he supposed to do when he noticed that instead of taking your normal, longer strides, you were practically shifting and almost waddling around. He eyed the way your inner thighs failed to part from each other the entire time you walked over to the fridge before going right back to where you'd been sitting in the living room.

Now, he could have kept this mouth shut, but his concern grew the more you shifted around, looking like you couldn't get comfortable at all. And that was a big no-no for Grant; you were supposed to be as comfortable as possible while staying in his house. If he could fix the smallest thing to bring you more comfort, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

"You okay, honey?" he called out, hands keeping a hold of the pan and spatula as he cooked dinner.

"Fine," you responded, but your voice was anything but convincing.

Grant shut the burner off and turned away from the stove. He placed both hands on the granite island and hunched his shoulders as he gave you the highest eyebrow arch he could muster.

"Somehow, I don't believe you."

You looked away from your phone. "It's nothing."

"You've shifted seven times in the last fifteen minutes, and you're walking weird."

"I'm not walking weird?"

"Oh yeah?" He straighten and folded his arms. "Then walk over here . . . normally."

You bit into your bottom lip before pushing off the couch.

Here's the issue. You were on your period, and entirely done with the planet; more importantly, done with the way everything just seemed to make a mess every time you used the bathroom. So, in a desperate attempt to keep things neater, you thought that shaving everything would help. But now, each step caused poking friction in your thighs. And really, you should have known better, but desperate times called for even more desperate measures.

Once you were on both feet, you tried your best to take a normal step. But the poking, almost biting sensation had you pausing. Gingerly, you took another step, but you couldn't even do that normally.

Not being able to watch you in obvious pain, Grant rounded the island and walked over to you, stopping you where you were halfway through taking another painful step.

"What's wrong?" he questioned. "And don't lie to me."

You shuffled on your feet before visibly deflating. "I shaved."

Grant continued to stare at you. "Okay?"

"Down there."

"Oh." Grant inhaled sharply. "Why?"

He wasn't . . . annoyed per se, but he was concerned why you'd do something that obviously caused great discomfort.

Your shoulders rose. "I'm on my period, and it kept getting everywhere. Just didn't really want to deal with it all anymore."

The next thing Grant did was bring you into a hug, his hand running rhythmically over your hair.

"My poor, honey," he cooed, timber far from condescending. "How about for next time, I can get you something that might be more helpful than shaving. Wipes are always a nice option, or if your pads stick, we can online shop for different underwear, okay?"

You nodded against his chest while you wrapped your arms around his waist. "Okay."

"Let's get you situated back on the couch while I continue making dinner. Can't have my girl going hungry. How does steak sound? Chef will make it for you, don't worry."

Andrew "Pope" Cody

a/n: I know this is technically waxing but it fits better in my mind . . .

Honestly, though, what were you thinking when you thought Oh, Andrew wouldn't know. Because if there was one aspect of Andrew Cody that never failed, it was that he knew everything. Whatever you did, Andrew would know about it not even two seconds later. Plus, he was the one who suggested synching Google Calendars in the first place.

So when he scrolled through the day's schedule and saw Waxing Appt. added in bright pink, he first thought you were getting your eyebrows done like you normally did when you were getting your nails done (all paid for with his card mind you).

However, he was far from the truth . . . so very, very, very far from the truth.

You really thought the waxer had done a good job. She hadn't taken off too much, because you already knew Andrew liked a bit of hair, especially when he went down on you. She had assured you that a bikini wax was wha you should go with. You'd gone through the painful process and didn't think twice when you tapped Andrew's card on the reader, always leaving a nice tip as well.

But that had been two days ago, and now, Andrew had you pressed up against the wall with your fingers digging deep into his naked, freckled biceps. Your head was tipped back against the wall while he kissed you within an inch of your life.

"Fuck, angel," he moaned into your mouth, hands holding you at your waist. "Feels so good."

"Andy," you whined as you dug your hips into his. "Need you."

"Yeah?" He pressed kissing along your stretched throat. "You need me?"

"Please! Please! Please!"

"Shh, shh," he hushed, right hand trailing down and across the waistline of your shorts. "I'm right here."

You moaned even louder when his fingers dipped closer to your core. "Please, Andy! Need y-you!"

Andrew continued dragging his hand down, fingers wiggling until he felt where he wanted. However, he froze when the familiar feeling of long hair didn't touch his fingertips. A breath later, he continued on, but the shorter hairs he found poked and pricked enough for him to retract his hand. This time, your whine was more confused than wanting.

"What're you doing?" you asked, chest rising and falling with your pants. "Is something wrong?"

"It's—" he paused, brows furrowing deeply. "It's different." He paused again. "Why's it different?"

You realized almost immediately as to what he was referring to. "Oh, yeah. I got it waxed during my appointment. Though you saw that on the calendar." You tried to meet his eyes, but was unsuccessful as he kept staring at the place between your thighs. "Do you not like it?"

Andrew stayed silent before slowly shaking his head. "It's not soft anymore."

"It'll get soft when it grows out again."

He huffed like he was mad at time for not speeding up. He tried again and shoved his hand down your shorts and underwear, but the feeling was almost overwhelming.

"It's not even either," he muttered, pulling out his hand yet again.

You dropped your hands from his arms and cupped his face gently. "Hey, if you don't like it, I won't do it again. I wanted to try something new, but if it bothers you, I can let it grow out."

"'M sorry."

"Don't be. You're the one who gets to touch down there more than I do anyways."

His head bobbed once like he was as serious about your bush as he would be for a bank heist. "I like it grown out. Feels nicer too."

"Hmmm, I guess it does." Your thighs pressed together, body still trying to come down from the heated moment. "Does this mean we have to wait though?"

Andrew looked you over once before bending slightly to haul you into his arms. You squealed loudly when he maneuvered you into a bridal carry and started walking toward your bedroom.

"We'll figure something out," he muttered, foot kicking the door closed behind him. "But it needs to grow out fast."

Titus Danforth

"Little dove, you better drop that razor right now if you know what's good for you," Titus' voice carried over the sound of your shower.

"If I stop now, it's going to look weird," you shot back, continuing on with what you were currently doing, legs parted just enough to get a clean cut. When the water suddenly shut off, you groaned loudly. "Titus, turn it back on."

When he didn't answer, you finally dropped the razor and turned toward the now open shower door. Your eyes were met with an overwhelming fire in Titus' hazel eyes. You reached to turn the water back on, but your hand was stopped halfway, courtesy of Titus wrapping a hand around your wrist.

"I said to drop the razor," he repeated, voice firm and unwavering. "Are you going to listen to me?"

"But it's patchy now."

"You shouldn't have been touching a razor anywhere near it in the first place."

You rolled your eyes. "I just wanted to shave my bush, Titus. It's not the end of the world."

Titus huffed loudly before yanking you all the way out of the shower. You were powerless against his strength, deciding to follow him without arguing further in hopes you didn't set him off even more than you already seemed to do.

One moment you were upright and the next you were pushed back onto the large bed in the center of the room. However, Titus didn't follow you down. Instead, he left you there and walked over the closet.

"What are you doing?"

He stayed quiet, hands now shuffling around through an interior drawer. You couldn't help the way your eyes raked over the stretch of his large shoulders under his dress shirt. You only looked away when he turned back toward you and started walking back to the bed.

A small glint caught your attention when he got close again, and your eyes widened at the sight of a knife gripped between his fingers. Your throat bobbed under a thick swallow.

"Titus . . ." you said, tone on the side of a warning.

"Quiet, little dove," he ordered, eyes trailing down to the place between your thighs. He sighed rather sadly. "Look what you've done to her."

Your brows pinched. "Her?"

He ignored you and parted your thighs, knife now dangerously close to the uneven patches of hair. "Because you so decided to have a whack at her, I'm going to fix this."

You bit your lip in an attempt to hold back the whimper after his fingers started to poke and prod at your core. Titus heard it anyway and tried to hold back a smirk of his own.

"This is not for your pleasure," he grunted. Carefully, he began to cut away at the left over hairs. "This is a lesson."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, so I can't do anything to my body now?"

Titus looked up at you and glared before reaching up to tap the skin next to your hip. You knew exactly what was beneath his finger: a small T.S. scared into you, something he'd done the moment after you'd won your first games, something to remind you that you belonged to him and him alone.

"Your body, sure," Titus spoke lowly, knife stilling against the delicate skin. "But this? This is all mine. And you should know better than to mutilate what I own."

"Titus," you breathed. "I didn't mutilate anything. Shaving is normal; it's—" A sharp pain caused a hiss to interrupt your sentence.

Your eyes caught the beads of blood now bubbling from a small cut along your hip bone. However, a low moan covered the dull pain when Titus ran his hot tongue along the wound, catching each drop of blood like it was honey.

Once the blood stopped sweating, Titus straightened back up and went back to making the rest of the hair even. You only knew he was done when he patted the inside of your thigh twice, your skin stinging lightly. Yet, he didn't pull back. He leaned forward until his face was not even an inch in front of yours.

"Next time you even think of shaving again, little dove, let this be a reminder that I own you," he breathed into your mouth. "And I don't like it when anyone touches my property without permission."

Charlie Reid

You really could never tell what Charlie liked or didn't like. Being his personal office assistant meant that you needed to know things like this. But each time you did something, he'd respond just the same way.

Once you brought him straight black coffee, and he seemed fine with it. But another time, you tried switching things up and added a dash of vanilla. Like always, though, he took it without telling you if you needed to change it.

The same thing happened with everything else: the way he liked his paperwork, the way you set up his appointments, and even the way you greeted him in the mornings. Yet, you were able to catch the twitch of a smile when you used Chief instead of Mr. Reid. So you kept using that, always wanting to see that at least something you did was to his liking.

You tried to find his tells like that, but they were far and few between. However, one of them came in the most unexpected ways, starting with a spilled cup of coffee all over your front.

The hot pain barely took any time to process in your mind before you whimpered loud enough that Charlie was able to hear across the way. Somehow, you two were the only ones left in the precinct; Charlie had extra paperwork to coverup a murder, and you graciously stayed behind in case he needed anything.

"You okay, kid?" he called out, already rising from behind his desk. It didn't take him long to find you, in obvious pain and discomfort, gripping the counter with white knuckles. "What the hell happened here?"

You turned towards him and tried to flash a wavering smile. "Guess I didn't have a good grip on the pot."

Charlie eyed the way the coffee had dripped down from your blouse and dotted your white pencil skirt. "Do you want to go home? You've stayed longer than needed, kid."

But really, Charlie wanted to keep you near him as long as possible. So when you shook your head, a disgusting light feeling bloomed in his chest.

"Well, do you have any clothes to change into?" he pressed.

Again, you shook your head. "Didn't think I'd need a pair."

Charlie crossed his arms. "I think I got an extra shirt and sweats if you'd like."

Your slanted smile changed into a real one. "That'd be really nice, Chief. Thank you."

So, that's how you found yourself in the small bathroom next to his office, arms covering your bare middle while you waited for him to bring you his clothes. The thought you drowning in his shirt and sweats brought a heat to your face.

You just didn't expect him to barge right in instead of knocking, clothes held tightly to his front. You watched him freeze in the threshold, eyes wide as they trailed down your frame.

When Charlie knew he'd been caught, he cleared his throat and held the change of clothes out to take. "Here. Sorry if they're oversized."

You gingerly took them from him and quietly thank him as well. You also thought he'd leave to give you some privacy, but he stayed put. Not wanting to keep him long, you started to pull the sweats on.

While you were doing so, Charlie let his eyes linger on your naked thighs and cute bow-covered underwear. He swallowed thickly when he noticed that hardly any hair pocked out of the hem.

"You shave?" he suddenly asked, not even embarrassed to be asking you that or looking.

Your face heated tenfold, and you tugged the sweats up quickly. "Yeah," you finally squeaked. "I keep things neat."

Charlie nodded once. "Hmmmm. Think it'd look better grown out, kid. Might be easier to not shave it so often." With that, he slipped out of the bathroom, leaving you a blushing mess.

And if Charlie pulled a similar stunt a few weeks later, purposefully spilling coffee on you late at night in hopes to get you back into his clothes, just to see if you'd headed his advice? Let's just say he was more than grateful to see the small bush spilling from a cherry-covered thong this time around.

Terry McCandless

South Carolina was hot with the kind of lingering heat that made your thighs stick to each other almost instantly if you took one step out into the hot, humid atmosphere.

Sweat pooled in placed you didn't even know sweat could pool. And you hated the way Terry always seemed to push for outdoor fondling that most times ended up with your back pressed against a random surface and Terry pounding into you hard. Which caused more sweat to build . . . again.

By the time Terry had asked you for the third time to fuck outside, you'd learned that having as few layers underneath your clothes helped the breeze to cool you down. You'd also picked up a few things about keeping things short or just foregoing keeping hair down there all together.

Terry didn't seem to mind either. In fact, you think he preferred having you shaved; especially after the one time you'd forgotten your new shaving routine he refused to go down on you. A part of you knew he was being a man child that couldn't get through a bit of hair, but the other part, the one that kept you tethered to Terry even with his red flags, had you wanting to keep him happy.

That feeling kept you keeping everything close to hairless.

And like normal, you found yourself outside, looking down at a text message from Terry that only said "be ready." You barely had any time to be confused, because in the next moment, Terry was climbing out of his undercover car, dress pants and white button up paired with sunglasses, and heading right toward you with a smirk that looked more sinful than what you were about to do.

"Terry," you huffed. "I have shopping to do."

"Don't bother bout that, darling," he muttered, hand jutting out to grab onto your wrist. "You'll get to your shoppin' momentarily."

Oh how his southern twang had your knees weak in two seconds and you following him behind a concrete wall like an obedient dog.

The moment you were out of sight from the main road, Terry pressed up against your front and kissed you fiercely. You moaned almost instantly into his mouth, and your hands dug into his short curls. His thick fingers gripped your hips and pulled them harshly into his before his right hand trailed down to the hem of your dress.

"Fuck, Terry," you whimpered when he parted and licked a hot stripe up your neck.

"Am I gonna like what I find," he questioned, fingers playing with the end of your dress. "Were you a good girl f'r me?"

You nodded earnestly.

Terry chuckled deeply and finally dipped his hand under the hem until he found the fabric of your underwear. Not wanting to waste time, you quickly helped him push the red fabric down your legs. When he put them in his back pocket, you didn't say anything, only spreading your legs wider for him to stand between.

Once you were standing up straight again, Terry pulled your dress up again until his fingers finally found what he was looking for. An almost relieved sigh pushed from his lips when he felt around the smooth skin between your thighs.

"Hmmm, someone was a good girl." He pressed on more kiss into your mouth before kneeling on the ground, black pants be damned. "Looks like I'll have to reward her for listening."

Sammy Bryant

"Sammy! Can you come help me!" Sammy heard you call through the bathroom door.

"Yeah!" he responded. "Gimme a second. I gotta finish one more screw!"

Sammy held the two boards of wood that, if he did the next step correctly, would form the base of the crib meant for yours and Sammy's baby that was due in about two months. He had told you time and time again that he was going to be the one to put the thing together, and when your nesting urges grew and grew, he began researching. What he learned in between then and now was that building a crib was much harder than it looked.

But when the two boards finally settled nicely together, Sammy sat back on his haunches and heavily sighed in relief. He couldn't help but smile as he looked at the beginning stages.

"Sammy!"

Oh, right. Pregnant wife needs something.

"Coming, gorgeous!" he hollered back, pushing up off the ground with a groan.

While you experienced many different side effects of pregnancy, Sammy was the unfortunate one to experience the weight gain aspect. Where his patrol uniforms used to fit perfectly, he found himself pushing harder while running after suspects because his belt wasn't fitting around his waist all too well. Sure, he used to be plushy when he was a detective, but he worked hard for the abs that came after many months of patrol in the hot California sun.

Sammy's brain ran quickly, trying to figure out what exactly you might need. He wondered if you had dropped your loofa or needed your back washed or perhaps you were thirsty or—

"What are you doing?" he all but shouted the moment he walked through the bathroom door.

He didn't even have time to ogle your body (that he thought had gotten 110% hotter when your bump finally popped) before he was stepping closer and grabbing the razor that had been between your legs.

"Sammy, I was using that!" you screeched back. "Give it!"

Sammy held it behind him and high in the air. "Nuh-uh. You don't need to be shaving down there!"

You huffed, hands coming down to hold your bump as you stood in the cascading water. "But I want to. It's getting itchy."

"We can get you a cream or something," he argued before placing the razor down on the counter. "You don't need to be shaving your bush."

"You're not the one who has to deal with it every time you take a step!" you pushed back, voice growing louder. "Samuel Bryant you'll give me that razor or so help me, you will be sleeping on the couch until this baby turns 5!"

Sammy gulped loudly, and his eyes shifted back to the razor. "Gorgeous—"

"Don't Gorgeous me," you hissed. "I'm six-months pregnant, and you're being an asshole!"

"Listen," he said gently, taking a step towards you. "If you want to shave down there, then you can shave. But let me help. The last thing I need is you slipping and hurting yourself and the baby."

You eyed him warily.

Sammy shifted on his weight. "Look. I'll even use my nice electric razor. And any time you want it trimmed, I will do it, okay?"

It took you a moment before you nodded. "Fine. But you better keep your promise, and it's banishment to the couch for you."

"Yes, ma'am," Sammy agreed instantly. "Promise." He held out his hand for you to take, but you simply slapped it away.

"You ruined my shower, Sammy, so now I gotta start all over again." You shut the fogged door shut right in his face. "I will call you when I want to see you again."

Sammy stood frozen in his place and silently cursed himself for interrupting. He should have known better than to try what he just did. Not knowing what else to do but obey, he turned around and left the bathroom, razor still abandoned on the sink.

"Just call me when you're ready, gorgeous."

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, running over and picking you up in a bear hug to spin you around. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“Just barely,” you said as you pushed at his shoulders. “Let me go, you oaf.”

“Nope. I’m taking you back to ours. We’re having a party tonight and you’re coming.”

Before you could respond another voice interrupted.

“Put her down.”

Craig immediately complied and stepped back putting his hands up. He gave a crooked grin that said he knew something everyone else didn’t. “No problem. Make sure she comes to the party though.”

You watched him run off then turned to greet your favorite Cody. You used a hand to shelter your eyes from the sun. “Hello, Andrew.”

He nodded once in response. “You’re back.” His fingers twitched at his sides.

“Yeah. A few days ago.” You bit the inside of your lip to keep from saying something stupid. You’d had a crush on Andrew Cody since you were sixteen years old. And, while he tolerated you better than most, you were under no delusions that he felt the same.

“How long?”

“I’m back for good. School’s done.”

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “Good. See you later.”

Your gaze trailed him as he passed you to rejoin his brothers and sighed. You’d hoped that distance would have tamped your attraction for the man.

It had not.

The Cody house was loud and messy and exactly what you’d been expecting. Bottles and empty cups littered every surface. Music flooded the air from the speakers causing all the conversation around you to be louder to compensate. You wrinkled your nose as a tendril of smoke from a joint drifted your direction.

You leaned against the house, beer sweating in your hand as you watched Pope. He wasn’t talking to anyone. He never did at these things. He stood with his back to the fence at the far side of the yard, beer hanging from two fingers as his eyes took in everything around him in slow methodical sweeps. You’d seen him do this a hundred times. Always the still point in the Cody chaos.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until Craig materialized at your side. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t bother glancing at him. “People watching.”

“Uh huh.” Craig leaned in, shoulder bumping yours. “You’re Pope watching. There’s a difference.”

“Fuck off.”

“He likes you.” He said it like he was handing you a winning lottery ticket and you should be eternally grateful. It was how he said most things to be honest. Always thinking he knew something the rest of the world was too stupid to see. He didn’t.

“Don’t be stupid, Craig. He does not. Why would he?”

“Just trust me.”

You turned then to blink at him in disbelief. “Why would I do that? You told Deran I had a dolphin tattoo on my ass and he spent a week trying to get a glimpse of it.”

He snorted. “That was funny.”

“Not for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have people to watch. Not Pope. People.”

Craig threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. Don’t listen to me. See if I care.” He hooked his arm around the shoulders of a passing brunette and led her into the crowd.

You made an effort to look anywhere but Pope after that.

Pope hated parties. Hated that Smurf let his brothers do whatever they wanted. He should have moved out when Baz did. A least then he’d have somewhere to escape to when they were doing this shit. He kept his eyes moving over the crowd, making sure no one fucked up his shit or overdosed in the pool. Fucking hell.

His eyes snagged on you every time they passed over you. You were wearing a tank top and shorts and looked like you belonged here. And you did, more that most of these people anyway. He should talk to you. He wanted to but you didn’t need him bugging you. You’d just gotten home, back in Oceanside where he could keep tabs on you. He didn’t want to scare you off.

Craig sidled up to him and nudged him with his elbow.

“Don’t,” Pope said, not looking at him.

“She likes you, too, you know.”

Pope’s gaze shot over to his brother before finding you in the crowd again. For a brief moment, hope swelled, then he remembered who he was talking to. “Leave it.”

Craig huffed out a breath. “Look, I’m not giving you shit. I’m being serious right now. You should ask her out. Right now. Get the both of you out of here.”

The image of the two of you sitting side by side at the beach flashed through his mind. He blinked it away. “She doesn’t like me, okay. Not like that. She couldn’t.”

Craig tilted his head back with a groan. “Can you just trust me for once? Please?”

Pope stared at him for a beat. “Why would I do that?”

His brother stared back then looked to you and back to Pope. “I hate you both.” Then he was gone, moving toward the cooler to get another beer.

The party kept moving. Music thumping, people shouting. Pope shifted his weight as his eyes drifted across the patio and found you already looking at him. He went utterly still as you held his gaze. Then, you looked away and it was as if it had never happened at all.

Pope drove past your apartment building twice before he pulled over. His hands gripped the wheel as he watched your door on the second floor. Your curtains were closed but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes you did that to keep the heat out. He glanced at the flowers on the floorboard beside him. They were nothing fancy, but they were your favorite colors.

He’d noticed when you were at the house the day before that you were more quiet than usual. Contemplative. He missed your smile and wanted to bring it back. So flowers. You loved flowers. But would you want them from him?He swallowed, gaze moving back to your door. He’d just leave them on your doorstep. The whole point was to not make a thing of it.

Back in the truck, he drove the ten minutes to the Cody house, his brain stuck on you. Maybe he should have knocked, handed them to you directly. As he walked past the living room, he stopped cold.

You were on the couch.

Not in his head, but actually there, legs tucked under you with a glass of what looked like lemonade in your hand. You glanced up and your eyes widened a fraction when you spotted him.

He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside you. He sat close enough to smell the clean scent that clung to your skin. You never doused yourself in perfumes or heavily scented lotions. It was another thing he loved about you.

“What are you doing here?” he said, voice rough as always.

Your fingers tapped against the side of the glass. “Smurf wanted me to come for dinner. Is that okay?”

He studied you. Your face was doing that thing it did when you were trying to read him, the furrow between your brows, mouth turned down slightly at the corners. He’d forgotten that about you. How you watched.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he finally said. “You can be here whenever you want.”

You gave him a small smile and a nod and something in him loosened, just a little.

At dinner, you sat across from Pope and watched the chaos around you.

Craig was talking about a wave he’d caught that morning, hands moving through the air. His voice buried Pope’s attempt to say something and the latter’s mouth snapped shut. He cut into his steak and said nothing.

Deran cut in to say something about a fight at the pier and a kid who had gotten his board stolen. “He just fucking took off like—”

Smurf turned to Craig. “Did you get the papers I asked you to pick up?”

Craig frowned. “Yeah, they’re in the other room. I told you that al—”

“Good. Deran, eat your vegetables before they get cold.”

The conversation moved around Pope, never including him. He ate methodically. Every few bites he’d look up, eyes scanning the table, taking inventory. Once, his gaze landed on you and held for a beat too long before dropping back to his plate.

You kept your face still even as you cataloged every slight.

You saw the way his jaw tightened when Craig talked over him. The way his fingers gripped the fork a little too hard when Smurf redirected the conversation for the third time. The way he chewed each bite thoroughly before swallowing. As if he was counting seconds in his head.

You saw all of it and said nothing. Because saying something would mean admitting you were paying attention and paying attention to Andrew Cody was a habit you’d promised yourself you’d break.

But you couldn’t just leave it. Couldn’t let him believe he was the least important person in the room.

The next day, you left an envelope on the windshield of Pope’s truck where it sat in the Cody driveway. Inside was a DVD of a National Geographic special about deep-sea predators and a note.

I see you. I always see you.

Deran found the envelope, bringing it in the house with him and tossing it at Pope where he sat on the couch. “Someone left that on your truck.” Just as quick as he’d appeared the boy was gone.

Pope’s brow furrowed as he opened the envelope and dumped the contents into his lap. The DVD case was warm in his hands as he turned it over to read the back. Then he saw the note.

His thumb traced the edge of the paper. He read it once. Then again. The corner of his mouth pulled up. Just barely. He folded the note and slipped it into his wallet.

Pope hadn’t seen you in three days, which was more than a little unusual. Since you’d returned to Oceanside, you’d been spending a lot of time with the Codys.

He found Craig in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cereal straight from the box, chasing it with a drink of the milk sitting on the counter beside him.

Pope’s lip curled. His brothers were disgusting. “Where is she?” he asked.

Craig looked up. “Who?”

Pope stared at him.

“Oh. Car trouble. Took it to that place on Brighton with the sign that looks like it’s falling over.”

Pope braced his hands on the counter and leaned forward. “And?”

Craig shrugged. “And they quoted her some bullshit number. Like, way high. She thinks they’re trying to scam her because she’s a girl and doesn’t know cars. So, she’s going to have it towed to get a second opinion. She’s waiting for her dad to pay her. Stingy bastard.”

“Which shop on Brighton?”

“You know, uh, Vic’s? Vinnies? Something with a V.”

Pope nodded once and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had a job for Smurf he needed to take care of. Some asshole that owed her money and took off to Ventura. The kind of thing that would take a couple of days if everything went right, longer if it didn’t. Regardless, he’d be taking a vehicle that couldn’t be traced to him.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said. “My truck will be here if you want to use it.”

Craig’s brows went up. “For real?” Craig had been driving an old beater for the last couple of months after he dumped his bike drinking and driving.

“If she needs a ride anywhere, to get groceries, to go to work, fucking anywhere, you take her. That’s the deal. Promise me or I keep the keys.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Promise me, Craig.”

“I promise, Jesus, I’ll drive her wherever she needs.”

Pope placed the keys in his hand but held onto them. “Do not wreck my truck.”

After another round of assurances from Craig, Pope finally relinquished the keys. He only hoped his brother didn’t give him a reason to regret it.

Two days later, you got a call.

“Ma’am, this is Vic’s Auto Repair. Your vehicle is ready for pickup.”

You frowned. “I didn’t authorize any work.”

“We understand that, but the repairs have been completed and the bill has been taken care of. If you could pick it up as soon as possible, we’d appreciate it.”

“Who paid for it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information. Vic did request you take your vehicle elsewhere from now on. Sorry.”

You hung up and stared at the wall for a full minute, running through the short list of people in your life who both knew about the car and had the money to spare. You sent off a message.

Twenty minutes later, Craig pulled up in Pope’s truck.

You opened the door and took in the sight before you. The floor mats were covered in fast food wrappers. There was mud smeared across the dashboard. The cab smelled like cheap perfume and cheaper weed.

“What did you do, Craig?”

He leaned across the passenger seat, one arm draped over the wheel. “What? Pope said I could use it while he’s out of town.”

“You know how he is about his stuff. This is disgusting.”

He shrugged. “It’s a truck. It’s meant to get dirty.”

“This isn’t dirt. This is you being a slob. Bring it back to my apartment after we get the car. I’ll clean it.” You shook your head as you used the hand hold to haul yourself into the passenger seat, curling your lip at the filth.

“What am I supposed to drive then?”

“Oh, you’re helping. This is a two person job and you’re person number two.”

He groaned but didn’t argue, which told you he felt at least a little guilty.

“So, what happened with the second opinion? I thought you were holding off,” he asked as he drove to the shop.

“I got a call this morning that the car was fixed and the bill had been paid.”

The silence stretched. Then Craig said, “Gee. I wonder who that could have possibly taken care of that for you.”

You huffed in annoyance. “Shut up.”

“I told Pope about your car. And then he left town and gave me his truck with the specific instruction that I drive you anywhere you need.” He glanced at you. The corner of his mouth doing that thing it did when he felt particularly proud of himself. “I told you he likes you.”

“Stop. It was probably my dad or something.”

“So ask him.”

“What?” you asked.

“Ask your dad if he fixed your car,” Craig prompted.

You shook your head but didn’t say anything else. The truth was, a very large part of you wanted it to be Pope that took car of your car. A part that held out hope that one day he’d see you the way you saw him. If it wasn’t him, you really didn’t want to know. Not yet anyway. Let you enjoy your delusions for a while.

After you picked up your car, Craig followed you to your apartment. You spent two hours cleaning Pope’s truck, taking care of what you could at your place before driving to a nearby carwash. Craig complained the entire time, but did the work. By the time you were done, the truck looked better than it had before Pope left it.

“Don’t tell him we cleaned it,” Craig said as he dropped you back at your apartment.

“Why not?”

“Because then he’ll know I trashed it and I’ll have to listen to him be weird about it for a week.”

You rolled your eyes but agreed before climbing out of the truck.

Pope got back the next afternoon. The guy had paid after Pope thoroughly explained the situation by sharing his knowledge of just how many bones were in the human hand. He took the car to the junkyard and got a ride back to the house. His truck was in almost the same spot he’d left it. When he got closer and saw it was clean.

Not just clean. Spotless. The windows gleamed. The tires had been scrubbed. There wasn’t a single wrapper or smudge in sight. He walked around it once, eyes narrowed then opened the door. The inside smelt like lemon. He stood there for a minute then shrugged. Craig must have finally grown a brain. Or felt guilty. Either way, it was a miracle Pope wasn’t going to question.

Inside, he showered and changed before checking his phone. There was a text from Craig about a bonfire at the beach that night. He had no interest in going unless you were going to be there. He started to text Craig to ask about you before deleting and switching to your contact instead.

You coming to the bonfire?

You responded almost immediately. No. Sick.

He stared at the screen, a million worst case scenarios running through his head. What’s wrong?

Just a cold. Stuffy. Miserable.

He exhaled in relief, thumb hesitating for a beat before he put his phone away.

Thirty minutes later he pulled up to your apartment with two bags. One held hot chicken soup. The other held orange juice, Kleenex and cold medicine. He climbed the stairs to your apartment and prepared to knock on the door when a yell from the apartment next door caught his attention.

He turned his head listening to the man shout, mean and ugly followed by a loud thud like something hitting a hard surface. Craig had mentioned that your neighbor was an asshole but Pope hadn’t imagined anything like this. Did you have to listen to this shit all the time? You were sick. You needed your rest.

Pope set the bags on your doormat and knocked quickly on the door before walking next door. The yelling got louder. He knocked hard, three times.

The door opened a crack. A man’s face appeared, eyes red and narrowed. “Who the fuck are—”

Pope put one hand on the man’s chest and walked him backward into the apartment. The door swung shut behind them.

You answered your door a couple of minutes later, wrapped in a blanket, nose red. You found two bags on your mat and looked both directions, finding no one. You bent down and picked them up, taking them into the kitchen and placing them on the counter.

You unloaded the bags and stared at everything for a moment, debating the safety of eating soup someone left on your doorstep. But it looked good and it was hot. And there were easier ways to kill you if someone wished, rather than death by cold remedy.

You could also count on one hand the number of people who knew you were sick and you trusted all of them. You tore open the cold medicine and swallowed two capsules with a glass of water. You refilled the glass with some of the juice and took it and the soup over to the table.

Three days later, your sinuses had cleared and your energy returned. You were itching to get out of the house and headed to a small bookstore you frequented. The place smelled the way all good bookstores do, fresh paper mixed with the slight must of old books. Sunlight poured through the windows and angled across the floor.

You roamed the shelves for awhile before finding yourself in the nature section. A dark blue book with gold lettering caught your eye and you pulled it from the shelf. A hardcover book on aquatic animals, filled with vivid photographs. The text was full of facts and anecdotes from the photographers. The kind of thing that would keep someone’s attention for hours.

You bought it without hesitating.

Pope walked out of his house that afternoon, keys in hand and stopped when he saw a book sitting on the hood of his truck. The embossed title shone gold in the sunlight.

He picked up the book and flipped through the pages. It was full of sharks, jellyfish and things that lived so deep they made their own light. And then he found the note.

On the front page in the same handwriting as the first note that came with the DVD.

For Andrew followed by a heart.

He closed the book and ran his hand over the cover before climbing in the truck and setting the book on the passenger seat. He drove to an isolated section of the beach and backed into a space. He sat on the tailgate of his truck with the book open in his lap and read until the sun went down and the words faded into the dark.

Another Saturday, another Cody party. You were graced with Baz’s presence this time but your favorite Cody was nowhere to be seen. Baz’s lips twitched as you looked around the party for the third time since he’d started talking to you. “He’s not here,” he said, leaning closer so you could hear him.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Who?”

He laughed outright at that. “Pope. He’s doing a job for Smurf. Won’t be back until tomorrow.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. “Am I that obvious?”

Baz’s hand found your shoulder. “You never had eyes for anyone else when he was around. Been that way since we were kids.” With that, he walked off leaving you to wallow in your embarrassment.

Eventually, Craig found you. “You good?”

You nodded and sipped at your beer. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. The asshole next door broke his lease and moved out in the middle of the night.”

He smiled slow and wide. “I wonder why. Who could have possibly scared him off?”

You sighed. “Stop. How would your brother even know that guy existed?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying. It’s a mystery. A real whodunit. Maybe the guy won the lottery. Maybe—”

“I said stop.”

He stopped but the smile stayed. Asshole.

You started cleaning as the party wound down. No one helped but you didn’t expect them too. You didn’t want Pope coming home to this mess. Baz had left hours ago. Craig had crashed on the couch, Deran laying nearby. You shook your head as you moved around them, Deran gave you a sleepy smile and then he was out as well.

You collected every bottle, every empty cup. You wiped down every surface with cleaner and a rag and swept the floors. Then you loaded the dishwasher and started it. Trash was tied up and sat beside the can in the garage. By the time you finished, the house looked like no one had ever been there at all.

Pope drove home early the following morning. The job had been simple. Pick up a package, deliver it, come home. He spent the last hour of the drive running through the cleanup in his head. The party would have been a disaster without him there to temper it. Trash would be everywhere. Filth tracked through the house. He’d clean up the trash first, then surfaces, then floors.

He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The house was dark and quiet when he let himself in. He braced himself for the worst and stopped.

The house was clean.

Not tidy. Clean. He walked through the rooms trying to make sense of it. He found his brothers on the couch sound asleep. Pope smacked Craig’s shoe to wake him up.

He grunted in surprise, eyes flying open, groaning when he found Pope standing above him. “What the fuck?”

“Did you clean up?”

Craig frowned and ran a hand down his face. “What?”

“The house. Did you clean it?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

Deran’s eyes were still closed when he said your name.

“What?” Pope asked.

“She cleaned all of it,” Deran added.

Pope focused on Craig again. “Why would she do that?”

Craig groaned again. “I don’t fucking know, Pope. Maybe she hates you and wanted to deny you the pleasure.” He paused then added, “It certainly wouldn’t be because she likes you because what the fuck do I know?”

Pope drove to your apartment without calling first. He didn’t text. Didn’t take the time to weigh the pros and cons. He’d spent too much time hesitating, second guessing.

He knocked on your door, shifting his weight as he waited for you to answer.

When you opened the door, his gaze raked over you, taking in the shorts and t-shirt you had on. He stepped forward, crossing the threshold before you could invite him in.

Your lips quirked. “Sure. Come on in.”

He stood in the middle of your living room, watching as you closed the door and turned to face him. His fingers twitched as his sides. “You cleaned up the party.”

“Yes,” you said with a tilt of your head.

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t have to.” You crossed your arms over your chest and looked down as you shuffled your feet.

He went quiet, eyes moving around the room. Searching for something, anything to tell him what to say next. He wanted to ask you why you cared so much, why you bothered, but he was afraid you’d take it wrong. That he’d say the wrong thing and push you away. His gaze snagged on the TV. The sound was low, but the images were unmistakable. Dark water. The slow, ghostly movement of something with too many teeth.

The National Geographic special. The one from the DVD.

“I know this,” he said, before he could think about it.

You smiled, your face lighting with the action. “You watched it? I knew you’d like it.”

He looked at you then, really looked, the way he’d been avoiding for weeks. “That was you?”

You looked surprised as if you hadn’t realized what you’d said. What you’d admitted to. “Yeah.”

“But that means this is from you, too.” He pulled out his wallet and removed the note, unfolding it to show you the words within.

“You kept that?” Your voice was quiet.

He swallowed hard and nodded in answer. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Come on, Andy. I’ve been gone for years. You probably have a bunch of girls that want you. What do you need me for?”

His answer was immediate, tone firm and certain. “I don’t want them. I want you. Why else would I do all that stuff for you?”

Your brow furrowed. “What stuff?”

“The flowers. The car. The soup…the neighbor.” He hesitated before admitting to the last.

Your eyes widened and your mouth gaped just a little. “That was you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I thought it was obvious.”

You stepped forward. One step, then another, closing the distance between you until you were close enough for him to smell the faint trace of your detergent. You laid your hand against his face, palm cradling his cheek. Your thumb traced across his skin.

He went very still, afraid if he moved the wrong way he’d chase you off. His breathing was shallow and his eyes didn’t leave you.

You leaned in, forehead almost touching his and asked, “Is this okay?”

It was everything.

He answered by kissing you. Your mouth was warm and careful, his hand came up to curl around the back of your neck. You kissed him back and tension flowed from him as he sunk into you. For a long moment there was nothing but the two of you and the anglerfish glowing on the screen behind you.

You pulled back with a groan and Pope’s gaze flicked over your face. His hand was still on your neck. “What? What’s wrong?”

“This means I’m going to have to admit Craig was right. He’s going to be insufferable.”

Pope smiled. A rare, unguarded full smile that showed a hint of the man he might have been if the world had been gentler. And then he kissed you again.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asks.

It's his family who are hosting the party afterall. He has to be a good host. He can feel his twin sister, Ursula's, eyes on him. What is he doing?

You smile shyly at him and nod your head.

"Of course, Mr Danforth. Thank you so much for inviting me. I know you were friends with my parents," you say.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Titus responds.

He's not. He'll get to see a lot more of you now that you have to attend the ceremonies.

"Is this your first Midsummer ceremony?" he asks.

You pause before quirking your lips, "Ceremony?"

Titus chuckles to himself. Oh your parents really did not clue you in on anything. His eyes scan your outfit, pretty dress and heels. You look good enough to eat...but it doesn't really work for the hunt that is about to take place.

A midsummer sacrifice is due. Sometimes that is delivered right to the altar, a throat sliced and the blood drawn in seconds. But the Danforths like the drama of a chase through the woods. The sacrifice is never going to escape. But the adrenaline is worth it. But there's no way you can chase through the forest in the outfit you're wearing.

"Did your parents not explain?" Titus queries with a cock of his head. His tone more mocking than sweet.

You shake your head but before the older man in front of you can explain a horn sounds out. You jump, your hand reaching out for the Danforth heir.

Titus preens when you grip him for stability. Oh, his precious lamb. He'll take care of you.

Ursula's voice trills out, "Come along, Titus."

"Where are we going?" you ask as you follow him like a lost puppy.

Titus doesn't want to ruin your innocence. But this is the reality of this life, the life you were born into. He wants to offer to allow you to stay in the Lodge. However, he can hear his sister remind him that all families must take part in the festivities.

"Out to the woods," he simply gruffs out.

You try to keep up with him. You've been watching him for years. He's so handsome, so off-limits. But his strides are longer than yours and you're wearing heels. You thought you were just attending a party. But you're traipsing out into the chilly Midsummer air and out to the woods. And you gasp when you see a figure in front of you. A man bound on his knees and blindfolded.

"What is this?" you breathe, almost to yourself.

You flinch when you see the way Titus' face lights up at the sight before him. Another horn sounds and the bound man's blindfold is pulled off. In a split second he takes off running.

You grip Titus' arm, as he is only person who has spoken to you all night.

"What's going on?" you desperately beg.

He looks at you with a softness now, "Oh my little lamb, the hunt. You must know about our traditions?"

You simply shake your head as another horn goes off. These stupid horns!

"You have to catch him, little lamb."

And with that, Titus stomps off into the forest. You look around as everyone else takes off. There is no way you're doing this. You turn on your heels and start to rush back to the Lodge. But a man in robes stops you.

"Ma'am, it is in your contract that you must take part in the hunt. You are the head of your family, the only person able to represent your lineage. If you don't do this, well, Mr Le Bail won't be happy," the man says as he clutches a huge leatherbound book to his chest.

"Who is Mr Le Bail?" you ask with huge eyes.

The man gives you a look that you can only describe as pity.

"Run...that way," he simply says pointing towards the forest. "Or it won't just be one sacrifice tonight."

You whimper before you do as he says. Your heart is racing and you can feel tears prick your eyes. You have no intention of killing anyone if that's what the robed man is suggesting. But you don't want to die either. So you take your chances in the woods. Until you come face to face with the, well, sacrifice.

"You're not gonna kill me, bitch," he snarls as he lunges at you.

You fall onto the leaf-covered ground with the strange man on top of you. Oh God, he's going to kill you. You're going to die. You scream out as his body becomes even heavier on you and something wet and hot is seeping over you. Your eyes open to see the full moon overhead, illuminating another figure. Titus is standing there, his warhammer dug deep into the back of the man who's entire weight is now on you.

Titus kicks the body off you, allowing you to scramble to your feet. Your white dress stained with blood. Titus feels the stir of his cock in his pants at the sight before him. His beautiful sacrificial lamb.

"Thank you," you gasp, rushing into his arms.

He wraps his thick arms around you, kissing the top of your head. Oh his precious girl. He isn't going to let anything bad happen to you. The fact you don't flinch when his lips press to your hair just emboldens him.

He breathes your name after a moment and you look up at him.

"You're not a hunter, sweet girl," he tells you, smoothing down your hair. And you shake your head as tears finally roll down your cheeks.

"You know there's a way to exclude you from the hunts. But...But it's quite the step."

You look at him, doe-eyed and willing.

"If you married someone from the families here tonight, you would be a member of their family. And you wouldn't have to hunt or attend Mr La Bail's ceremonies," he says, as he stroke the tears away from your cheek.

"Marry?" you echo.

Titus coos and nods his head, "Yes, little lamb. Marriage is the only way. Join a new family."

"Who would marry me, Mr Danforth?" you ask, your voice still shaky.

He chuckles, "Well, I'm sure there are so many options for you. But there is only one correct family to join. The Danforths are the most powerful. We hold the High Seat of the Council. Become a Danforth, rule the world, little lamb."

He can feel you shiver against him. The idea of the power going straight through your body.

"Marry you?" you ask then.

He nods his head in return. He knows he's much older than you. He knows that a beauty like you deserves a proper proposal. But he's wanted you since he saw you, and he has the opportunity now.

"When?" you continue.

"Well everyone is here tonight. I could make you a blushing bride right now," he all but growls as his grip on you tightens.

You whimper at the intensity of it all. You should run. You should push him away. This is crazy. You just watched him kill a man. And now he wants to marry you. You don't even know this man. You've only met him a handful of times.

But you don't do any of that. Instead, you let Titus draw you towards him. Let him press his lips against yours, gasp out at the taste of him. Titus growls out in response. He walks you back, pressing your back against the rough bark of a tree. He's all but rutting against you in the forest, blood still hot on your dress.

It takes all of his strength to pull away from you. This is not how he's going to take you for the first time. No. No. He can wait until his ring is heavy on your hand.

And the best part of the wedding is that you won't have to play some stupid game. No. You're already a follower of Mr La Bail. You will just be Titus'.

He takes your hand and walks you back towards the Lodge, finding the man in the robes. Titus simply calls him The Lawyer. You're whisked upstairs and you are bathed in lavender water. Your hair fixed, as is your tear-ruined makeup. Your white dress is replaced with a lavish black one. And you meet Titus underground in front of a bloodstained altar. You don't comment on this. You're too caught up in the idea of being his wife.

While Titus has watched you year after year, you have been just as enthralled with him. Your father tutted about what a strange family the Danforths were. Made salacious comments about why the twins never married. But you saw Titus. Saw how handsome he was. How, well, needy he was. And you wanted to give everything to him.

And with two words, rings placed on fingers and another searing kiss you shed your old skin and became a Danforth. Mrs Danforth. The wife of the most powerful man in the world. Although you weren't aware of that. Your parents truly had shielded you from the realities of the deals they had made. Even though you were a grown woman.

Ursula had cornered her twin brother earlier, scolding him for turning the night into his twisted plan. How could he marry a girl he didn't even know? She spat the word girl, letting him know she was unhappy with the obvious age gap between the two of you. But Titus would not be cowed by his sister. Not when he was finally getting the one thing that he wanted.

You.

Being a Danforth came with traditions and Titus had grown to love keeping traditions alive. So after he was allowed to kiss his bride, he had one thought in mind - consummating the marriage.

He carries you across the threshold of his bedroom in the Lodge. You giggle at how easily he hauls you into his arms. He places you back down on your feet and circles you like a wolf circling its prey.

"You look like a vision," he tells you as he comes back again to stand in front of you.

The black dress isn't what you envisioned for your wedding day but none of the night has been what you planned. You didn't intend to walk out of the party with a husband. But Titus had bewitched you. You weren't sure you could say no to him ever.

"But the dress really needs to come off," he says with a tut.

You move your hands to start to undo the ties at the front of the corset but he swats you away. Instead he pulls a knife from under his jacket and presses the tip under your chin. Your lip quivers as you look at him. Surely he didn't do all of this just to kill you?

You try not to think about the heat that is blossoming in your stomach at his action.

He hums as he meets your eyes before dragging the knife down your throat, not hard enough to cut you but enough for you to feel it. The cool metal drags over your chest and the swell of your breast. You whimper when he strengthens his force on the knife when it meets the fabric of the dress and with one sharp movement, the dress is cut from you. He pushes it off until you're standing in your undergarments.

This elicits a low, satisfied hum from your new husband.

"Pretty lamb," he growls, cupping the back of your head and crashing your lips together.

He walks you back until the back of your legs hit the plush blanket covering his bed. And with one swift movement, you're on the bed with Titus hovering over you.

His kisses are becoming more desperate, more sloppy. His tongue is exploring every inch of your mouth, and drool is rolling down your chin. And your core is on fire. He chuckles when he feels your hips rock upwards in desperation.

"Needy baby," he growls, kissing you once more. "Has anyone ever had you before?"

You shake your head. Your parents had drilled into your head the importance of finding the one. That and one too many Disney movies. While you'd dated in the past, everyone had been a dud. And this knowledge fills Titus with pure glee. He could click his heels together!

His hands move to massage your breasts over your lacy bra. He lets out contented little grunts as he teases your nipples before impatience takes over him and he rips the fabric from your body. One thing you'll learn about your new husband is that he doesn't like to wait. And he's waited so long for you.

He wants to ram his aching cock inside you but he knows that you're such a delicate thing. You wouldn't like that. Not at first. But you'll get used to taking him whenever he pleases. But not for your first time. No, he spends an embarassingly longtime sucking at your tits, leaving marks all over your skin. You can feel your arousal completely soak through your panties. Your thighs are soaked now.

"All for me?" he asks as he pulls your panties down your legs.

He would tear them off but this way he gets to inspect your pretty little pussy better.

"Spread for me, baby," he says giving your thigh a sharp slap before you open your legs.

"Good. Keep them like that. Good girl," he tells you as he steps off the bed to undress himself.

While he was impatient to get you naked, there is no rush in his undressing. He takes every item off slowly, folding them and putting them to the side. Until he's standing there in all his glory. You need to touch him, drag your nails over his freckled skin. But he tuts when you start to move.

"Be a good girl," he says giving your pussy a smack.

You should be embarrassed by the wet sound that echoes through the room. But you can't bring yourself to be. You just whine, keeping your legs spread for him. He smirks at you, like the big bad wolf that he is and hooks your legs over his sunkissed shoulders.

He places kisses over your stomach and thighs before diving into your cunt. And Titus eats you like a man starved. He sticks his tongue inside you before suckling at your clit before dragging his tongue over your aching folds. He repeats these movements until you're squirming under him. His thick hands grip your thighs, holding you against him.

"Cum for me, pretty girl," he demands.

And, as if on command, you do. Soaking his face, the silver of his stubble glistening with your release.

"Oh my little lamb, you taste utterly sinful."

Your eyes don't leave his weeping cock. He's huge - thick and long. You're not sure he's going to fit. But Titus has no doubt as he crawls back up your body. See, he knows that you're made for him. And he's not wasting any more time. He presses the blunt head of his cock against your opening. Even this feels like heaven...

He dips his head into the crook of your neck before he slowly, inch by torturous inch, presses inside you. You whimper and whine, squirming under him. He gives your ass a smack, a warning to stop moving. And finally he bottoms out.

"So fucking tight. The most perfect pussy. All for me," he tells you.

You both watch each other, chests heaving for a moment before he finally starts thrusting. Titus is not a patient man and he can feel your body's resistance to his movements. But he can't go slow like this forever. His hands tighten on your hips as he pulls them upwards so he can go deeper before he rocks his hips harder...faster...

Your screams of pleasure bounce off the walls as he takes what he needs from you. There's a burning sensation, the feeling of being pulled apart for the first time. But it is overwhelmed by how good this feels. Every pull of his cock sends shivers down your spine. And soon your eyes are rolling back in your head as you reach your second orgasm of the night. And it won't be your last.

No, Titus has plans for you.

The way your already tight pussy clenches around him as you cum forces him to stop. He physically can't move. It's enough to have him seeing stars. But not yet.

He pulls out of you, flipping you onto your stomach.

"Hands and knees, princess," he growls in your ear.

And you do just as he says. He gives you enough time to find your balance before he's driving into you again. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the room, the wetness of your cunt echoes around the walls and it's joined by your cries of pleasure and his low grunts as he drills into you. His rough hand snakes around and grips your neck. Pulling your back up against his chest.

A third orgasm overwhelms you making your vision go bleary as your whole body shakes. This time when your pussy clamps down on Titus he has no choice but to follow you over the edge. He fills you with ropes of cum. You didn't know someone could cum that much.

He lets you fall onto the bed, but he's not going to let his seed go to waste. No. When he pulls his cock out of you, he replaces it with two fingers.

"Need you to give me an heir, little lamb. Think I can fuck a baby into you tonight?" he growls in your ear.

All you can do is nod. Already fucked out. But you know that Titus' night has just begun.

"What a pretty fuckin' pussy you have," he tells you as he lazily pumps his fingers in and out of you.

He can feel the familiar quiver of your walls. Your fourth orgasm is fast approaching. He feels it as he breathes, "And all I had to do to get it was kill your useless fuckin' parents."

His words send your world upside down. He tells you as you're cumming. What a cruel, cruel man. He's killed your parents to get to you. And you've signed your life away to him.

"Oh pretty girl," he says pulling his fingers out and offering you them to suck. "Don't look so horrified, we both know that deep down you knew."

You open your mouth and let him press his fingers inside. You suck them clean as your eyes meet his. Did you? Did you know this man murdered your only family so he could marry you? Did it matter as you lay completely fucked out in his bed?

You were the most powerful woman in the world... Could you hate him for giving you that?

Titus watches as the gears shift in your head.

"Pretty girl. Smart girl. Precious girl," he breathes, kissing over your skin. "You stay by my side and you'll never want for anything again. Or you join your parents...What do you say?"

You look at him then. It's not much of a choice...but even if it were you had made it when you gripped his arm in the woods all those hours ago. You could never say no to Titus. So you just pull him down for a kiss. And you can feel how he smirks against your lips.

"Now, you should get used to this room because you're not leaving until I get you fuckin' pregnant," he snarls.

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra @joelmillrenthusiast @abbotaes

Gojo Satoru has many qualities: he is the world's best teacher, the strongest sorcerer of the modern era, a pretty great cook, and is devastatingly handsome.

He is also no better than anyone else.

Despite his rebellious manner, Satoru still did what was expected of him. Rome wasn't built in a day, he reminds himself, but it's difficult to retain that mindset; regardless of his efforts, executions were only delayed, never revoked, and the yawning gape of loss grew ever darker.

He could rationalise all he liked, say 'I do this for them, not for you' all he liked, but there was no denying the fact that it was still done. Working to change the system from the inside had the unfortunate requirement of being part of the shitty system first.

Sometimes, in passing thought during fitful sleeps or groggy mornings, the only thing he wants is to do something for himself. Something selfish, irresponsible, and perhaps morally reprehensible. If only he could be wanted, not just needed.

An alarm goes off on school grounds. The presence of unregistered cursed energy has Satoru teleporting to its source in a flash. Maybe it's just Megumi summoning his shikigami in an argument with Nobara, or Toge pushing his technique further than strictly allowed, but instead, it's—

"You," he accuses, brows furrowing behind his blindfold. "Step away from the kid."

You glance up and lean back, seated on a stone garden bench beside Yuji, who's stiff as a board. The split of the mouth below his eye is twisted into a snarl, hissing expletives in your direction.

You smile sweetly, eyes crinkling, and wave. "Gojo-san! Good morning."

"Don't make me ask twice."

You hum, raising your hands in surrender, and scoot to the other end of the bench. "I'm not here to cause harm, Gojo-san. In fact, I was looking for you."

Satoru jerks his head in Yuji's direction, the sharp-toothed mouth growing more and more annoyed as you ignore him in favour of the white-haired witch. "Don't suppose that has anything to do with you, does it?"

You rise to your feet and step closer, dusting off your white sleeves. Satoru's hands twitch in warning, and you move slowly, more deliberately, with a placating smile on your face.

"I've caught up on current events. I was made aware that Sukuna's vessel was your student, and thought it'd be easiest to find the child with two souls to learn of your whereabouts – but it appears you've done all the hard work for me." You gesture at him, standing in front of you. "I have matters I'd like to discuss with you. May we speak privately?"

"Nope. We'll chat here." He steps towards Yuji, edging closer. "You're a high-priority case that had me chasing leads all over the city, you know? The higher-ups told me to kill you if you showed up again."

Yuji's eyes widen. "Kill him? Why? Is he a criminal?"

"Not quite," you confess as you turn to him, almost paternal in your gentleness. "I am a cursed spirit. Yes, Yuji – just like those you exorcise."

His eyes widen further and a dawning horror flickers across his features. He steps back. "No. You're lying. Gojo-sensei wouldn't let a curse like you live."

"It's impolite to kill someone when they've done nothing to slight you. Your teacher has manners," you say, amused. "My technique has many applications, some of which benefit sorcerers – hence my survival. Let me show you a trick. This..." You splay your hand, palm down, and a thousand slender gold strings shimmer translucently in the morning light, extending from you like a spider's web. "Is how I found you."

You touch a seemingly normal string, but as you come into contact with it, another shimmers, revealed out of hiding. Now the string is composed of two pulsing threads twisted together – or, rather, one is coiled around the other: rough, uneven, gnarled, like orchid roots to an oak. You lead it towards him, extending its visible length, and it ends at his solar plexus, vanishing a few centimetres away. You tap his chest almost affectionately, and you glow with pride under Yuji's unintentionally-awed gaze.

Satoru admits – it's flashy. But you've already got an ego, and he's not about to make it bigger by telling you so.

Carefully, you choose a thread and pluck it gently, lifting it across the bend of your index finger. "This one is yours, Gojo-san," you say. Your eyes glitter. "Looks just like the others, doesn't it?"

You're still mortal, you don't say, but he hears it anyway.

"Alright, enough with the show-and-tell," Satoru says, pushing your hands down with his own. Your technique disperses. He grasps Yuji's shoulder and pushes him behind him, his touch lingering for reassurance. "If I don't deal with you quickly, I'll have Yaga and the rest hounding my ass for your ass, so if you could so kindly vacate the premises and never return, I'd be much obliged."

"Never?"

"Never ever."

"That's a long time."

"It's sorta the point."

"Why?" You tilt your head, voice lilting innocently. "I've had a lot of time to think. What if I wanted to be good, this time around?"

Satoru laughs and pushes his hands into his pockets, gaze trained on the new hair accessory you're wearing. The gold of it glitters with the sway of your head, the same colour as the souls you weave. "You're a curse. You're never good."

"Good by curse standards, then," you relent. "If sorcerers can use their skills for evil, selfish goals, can't I do the opposite? I'm looking for a change of scenery."

Satoru chuckles. "It's in your nature as a curse. And you were a politician, so I double-can't trust you."

"Oh, but it would be just awful working with these modern curse users." You rub your forehead. "They have no manners, no order – not even a set waking time each day! It's ridiculous, Gojo-san, you should have seen it. I couldn't bear to stay. I don't want to waste my efforts corralling street dogs into line."

"Ah, I forgot how neurotic you are about procedural correctness. If you were a sorcerer, at least we'd get things done," he says airily, flicking a hand in the air. "Honestly, I'd love to bring you to the elders just to see their brains explode."

"I could do that for you, if you wish. Nothing would trace back to you – I'll bear the blame." Your eyes glitter as you step forward, your fingers brushing his arm. Infinity glimmers in the light. "Would you bring me to meet your family? I wonder if they'd disapprove."

"Oh, for sure. You'd be the bad-boy boyfriend I've always wanted. 'But I love him, mother!' kind of thing, you know?" He watches as you trail your fingers down his jacket buttons; your palm lingers half an inch over his chest. His Infinity is hard yet bouncy and almost cool to the touch, like magnets the wrong way around. He traces the markings around your eyes with his Six Eyes. They're foxlike, in a way, sharpening your gaze and edging it with a natural mischievous cleverness.

"Really? How sweet." You flick your fingers and twist the threads of his soul around your knuckles, and tug him towards you. He doesn't flinch away, staring up at you from behind his blindfold. Your grin widens, sharp and enthralled, and your slitted black pupils blow wide. "You're... not afraid of me?"

"Nah. You wouldn't fight me. You totally like me." He shrugs with a smirk, hooking a slender finger beneath his blindfold. "What is it that has you looking at me like that? Must be the unique hair, right? Did you crush on my ancestors, too?"

You chuckle, stroking his soul with the pad of your thumb. He shivers – just barely. His cheeks flush lightly, easily visible on his milky skin. "I was under the impression that most humans would be upset if I admitted to a past relationship with a forefather. Are you just odd?"

"There's a difference between you romancing my dad and romancing a distant relative from a thousand years ago. You're magical, sexy, ancient-vampire age, not weird-uncle age, you understand?"

With mirth dancing in your eyes, you drop his soul and outline his pale cheek, admiring his fine features. He looks almost dainty when you place your fingers beneath his chin.

"You're strange, Gojo-san," you murmur, dipping in until your lips ghost his ear. His breath hitches: the first crack in his composure. "Your hair is lovely, but I'm much more curious about what you have under here." You tap his blindfolded temple twice, slow and teasing, like you're petting him.

"Never seen a Six Eyes user?" he huffs. You've moved on to other parts of him, circling him like a vulture and tracing the shell of his ear. "That's hard to believe."

"You are taller than those I knew," you muse, your gaze smoky, "and more slender. I daresay you might even be pretty – like a noble's daughter. You share their grace. But they say eyes are the windows to the soul, so being unable to see yours... It dims your beauty, like a moonless night veiling the soft swirl of snowfall."

"Huh," he murmurs. He jerks away then, as if abruptly realising that your noses are almost touching. He laughs, loud and bright. "Yeah, I see why you were popular with the ladies! That was cute. I liked that."

"I'm a romantic." You chuckle, leaning back. "Would you consider my offer, Gojo-san?"

"To join the side of sorcerers, be a turncoat?" His smile is wide, entertained. "I'll think about it. You're fun."

"Does this mean you won't kill me today?"

"Sure, if you leave right now. They're probably wondering why I haven't taken care of you yet."

You hum, stepping past him. You pause, shoulder brushing his – light, lingering, playing against his technique. "Will you take care of me some other time, then?"

He tilts his face towards yours, lips curved up with amusement. He repeats, "I'll think about it."

"I see you have a lot of thoughts to think. Oh, but before I go..." You reach into your sleeve and reveal an old yellowed scroll, the wooden centre dark and slightly shattered as if dropped from a height. You turn it over, tracing a familiar seal carved into one end, and hold it out.

"I believe this belongs to your family," you murmur. "Without my essence protecting it, it's begun to deteriorate. It'd be a shame to let such beautiful art go to waste."

He inspects it, intrigued, and reaches out. "Is this what you wanted to discuss earlier?"

"Partly, yes. But," you pull the scroll back, smiling playfully, "if I return this, you have to promise you won't put me back inside. Not yet, at least. I want to experience all the new kinds of tea humans have come up with. I just adore sweetened tea – the fruity ones are such a novelty."

"A man after my own heart, I see," Satoru hums. "Fine, I agree."

Your pupils dilate again as you step forward and hand it over with a chipper smile. He might find it cute if it weren't paired with the dictator personality.

"Very well – I'll leave you to it. Farewell, Gojo-san." Your smile broadens and you lift a hand out of your robes to wave goodbye over your shoulder. Your golden hair ornament shines in the sunlight, sparkling in the faint morning fog with a dewy lustre, and the thin dangling chains flutter as you retreat into the distance past the school gates.

Satoru's heart skips a beat. He gulps, pushing his blindfold lower over his eyes, and turns the painted scroll over in his clammy hands.

"Him?"

The voice is deep, disgusted, and appalled. Satoru turns back around just in time to see Yuji slap a hand over the mouth on his cheek, only for it to reappear on the back of his hand.

Honestly, he'd forgotten they were still there.

"Of course someone like you would go for a damn bureaucrat," Sukuna drawls, mouth curled into a sneer. "He's also far too old for you."

"Ugh, don't be such a Debbie Downer," Satoru huffs, placing his hand on his hip. "And stay out of my personal business, old man. What are you, my dad?"

"I'll kill you for that insult," he mutters darkly.

"Yeah, yeah, get in line." Satoru slings an arm around Yuji's shoulders, dragging him away from the edge of campus. "Let's stick closer to other people, Yuji! I know the gardens over here are super nice, but I don't want any more crazy curses distracting you, okay? You've got homework to focus on. Speaking of – have you started your science report? It's due on Thursday."

Yuji groans, planting his face in his hands. "Sensei, don't remind me!"

—

At the end of a tiring workday, Satoru slumps onto his couch in his apartment, limp as a noodle, with his head rolling over the back of the sofa. His eyes are closed behind his blindfold as he exhales a lungful of air.

The backrest cushion on both sides of his head dip with weight – two hands. A hot breath fans his cheek, and fingers flutter lightly against his Infinity.

He doesn't open his eyes. "You aren't allowed in here, mister."

"I excel at being where I shouldn't." You test his Infinity further down, moving as if to cup his tilted throat. "Long day, little dove?"

He makes a noise of assent in the back of his throat. "Yeppers. Same as always."

Your weight and presence moves away, and he hears your soft footsteps leading into his kitchen. His open-plan apartment means you don't have to raise your voice to continue speaking with him.

"You know that I could ease some of that burden. Have you considered my offer?"

"I already gave you an answer, YN." He mimes slapping a big button, complete with buzzer noises. "It's a no from me. Unfortunate, right?"

"It can't be from you if you think it's unfortunate, Gojo-san." Your voice is closer again, and Satoru opens his eyes to a tropical smoothie in a tall cup. You offer a straw in your other hand, torn open at one end, and Satoru accepts them both, sliding the straw from its protective sleeve. He jabs it into the top and takes a long, noisy slurp. He leans back with a satisfied hum.

"Please – 'Gojo-san' was my father. Call me Satoru." He pauses. A large, stupid grin crosses his face. "I've always wanted to say that!"

"Rather intimate terms for being less than co-workers, don't you think?" you ask, crumpling the straw's paper sheath in your palm and tossing it into his recycling bin at the end of the kitchen counter. He doesn't want to think about where you're getting your money from.

"Hey, I'm allowed friends outside of work." He pouts, sulking into his yellow smoothie.

Humming, you turn back to him. "Is that what we are? Friends?"

"Whoa, whoa – don't sound so eager," he teases, swirling his cup. Half of it is gone already. "Technically, you and I are 'mortal enemies' or whatever."

"Technically," you echo, and remove your golden kanzashi to reset it. A small thoughtful smile graces your features as you lift your arms to fix your hair, your sleeves slipping down around your elbows, and Satoru finds himself staring for longer than he should.

Irrefutably, you are built like a fighter, not like the diplomat you have made yourself to be. It's almost inspiring. You were made to be a monster and yet you defied your makers and peers, choosing – instead – to serve.

Of course, the jury's still out on whether you did so out of altruism or to crush the world into your idea of a utopia, but that's a question for another day.

You wander towards him on the couch. He's thrown spread-eagle across the length of it, a pink heart-shaped cushion beneath his head, and you press your hand against his thigh to get him to make a space for you. You don't get through his Infinity, don't attempt to, but there is something adorable in the way he obliges regardless, folding his long legs up against his chest. He tucks a hand under his head, and the other places his smoothie on the wooden coffee table.

"What do you think of us, Gojo-san?" you ask inquisitively, picking up his current book on the coffee table and leafing through it casually. Science fiction – with gravity wells, lasers, and galactic space fleets. "Do you... value my presence?"

He lifts his head abruptly, a finger hooking into his blindfold as if he's about to pull it down. "What? Actually, no, don't answer that. Answer this one. Are you asking me if I like you?"

"Perhaps. Do you?"

The question lingers in the air.

"Perhaps," he parrots eventually with the beginnings of a smirk. "Are you sure you haven't messed with my soul to make me crush on you? You curses probably like to lie."

"You would notice if I altered your soul," you hum, flipping to the front of the book and beginning from the first chapter. "Most don't realise because they don't know what I can do. I was responsible for a number of religious revelations in politically-ambitious second and third sons, but who would point at me for it? It was their fathers who were accused of 'sending them away'." You turn the page. "You know your own soul, no? You'd feel the change."

Satoru considers it, then shrugs. "Guess so." He rolls onto his side. This way, it's easier to keep you in his sight. "Did you buy dinner or just the drink?"

"Just the drink." You glance sideways at him, the hint of a smile playing at your lips. "Why? Would you like me to buy dinner for you?"

"I mean, it'd be nice, since you're basically couch-surfing and drinking all my tea while you're at it," he mumbles, kicking your side lightly to get your attention off the book. You oblige, placing your finger between the pages as a temporary bookmark. "I thought you were good at the whole ass-kissing thing."

"I am – but I imagined you'd be tired of it, given what I know of your upbringing. Would you like me to kiss your ass, then?" He knows you're only repeating his words, but his cheeks flush hot anyway. You say it too casually, too much part-of-the-sentence, and it feels like more of a statement than a turn of phrase.

He curls up a little more on the sofa and scoffs. "Please. As if you'd ever do that to me."

"You speak as if you know me," you reply, amused. "How can you be so sure?"

He lists off on his fingers. "Number one, I know what you are, so you don't have to pretend to be a simple run-of-the-mill aristocrat where it's expected behaviour. Secondly, you have literally nothing to gain from being a suck-up. Doesn't seem like a very efficient use of your precious time and effort to me."

You hum. "I wouldn't say an alliance is nothing."

He sits up, legs stretched out in front of him, and he tosses them over your lap. "But we don't have one. You and me – absolute foes. Total archnemeses."

You set down the book without marking your place, and Satoru wonders if you'd been reading it or simply acting like it. He doesn't have long to think about it before you're sliding closer to him, one arm resting over the sofa's backrest and effectively caging him in. You tilt your head and blink at him, slow and curious like a cat.

"You really think that, Gojo-san?" You voice is soft. "I thought I was your secret bad boyfriend."

"Bad-boy," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"Isn't that what I said?"

"No, the term is 'bad-boy boyfriend. Separate words." He taps his lips. "How can I explain this? A 'bad boy' is what you call someone rebellious, possibly dangerous, and who does what he wants when he wants, regardless of what's considered proper. You know what a boyfriend is?"

"Well, yes. A male partner to whom you are not yet engaged."

It's almost cute how concentrated you look. He claps. "Correct! So, altogether, it's a cool, rebellious guy you like who you wouldn't bring back to your parents. Or bring to meet the emperor, maybe. Does that make sense?"

You chuckle lightly, brushing your hair out of your eyes as you rest your temple against your hand. Your gaze doesn't leave him. "I can see why you became a tutor. You have a patience few possess. Now, if I am to be this... bad-boy boyfriend," you say carefully, brightening at his approving nod, "then I'd benefit from more lessons, yes? I want to be a reliable ally in these strange times. The more I understand, the better."

Satoru raises a brow behind his blindfold, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, you want me to spend more time with you – which is against the rules, might I add. But how do I know you won't stab me in the back? Binding vow or something?"

You lift your hand to his face. It hovers just off his skin, his Infinity tingling against your palm. You trace the shape of his cheek, leading down his neck and shoulder. "I will be honest with you. First, I sought to lead. Jujutsu society has long been ruled by the weak and underserving, and if they will chase me to the ends of the earth even if I kill nothing and hurt no one, I have no choice but to turn around and fight. But then I met you – the Gojo child chained by the very people he tries to help. They fear power even when it is on their side. You intrigued me, so my goals have changed. What I want has changed."

"And what do you want?"

"I'll be frank." You place your hand on his chest. Infinity glimmers, warping the light. "You."

His breath catches in his throat.

You watch him closely, expression slightly smug, slightly coy. You wear it well. Your rich clothing and prideful, almost lazy gaze makes him feel like he's been approached by the emperor to become his concubine.

His heartbeat pulses hotly in the palms of his suddenly-clammy hands. Despite it, he grins widely and throws his head back to laugh, wicked and sharp. "So you do have a crush on me! Knew it."

"You are headstrong, powerful, and bright and beautiful as the dawn," you hum, smiling when he scoffs and rolls his whole head instead of just his eyes. A habit, perhaps, for expressing himself to his students. "I think we would be good together."

"Oh, really? What makes you think you're my type? Maybe I like guys who aren't crazy soul-bending egomaniacs."

"If you didn't at least find me amusing, I'd be dead right now. That you eat out of my hand like a kitten is another fact I cannot ignore."

He scoffs. "Please. If anyone's eating out of someone's hands, it'd be you. You're drawn to power like a moth to a lamp."

"True," you concede, inspecting your nails. "It has a certain charm to it."

"Is it charm?" Satoru mirrors your posture, arm resting on the back of the couch and body turned towards you. He snickers as he leans in. "Or is it the feeling of surrendering control to someone stronger?"

"You're not stronger than me," you correct immediately with casual dismissiveness, though you don't lean away. "Don't be absurd."

"You sure?" he asks playfully. He flexes an arm and kisses his knuckles. "We should totally arm wrestle to check."

You blink. "Did you kiss your fist?"

He corrects himself by kissing his bicep. Your face splits into a blinding grin and you can't hide your laughter at the absurdity of it all. Satoru watches with an adorably lopsided smile. Isn't it strange, the way your company makes him feel? The way he loses the air in his lungs and gets nervous about how his hair looks whenever you meet his eyes? The apartment feels warmer. He feels less alone.

"If only you were human," he murmurs as your laughter dies down. He glances away when you tilt your head, a questioning look in your eyes. "You, uh, would be a good asset to have on our side."

You shuffle closer until your thigh touches Infinity and you lean in, resting your temple against your hand. You chuckle. "It'd make me more trustworthy, wouldn't it? Alas and alack. I haven't even killed anyone since I was released. You would think that counts for something."

Satoru lifts his eyes. "Oh? What about that curse you were hunting? As far as I remember, you wanted to kill him."

"I was debating it," you correct. "Unfortunately, my head's been a mess since I woke up in your world. I made some... questionable decisions."

"Good or bad?"

"I can't say yet. But can I admit something, Gojo-san – Satoru?"

The way his name rolls off your tongue sends shivers down his spine. It's easy to imagine you in a royal court, slinking your way through politics with a flash of your silver tongue.

He shrugs. "You've already invaded my home. Go ahead."

You smile. "I promised I'd let him live if he became my... companion. Regarding cursed techniques, his echoes mine. You can imagine my excitement at such a revelation. I let him live, but after getting to know him? I think I much prefer your company."

"So you'd replace him with me? That's callous." He snickers. "Okay, so if I thought it sounded fun and agreed to it, what would even, like, happen? You can't teach me soul tricks. I doubt you need me to teach you how to throw a punch, either."

"I look for a different sort of companionship with you." Steadily, you hold his gaze beyond his blindfold. "One more... intimate."

He stares at you. You glance down at his lips, lingering there, before dragging your eyes back up and offering a coy smile. He goes slightly pink.

"Humanity is largely hedonistic, pleasure-seeking," you hum, leaning infinitesimally nearer. "Sex is the one thing that benefits."

His fingers twitch slightly. His heart rate is measured, but you can sense the concentration behind it.

He licks his lips. "Really?" he asks in a purposely airy tone. "And what experience do you have with that? You said you never slept with the women at court."

"No, I didn't."

You say nothing else – simply stare, expectant.

This time, his cheeks explode with heat he can't control. He flutters a hand over his face, a fruitless attempt to hide his red cheeks and pout. "Stop talking. Right now."

"I didn't say anything." Smoothly, you glide forward, one hand against the backrest and the other by his hip – his gaze trails up as you move. The shadow of a smirk plays at your lips. "Why? Not interested?"

His brows furrow, and the way you can see them shift under his blindfold is endearing. He crosses his arms and huffs. "Ugh... Not not interested... But here I was, thinking you had more grace than to tell me about all the pretty noble sons you've bedded. Big faux pas, bee-tee-dubs. Don't talk about exes with a potential partner. Bragging about how many side pieces you've had no longer gets people swooning – we value loyalty these days."

"Hm. I'll keep that in mind." You tilt your head, gazing at him in a way that makes him wonder if he truly is impenetrable. Your voice softens. "The way I could listen to you speak for days on end..." You trail off, then chuckle, dragged back to the present by the shift of his thighs against yours. "Satoru, I think your teachings deserve gratitude. May I?"

His breath hitches as you bring your hand up to his cheek, teasing his Infinity. Despite the barrier, he still shivers, haunted by your closeness – he can see the flecks of colour in your eyes, count every eyelash. His fist tangles in the front of your traditional wear.

He doesn't say a word. Just grabs your collar, drags you down, and smashes his lips against yours.

He's warmer than you imagined, you think as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. Perhaps you were being too judgemental – his snowy hair and sky-blue eyes lent themselves to a wintry palette, and some instinctual part of you thought he'd feel the same.

He pulls back to breathe, panting softly against your lips. His fists loosen as he lifts his head, tongue darting out over his lower lip as if savouring the taste of you.

"You lowered your Infinity," you say, unable to mask the surprise in your voice. "Why?"

"I can't kiss you if it's up. Obviously."

"You trust me enough for that?" A delighted smile brightens your face. "If I had a heart, it would be racing, Satoru."

The tightness in his chest feels dangerously like affection. He swallows, pulling away with his pulse pounding in his ears.

"You should probably go," he sighs eventually, glancing aside. "It wouldn't do us any good if people found out you were crashing at my place." He hesitates. "Thanks for buying me that drink. Wish I could return the favour."

You tilt your head with a soft smile. "You're welcome. Will I see you again, Satoru?"

After a moment's thought, Satoru leans in and presses a lingering kiss to your lips, tracing your jawline and cupping your cheek. He parts with a soft smack, blushing slightly as you gaze at him with patient, half-lidded eyes.

"I really hope not," he whispers, dropping his hand. With one final, lasting glace, he stands and retreats into his bathroom, shutting the door with a soft click of the lock.

The message is clear. You were never here.

—

As it turns out, you are exceptionally good at not listening. Satoru stares down at you, expression dumbfounded, as you shift in the bolted-down chair, testing the chains around you. They are fortified with cursed energy. The room is dim, candlelit, and covered in the strongest paper seals available.

"YN, you... let yourself be captured? Why?"

He sounds so genuinely baffled that it brings a smile to your face. You lean back in the chair and flick your hair from your eyes with a casual toss of your head.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you, Satoru," you reply. "I wanted to see you again. I wasn't content with how our last conversation ended. This seemed to be the quickest method of reaching you."

"They almost killed you for it."

You scoff, lips curling in distaste. "They came nowhere close to that, I promise. I had that sorcerer by the throat until he promised to let me talk to you – I'm positively thrilled to be in this position, so please, rest easy. Concern doesn't suit you, especially not over a lowly curse."

Satoru eyes you behind his blindfold, calculating yet intrigued. From what he gathered from the archives, an arrogant play like this is right up your alley. If anything goes sour, you can bring out Ol' Reliable – your silver tongue – and simply talk your way out, maybe aided by a flutter of gold threads behind your back if you grow impatient. It seems to have happened before in at least one attempted assassination.

Unfortunately, Satoru is aware of your tricks.

"I'm curious," he begins, stepping closer. "You value your life over all else and won't hesitate to throw someone under the bus to protect yourself. But you know jujutsu society isn't like what it was – so why risk it all just to talk to me? For all you knew, they could have sealed you away again or just exorcised you on the spot. Regarding deals and promises, sorcerers are no longer as honourable as they once were. Consequence of modernity."

In return, you simply smile, eyes tracking his figure smoothly like a cat with prey. He comes to a stop right in front of you, legs an inch away from your knees, and stares down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his blindfolded gaze, challenging and subservient all at once.

"You're worth it," you purr, voice like silk. "You and I could do so much together... if only you stopped deferring to those ridiculous elders of yours. Even I can recognise when order and propriety do more harm than good."

His brows furrows as he places his hands in his pockets. "What do you even get out of this? What are you trying to manipulate me into?"

"Oh, Satoru, I'm not trying to manipulate you," you sigh, exasperated. "When I mentioned I wanted to be good this time, I was telling the truth. Maybe for the novelty of it, or perhaps I truly am good and virtuous and only buried myself in dirty court politics because it kept me out of sorcerer hands. I'm still working on understanding it myself. I don't particularly like humans, but I don't feel superior to them simply because I'm a cursed spirit. I know I'm better because none would, if they were me, serve as I have. However, humans created me. It's only right to extend them a certain respect – like parents."

You were more and more baffling by the day.

Satoru scratches the back of his head, lips twisting in a confused pout. "Sooo... You're like, what, a class traitor? But for curses?"

"I'm not betraying anything. I only serve myself and my own interests." You smile, gaze raking his body. "And I am currently very interested in you."

He says nothing for a long while, simply observing you as you get comfortable, pleased with yourself.

Abruptly, Satoru laughs, fanning his face dramatically as he turns away. "Oh, stop it, you! You're such a flirt. One thing you should know about me before you commit is that I'm territorial. If you want to be with me, you can't traipse off to meet those curses I helped you find – never ever, understand? Or I'll have to break things off and things will get ugly. 'Broken-plates-and-cops-called' kind of ugly."

His voice is flippant and teasing, but the warning beneath it is crystal clear. He's allowing you to indulge in him – he won't hesitate to bring you down if you so much as think about jumping the line.

Luckily, Satoru is far more interesting than Mahito. Stronger, too. Just your type.

"I understand," you reply, watching as he swaggers closer and leans down, resting a palm against the back of your chair. "Does this change our relationship to one of equals, Satoru? Or, at least, as close as you'll allow me to be. I am only a simple spirit, as you know well."

He stares down at you, scrutinising. Then he grins. "Ha! Whatever, sure. I like my men humble – and if you talk me up, that's a bonus."

"Unfortunately, I'm not so humble as to accept my position in these chains. Would you release me?"

He wanders in a slow circle around your chair, trailing his fingers over your shoulders. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, gazing at you with the hint of a smirk. "Hm... But you look so nice in them. It'd be a waste to destroy them that quick."

"Oh, dear – what a poor unfortunate soul I am, then," you husk, feeling his cursed energy crackle dangerously close to your throat, not quite breaking skin. "I am at your complete," his fingers brush your jaw, "and total," he grabs your hair and yanks, forcing your gaze up, "mercy."

You smirk up at him, tongue darting out to wet your lips. You twist your wrists against the chains.

"Say that again," he murmurs.

"Which part?" You bat your lashes at him. "Mercy?"

His grip tightens in your hair.

You suck in a breath, expression tightening in either pain or pleasure. He supposes it's all the same to you. You settle down again in your chair, legs shifting, and your smile widens as you feel his cursed energy wash over you. He's checking the room and the area around it.

"Find anything?" you hum, feeling him remove your kanzashi. "Be careful with that, please. It's bespoke."

He sets it aside on a small square table pushed up in the corner. "There are two sorcerers outside this door," he replies, tilting his head in its direction. "And one at the end of the hall. How much do you value your privacy?"

"More than the average human would, I'd wager. I'm quite traditional, you understand."

"I do." He turns, pulling his blindfold down. He opens breathtakingly brilliant blue eyes, and lifts one hand. He crosses his fingers.

"Domain expansion." His lips barely move, pulled into a smile. "Unlimited Void."

You think you're going to die.

Perhaps you miscalculated. Perhaps you got greedy. You can only rely on your looks and charisma to get so far, and Satoru isn't like the nobles you used to toy with.

Those victories made you confident – too confident. The corners of your lips turn down into a slight pout. Well, at least you'll finally be able to tell if those sorcerers who sealed you were correct – they feared your death would suspend the souls of every living thing indefinitely, cleaving them from their bodies. You'd been on the verge of dying exactly once – when you were very, very young – and it shredded every soul in a growing radius until they hastily set you free.

You liked the idea that you might be the only thing holding them together – it made you vital to their survival despite their hatred of you, and it did nothing for your ego.

The chair crumbles like ash beneath you and the seals burn away as easily as tissues. You collapse, your loosened hair falling over your eyes, and the deep velvet of space and knowledge stretches infinitely before you. Dancing around you are swirls of gold and blue and purple and white, every galaxy containing multitudes of memories that rush into your head relentlessly like a broken dam.

A cool hand lifts your chin, and your mind untangles as if swept clear by a soft breeze. Satoru presses his lips against yours.

You gasp as he pushes you to the floor – or what passes as it – and he throws one leg over your hips, his hands gliding up your arms to pin your wrists above your head. His lips move hungrily against yours and you groan his name as he loosens your clothes with expert precision.

"This – what is this?" You shudder as he leans down and kisses your bare chest, licking a hot stripe up the cleave of your pectorals.

"Insurance," he replies with a lopsided grin, kissing lower and lower. "It'd be real embarrassing to die with your dick out, yeah? So don't do anything silly."

Your throat bobs harshly as he laps at your stomach, tracing the muscles and unwrapping the layers of silk garb as if you're a piece of candy. When he pulls your cock out, he moans, back arching as he stares down at it in his hand, eyes wide and delighted.

"Don't worry," he hums, spitting on his palm and stroking your length from tip to root. "Nobody will hear a thing. It's the perfect soundproofing – aren't I so smart?"

"You're mad," you breathe, voice trembling ever so slightly. You're still recovering from his domain – the taste of his power is intoxicating. Satoru's grin only widens.

"Oops," he says charmingly, and presses your length flat against his stomach. He measures it, giggling to himself as he tugs off his clothes. "Wow, you're big! I was hoping you would be, but this is something else... Actually, why do you have a dick?" he asks with a curious pout, tapping his lips as he polishes your tip with his thumb and swipes the slit. "Can you have babies? Do you have even have genes and chromosomes? Like, what's it for?"

"It's for whores like you," you retort, your hands remaining above your head where he left them. "A survival adaptation to keep your hands off my throat."

He chuckles, shimmying down until he can press a kiss to your shaft. He licks it with a soft moan, blinking slowly up at you through his thick lashes as his tongue swipes over the tip. "You're lucky you're cute. I don't normally let people call me a whore, but I guess you really are the exception."

"Is it an insult if it's true? Look at you, lapping me up like a little bitch. All that strength, just to sit at my feet with my cock in your mouth... What would your superiors think if they knew their most powerful asset can be swayed by simple lust?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, staring down your nose at him. You spread your thighs and he chuckles, pressing his nose to the junction between your thigh and torso. He breathes in deep and his eyes flutter shut, a long moan reverberating at the base of his chest.

"You're so cocky! Shockingly dirty-mouthed, too," he drawls. He kisses your shaft and grins, lopsided. "But fuck, you smell good."

Satoru's lips part and he closes his eyes as he swallows your cock, tongue poking out and curling against the veins on the underside. He rubs the tip with his fingerpad, smearing the precome along the tapered tip; he giggles slightly, nibbling on his lower lip as he gazes at the beading slit.

"Wonder how this'll feel inside me," he whispers, sliding your cock between the V of his fingers and suckling on the tip with a playful string of wet kisses. "I know you haven't gotten laid in literally a thousand years, but try not to come too quick, 'kay? I wanna enjoy this before I have to exorcise you."

"Oh, but haven't you heard? The last time humans tried to kill me, I tore the souls out of everyone around me and would've taken more if they didn't stop. It wasn't by choice, mind you, but at least they died quickly."

He huffs as he sits up and plants himself on your lap, messily kicking off his trousers. It seems as if your warning did nothing to dampen his arousal. If anything, he appears more excited.

"Tore them out, huh?" He wraps his arms around your shoulders and wiggles to get comfortable, his bulge grinding against yours purposely. "Where'd they go after that?"

"You're dangerously interested in my technique, Satoru," you murmur, dipping your head to brush your lips against his. He leans in to finish the kiss, moaning softly as he rocks himself down on your lap. Your silk robes lay puddled around you, hanging from your forearms as your hands slide under his top. "My death could spell the end of every human in the country – perhaps more. Are you really willing to test that, all for a world that doesn't care for who you are or what you've sacrificed?"

"I don't do it for the fame," he whispers. He shimmies his briefs off and reaches down to stroke your cock, placing it at his hole – tight, warm, hungry. "I do it because it's right."

"Are you doing this because it's right?" You cup his ass and spread his cheeks, your tip slipping past his tight rim. He whimpers slightly, jolting forward. "Are you, Satoru?"

He gasps as he sinks down on your length, nails digging into your skin as he works his way down inch by inch. He bounces shallowly, cheeks red with heat and want. "Stop that. You said you weren't trying to manipulate me."

"It's only a question, darling."

Shuddering, he squeezes his eyes shut and shoves you to the ground, wrapping his hands around your neck. Your pupils blow wide as he slams his hips down onto your cock, swallowing the whole thing in one solid motion. Your head tips back and a sharp, drawled groan escapes your lips as his wet, tender walls hug your dick, flexing and squeezing irregularly as he grows accustomed to your size.

He places a shaky hand on his stomach, feeling the bulge move against his palm whenever he does. He can feel it shift inside him with every breath, thick and deep and hot. The tapered head of your cock glides against his deepest places whenever his ass meets your thighs – you slick him up with an unholy amount of precome, and he shudders.

"Stop chatting," he pants, "and jus' let me fuck you."

You smile up at him despite the hands around your throat. You drop your arms, grabbing his waist, and you groan freely as he rides you, rough and impatiently needy.

"Or what?" you taunt. "I'm of no use to you dead."

He leans in, eyes dark and lidded with desire. "I don't have to kill you to punish you," he whispers, rolling his hips sinfully. He laughs wildly, breathlessly. "A-Ah, shit – bet you just feel so proud, huh? You and your pretty face, your pretty words... I don't even want to kill you anymore. You're too much fun. D'you know how dangerous that is?"

"Perhaps we should find out," you murmur, voice smooth and tantalising. Even in his own domain, a place where he should have total control, your words caress his ears and sink into his brain like fingers into jelly. You're like a drug, every word another hit. He shudders as you kiss his neck, sharp teeth grazing his jugular. "You and me, a time and place. Somewhere open. Don't worry, Satoru – I will stay with you even if you lose."

Satoru kisses you messily, short and hot and with clashing tongues. His hands caress your jaw and cup the back of your head, gently pulling you into his sweet breath.

"You aren't stronger than me," he breathes, grinning as he pants and bounces harder in your lap. His Six Eyes are trained on you, tracking every twitch and pulse of pleasure. He traces your warm lips. "Such a silly kitty."

In response, you nip at his fingers with your canines – he tugs his hand back with a playfully frightened gasp, but not without giggling and diving in for more kisses. He seems to like them, the way you lean roughly into him in a push for dominance.

You would rather die than say this aloud, but you don't mind if he wins. Satoru is gorgeous, powerful, and knows what he wants – you do not mind serving a master with such... conviction. And if this master allows you to indulge in his strong, lithe body, allows you to feast on him like a beast without trying to shackle you, then you have found no greater purpose.

"Satoru," you purr, his name like a prayer. Your hands move to his hips, resting on the cusp of his ass, and he shivers and moans as you trail your fingers up and down his spine. "Oh, Satoru..."

His teeth sink into his lower lip, quivering at the way his name curls in your mouth, taut with bliss. He can feel you inside him, throbbing hot and achy and far thicker than any human. You push his hips down, quickening his pace for him, and he can't bring himself to care. It feels too good. He curls his arms around your head, tugging your into the nook under his chin. His white lashes flutter as his head tips back, a drunken, bitten smile tugging at his plump  lips.

Your lidded gaze trails down his body, the smooth ridges of his toned torso deliciously smooth and sweet. He shudders and moans as your tongue trails down his neck to his pebbled, blush-pink nipple, your lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly. His back arches as his fingers twist in the baby hairs at the nape of your neck, his rocking hips growing sloppy and rough.

"How could you ever win when you unravel so easily for me, little dove?" you murmur, tongue circling his perky bud. He lets out a soft groan, sweetened by a pout – somewhere between pleasure and petulance.

He tugs your hair, making you pop off with a wet suck, then pushes you to the other side of his chest like the brat he is. You smirk, canines peeking out, and obediently lower your head to his chest. His hips stutter as your hand pinches and rolls his other hard, wet bud between his fingers. You flick it at the same time you give a hard suck and he whimpers, chest arching against your mouth. Dragging a rough hand through his hair, he moans, his fingers fluttering over your bicep as he twitches on your lap.

"Mmh – I'm letting you do this, so shut up! 'S not my fault that I have pretty moans 'n' like it messy," he whines, a particularly delicious grind of his ass making an involuntary groan hiss through your teeth. "I wanna come just as much as you want me to, so 'm not gonna hold it 'n' blueball myself. 'S hard to, anyway, with the fucking size of this thing." He simpers, reaching down to stroke your thick base – he gasps in shaky awe as the slick heat of it swells under his touch. "W-What – oh my god, are you getting bigger?"

"Do I taste nervousness, Satoru? Am I too much for you to handle?" You nip at his throat near his prominent Adam's apple, ensuring he can't hide it with a simple upturned collar. He'll need to put in more effort. Does this categorise you as a high-maintenance lover?

"Stop that. 'Course I can handle you," he rebuts immediately, fingers gliding over the thick, pulsing heat of your cock. When he meets your eyes, they're dark with need, like an ocean in the middle of winter. He licks his lips as your nail guards dig into the dimples above his ass, his palm tight and warm around your base as he rocks shallowly on the first few inches of your cock.

He glances down at your body, fascinated. "All your fancy words and expensive clothes, and you still have a cock like an animal. What's your opinion on nature versus nurture?"

You bare your teeth at him with a growl, eyes narrowing. He does it back, showing off small blunt incisors, and giggles. He lets go of your cock and takes it in as he can, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and sinking his soft ass all the way to your base. His tight hole tenses and twitches around you.

"It's okay," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck as you prop yourself up on one hand, the other kneading his ass. "I prefer you as you are. You don't have to pretend."

"Who said I'm pretending?" You bring your palm down hard on his ass, making him jolt into your chest and mewl. His wet, oil-hot walls flutter against your dick, hugging every ridge and throbbing vein. "Just because you put on a mask every day doesn't mean I do as well." You consider him, lazily watching him bounce haphazardly on your cock without rhyme or reason. You click your tongue and roll your eyes, grabbing his waist and throwing him down onto what passes as the floor. Around him, space ripples like impermeable black water at the impact, but he doesn't break the surface.

His breath hitches as you hover over him, your strong body forcing his thighs open to accommodate you between them. His eyes are wide – watching, half-cautious – as you lean down until your hair tickles his cheeks. Your breath is hot and velvety, and against his will, his eyes flicker down to the threat of your lips. They curve into a sharp smile.

"Be a good little sorcerer and take it," you whisper, arms braced beside his head. You grind deep inside him, and he chokes on a moan, thighs trembling. "You'll be whining and crying on my cock in no time. Then you can tell me again who the real animal is."

You draw back and slam into him with an echoing slap. The meat of his ass ripples with the impact, a shocked cry yanked out of him as the thickest part of your cock shoves past his tight rim. He scrabbles against your chest, nails raking tingling lines of cursed energy down your skin, and you catch his ankle before he can kick you with a flailing leg. With dark, predatory eyes, you push his leg higher and kiss up his ankle to his knee, your scarlet tongue peeking out between your lips to taste his skin. He twitches, lips parted to gasp and pant, as you drape yourself over him and kiss him deeply.

He cries out into your mouth as you fold him in half, his calves resting over your broad shoulders. His asshole spasms around your thick cock and he whimpers with your tongue down his throat as the fat bulb of your cockhead plugs him up and stretches him wider than he ever thought possible.

"Ah, hah – mm, wait," he whines, gasping as you swallow his words and press deeper into him. Thick and heavy, your cock bulges in his flat stomach above his belly button, revealing just how deep you are – how small he is to you. Even in his domain, he's still just human, and a wicked grin stretches across your lips as all the fight and confidence seeps out of him from your cock alone.

"W-Wait," he whimpers, wide and shiny blue eyes staring up at you. They flutter shut as you interrupt his next words with a heavy kiss. "I-I'm not – mmph—!"

You grab his white hair and pin him to the ground. He gasps, one hand shooting up to grip your wrist, as you curl over him and bury your nose in his neck. Your cock drives hard and deep into him, over and over again with wet slick sounds. Somehow, sound seems to echo and get swallowed up at the same time. Satoru hiccups in an adorable little panic as your tip constantly pops past his tight puckered rim, opening him up like a flower.

"Mmh, mmph!" His spine arches, a little bridge, as you slam into his guts with the full length of your cock, making him sob and moan as his hole squelches with your precome. Despite his writhing and weak attempts at kicking you away, he doesn't stop touching you – he keeps you nice and safe within the realm of his domain, unwilling to let you go.

His own cock, largely forgotten, bounces against his stomach, dripping like a broken faucet. It curves up, dusky pink and darker at the shiny mushroom tip. He reaches down and grabs it, humping his fist, but you tut and yank his arms above his head. It makes him cry out in distress.

"You'll come from your ass or not at all," you whisper, fucking into him so hard tears prick at his fluttering eyes. "Good birdie."

He wheezes softly as you yank his hips towards you, tossing his other leg over your shoulder and gripping his unblemished alabaster thighs. Obediently, he leaves his hands right where you left them above his head – he makes no move to fight back as you take and take and take his pleasure from him, your wet cock dripping inside his silky hot hole.

A plump, blissful smile decorates his flushed expression, dumb and whorish. You lean down, this time taking both his legs with you, and lick at his lips until he turns his face to you and lets you claim his mouth, your long tongue gliding over his teeth and twisting with his tongue. Saliva drips from the corner of his mouth as you pull his face towards yours, and his expression tightens in pleasure as your tongue pushes down his throat.

His eyes roll back as you practically fuck his throat. He jolts and shudders, tears blurring his vision as he tries his best to suppress his gag reflex, but you're so insistent and demanding that he can't do anything but mindlessly accept everything you offer.

Your cock fucking his guts and your tongue claiming his throat feels impossibly good. His legs hook limply over your elbows, his balls aching and dick straining as you use him up like a toy. His hole doesn't even resist you anymore – he feels it push in and out without much fight, just a wet sucking pop every time it pulls out as if even his ass misses it. 

He feels so sinfully full from both ends. The solid slapping of your hips against his ass sounds far too loud – it's all he can think about. What does he look like, he wonders, whining and blushing and speared on a curse's fat cock?

He has a dangerous half-thought about dropping his domain and letting everyone watch him get split open by the very things they're supposed to destroy.

Satoru's cock throbs, the pleasure bubbling up from so deep that it almost hurts. His balls are tight and heavy. Jets of clear precome shoot across his stomach, dripping into the smooth ridges of his muscles. He drools as your dick ruts against his achy prostate, hot and swollen with the constant rubbing from your veiny cock.

Your thrusts quicken, rough and deep. You pull away to admire him, and he immediately protests with a whiny cry, his lips parting and his tongue lolling out before he can stop himself. With a chuckle, you lean in to kiss him and suck on his tongue, and he eagerly hooks his arms around your biceps and cries out in a sharp staccato that crescendos into a constant stream of desperate, echoing moans.

Your tongue slides wetly against his. It's so much longer and more dexterous than his, and it's all he can do to stay awake.

He buckles under the weight of your desire. He's not usually so... submissive. Fleeting curiosity always turned to disinterest no matter how many times he revisited the idea. He's the strongest, after all; it's only natural that submitting control to anything would feel strange and unnatural. But you turn everything he thought he knew upside down – he just can't get enough of you, of the heavy hand twisted in his sweat-damp hair.

You break the kiss to graze your teeth against his jugular, soft and warm. His heartbeat throbs through the delicate skin, quick like a rabbit's. One look at his expression tells you he's too far gone to care about faking his feelings. 

"Ohh, don't stop," he whines breathlessly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and burying his face into your neck. He breathes in deeply – you smell like petrichor with a hint of something fresh and floral, as if you'd tucked a wildflower behind your ear and left it there for a day. Your sharp canines dimple his skin with the slightest pressure, and he shudders as your tongue sweeps over his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, every instinct screaming in protest as he lets his head loll to one side and offers his pretty pale skin as a canvas. "'M gonna come! Oh fuck, oh, fuck, 'm coming, don't fucking stop!"

"I won't." You smile against his milky skin, fist tightening in his hair. To Satoru, it feels like a death roll, a python's constriction. There will be nothing left of him when you are done.

He shouts your name as his back arches suddenly, his body locking up and his toes curling as he sobs and unravels. His nails cut bloody crescents into your shoulders and rake across your sides and back, his lithe body convulsing violently as your pace slows to a rough, slow fuck, every thrust accentuated with a disgustingly deep grind of your hips that has him hiccuping and spurting violent ropes of come across his stomach. Each time your thickened base pops past his rim, he can feel his walls moulding around it, hugging it tight as you carve through him mercilessly. 

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his head buzzing. Your teeth sink into the soft meat of his shoulder, and despite his whimpers and blubbered half-words, he doesn't move to stop you. Not even when you trail your bloodied lips up, up, up – and press a lingering red kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your tongue slips between his lips and his cock jerks with a thick spurt as you offer to him the iron taste of his own blood.

"Good little birdie," you murmur, voice like velvet as your eyes slide closed – perhaps for the first time since you laid eyes on him. You tuck your head into his shoulder, your thrusts quickening and growing less restrained – you fuck him so hard his ass stings and ricochets with the contact, and you no longer have to worry about how he'll fit you. He's dripping so much come and pre that one swipe of your palm over his stomach would serve you fine for a whole night.

Your brow furrows as you drape your body over his, almost completely engulfing him until only his limbs and his fluffy white hair are visible past the bulk of your body. His feet poke up over your shoulders, his nails rake tiger stripes along your ribs, and he's got a thick creamy mess trickling down his sides. The white curls at the base of his cock are sticky and hot. You drag your golden nail guards roughly through his tangled ghost-pale hair, and Satoru sinks his teeth into his pillowy lower lip to silence the pleas that threaten to break through.

With a wanton moan that peaks high and whorish at the end, Satoru's aching thighs tremble viciously, his half-softened cock still straining to spurt what little come he has left. 

Your balls, warm and heavy, smack firmly against the swell of his reddened ass with every calculated thrust. Your gaze bores into him, using the minute changes in his expression and body language to turn him into a brainless doll that takes cock as if he were born for it.

"You're—" he giggles dreamily "—mm, you're s-sooo big... Ah—!"

You cup his chest, rolling your thumb over his peaked dusky pink nipples. His body jolts hard, unable to decide between pulling away or leaning in. Your voice is ragged and rough with lust when you speak next, a rare change from your usual velvety voice.

"I know, dove," you rasp, inhuman eyes tracking him freakishly smoothly. He swallows harshly, biting back groans that are embarrassingly needy.

Look at him, being stupid and selfish. Never in a million years would he think he'd enjoy the company of a curse outside of battle. He's a horrible person.

But you're just so… bizarre. Entertaining. You don't care for sorcerers unless they interfere with your lifestyle, and you interact with them as little as possible so you can lord happily over your herd of sheep in peace and quiet. Yet, you seek him out. Yet, you offer your services in exchange for your life.

Yet, you tell him, "Satoru, kiss me."

Without thinking, he does. You're an unfortunately good kisser and he melts into it easily, his fraying morals melting away into nothing. You kiss him as if you love him, deep and slow and soft with just the right amount of dominance that has him arching into your body.

He barely has to do anything – just lay there and take it and come his fucking brains out. It's nice to not have to think for once. He whimpers against your lips when you drop his legs and wrap them around your waist, pulling him close and cradling his head to kiss him. He gasps into your mouth, eyes fluttering as his throbbing dick drips, glazed in layers of milky white.

You growl softly, a low rumbling sound that feels good against his chest. You pull him closer, his frothy messy hole squelching with precome. You shove your face in his neck and slam straight into his hypersensitive prostate violently, making him wail and come abruptly like a truck.

"Where?" you huff out, voice low and breath hot against his jawline. Your grip tightens on his hip. "Where, birdie?"

He mumbles out a pitiful, indistinguishable sentence, unable to glue his thoughts back together. With hot palms, he pushes you away slightly and meets your shark-black gaze. The annoyed huff you exhale dies when he parts his lips and sticks out his little pink tongue, fingers pushing into his mouth as he gasps and stutters and stares pleadingly up at you. 

"Fuck."

It's the first curse word he's heard you say. He had little time to preen, however, because you pull out with a sudden rough pipe, half yanking him down with the motion as the ridges of your tip catch on his rim. He whines, jaw dropping as his hole clenches and his thighs shake, and then there's a cock stuffed in his mouth and flooding his gullet with thick, hot seed.

Satoru's eyes roll back as his nails dig into your thighs, clawing you closer. Your base presses against his plump lips and his back arches as you yank his head up towards your hips, your knees on either side of his shoulders. He jerks and drools, throat working constantly to avoid choking.

You're too big to fit completely in his jaw. Instead, he lets it rest on his tongue, the tip of it flicking against your base and curling beneath it. You grab him and wrap his hand around yourself, squeezing, and he moans around your length as he feels you pulse and throb against his fingers. Every throb sends a deluge of come down his throat. He can barely swallow it fast enough, gasping and panting between wet slurps as he jerks off what he can't suck.

With a low groan of pleasure, you press down into him, and his legs kick out as you fuck his throat. Your hand twists in his hair, keeping him still.

"You're doing so well, pretty thing," you coo, and he whimpers as his cock jumps against his stomach. You stare down at him with a soft smile, almost loving, before fisting his hair and crushing your cock down his throat. Your head tips back as Satoru gags, choking wetly, and he can barely breathe, saliva and come dripping down the corners of his mouth and down his chin in filthy sticky strings.

His hips jerk. He comes again, completely untouched, and you laugh cruelly when you notice it, making him flush three shades darker as he squirms and thrusts up into nothing.

Finally, when he sags to the ground and struggles to keep his throat from convulsing around you, you let him go, dragging your spit-slick cock past his lips. He gasps and coughs, expression flushed and hair a mess, and lazily thrusts his hips up into your palm as you stroke him and let him come all over your fist. You lean down to kiss him, and he moans as you scoop the remnants of your own come onto your tongue.

Right, you've got an ego problem. Of course you'd like the taste of yourself – which, Satoru admits, is the perfect mix of salty and sweet.

You part with a slick smack of lips, and Satoru stares up at you with lidded eyes and a fat, blissful smile, chest heaving as he catches his breath. You don't need to do the same, but you stay quiet regardless, one of your hands cupping his head for support as he leans towards you with a raspy chuckle.

"Dumbest idea ever," he whispers, his hole twitching and clenching around nothing. He reaches down to circle his rim, gaping and unable to close. He licks his lips. "Shame that I hafta kill you."

"You won't." Your eyes narrow.

"I will," he counters. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his embrace, and his domain dissolves around you and disappears into the corners of the room. "Just... maybe later."

You chuckle, hands travelling over the curves of his body to trace the marks you've left behind. "Then I still have time to change your mind. I will kneel for you," you murmur, and he tilts his head with a pleased, cocky grin. "I have been told I look wonderful on my knees."

"I could see that," he whispers, giggling as you lift a golden pendant over your head and place it around his neck. He grabs your wrist before you can pull away, tugging you closer as he leans in, smile coy. "Maybe you should show me so I can make sure you're telling the truth, politician. Would be a shame to only appreciate it once, yeah?"

"Only if you promise to stay quiet," you hum, watching as he plays with the necklace newly resting against his chest. "Not just anyone is allowed to see me that way."

His face splits into a giddy grin as you lift him off your lap and hover over him on your knees, your loosened hair falling around your shoulders and shadowing your eyes.

"No promises," he whispers as he grabs the heavy gold pendant, round and flat with an insignia carved into it which he doesn't recognise. His cock twitches in anticipation as you press a kiss to his inner thigh, lips curved into a smug grin. "Guess you'll just have to shut me up, huh?"

"That is easier said than done," you scoff, leaning down to take his cock into your mouth. His giggles peter off into a string of low moans as you take him easily to the root, your mouth hot and wet as you hollow your cheeks and suck hard.

He cries out, hips jolting, and slaps a hand over his mouth. You look up at him through your lashes, amusement dancing in your gaze; Satoru almost comes right there at the sight.

Oh, damn it all, he thinks as his head tips back, your obscenely long tongue gliding along his veins and curling around his tight, aching balls. Saliva drips down his taint and he moans into his palm, thighs tensing around your head.

Ugh. He watches through unfocussed eyes as your head bobs between his trembling thighs, your hot tongue curling around his length and stroking him together with the silky heat of your lips. He really doesn't want to kill you.

Mahito always knew he was special. The ability to reshape the soul and body – turning people into sorcerers, making servants out of crumpled little souls, being nigh immortal? It sounded overpowered on paper, and he liked that he was considered a threat to sorcerers. It was like a pat on the back every time one of them struggled against him or had to call for backup. Getting ganged up on was annoying, but it did make his ego swell.

Upon meandering through Geto's library and rifling through personal notes on curses, however, he found something that he did not like at all.

The scroll contained a story about an ancient curse. And not just any curse – a curse that instilled terror through controlling and altering the soul.

His mood soured immediately. That was his thing! The thing that made him special! Sure, techniques could be similar – any shikigami user would agree – but Mahito hated feeling second to anything. This would mean he wasn't even original.

The curse couldn't have been very good with it, anyway, getting sealed up like a mouse in a Tupperware container. He tosses the scroll back onto the shelf with a roll of his eyes, flouncing away and fully intending to forget it all in a few days.

But he can't. The report, written in the style of a mythical tale with the same purposeful vagueness over details, stuck in the back of his mind like a tack. Just thinking about it made him edgy, and that pissed him off like nothing else.

He began to spend a lot of time in Geto's library – to the point that the others took notice, commenting on how much self-imposed homework he was doing regarding a mostly-forgotten Heian-period curse. It was annoying, of course, but not as annoying as the itch in the back of his mind that occurred whenever he remembered that he wasn't the first to have such a distinctive technique.

Most of the related scrolls in the library are written like cautionary tales or children's bedtime stories. It details the sorcerer clans that fought the curse and how they eventually restrained him, trapping him deep in the earth to become the roar of Mt Fuji's eruptions and the crashing rumbles of tsunamis. But not one explains why they didn't just exorcise the thing. It makes him suspicious, and he delves deeper.

After several days and nights of research, warehouse burglaries, and one impromptu sorcerer kidnapping, he finally has something to show for his obsession: a location.

He travels alone in the dead of night to Nara. The Kasugataisha shrine, housing over three thousand lanterns, also houses the curse he seeks. It's supposed to be a relic on display. Between all the chaos of shrine reconstructions and the fact that it's a thousand years old and has never been carefully monitored in a temperature-controlled museum box, Mahito attributes the fact that it hasn't been lost or destroyed to sorcery. Jujutsu sorcery, that is.

Mahito finds it sequestered away in an auxiliary shrine, displayed along the path in the shade of the forest. It is the only remaining emakimono from the Heian period and is almost perfectly preserved; during his research, he found that most humans attributed its miraculous survival to its presence at the shrine. Divinity did such wondrous things, Mahito thought drily.

Staring at it in person, it doesn't seem like much. It's an old paper scroll, twelve metres long, rolled up at one metre to make it less intrusive, and it rests inside a glass box. A little white panel with a description in both Japanese and English sits off to the side, but that's all it gets. This is not, after all, a museum. At the bottom, there's a website listed for the full twelve metres of art, as well as the name of a nearby museum with a reproduction so the scroll can be enjoyed in person at its full size, as intended.

Funny how the reproduction is the one in the light- and temperature-regulated building, he muses. The locals had been afraid to have it removed from the shrine – superstition goes a long way.

Mahito flicks his wrist. The glass shatters all at once, bursting with an exploding tinkling noise. He brushes the glass off his arms and reaches inside, picking the emakimono off the display hooks. Nothing stops him – there are no seals, no markings, not even a whiff of cursed energy.

He purses his lips and unrolls it to the span of his arms. It doesn't feel important. Was his information wrong?

He turns it the other way, letting it hang from his hand, and dumps the rest of the scroll unceremoniously. It smacks the stone path, tumbles away from him, and unrolls.

It takes a good few seconds to unfurl all twelve metres of paper. Mahito scrutinises the artefact as it does, brow furrowing as he brushes his fingers over the paint and ink.

It's just old paper.

Mahito whines to himself and stomps his foot in a tantrum. All this work for absolutely nothing? He wants to kill something. Slaughter it. Pull it apart and watch it spill. He hurls the end of the scroll down in a huff, and the wooden rod clatters roughly on the path.

Then the wood starts to bleed.

He doesn't notice, hands over his eyes and head tilted back. He's fine! Everything's fine! Back to square fucking one, but that's fine. He is fine.

Truthfully, he's still not quite sure why he's so... interested in this curse. None of the texts he came across mentioned anything about why it decided to become an enemy of the sorcerers, so it isn't a case of matching life purpose. Part of him wants to fight him, best him in combat and prove that he's not just a shadow of something greater. Another part of him wonders if this curse could... teach him a few things. He's not above learning some tricks.

A presence looms behind him, suffocating and nauseous. His pale eyes snap open behind his hands.

"Another weaver?" a voice whispers in the back of his mind, soft and dangerous as lead. Cold fingers curl around his jaw, sharp nails digging into the stitches across his skin. It forces his face to tilt to the sky and he gasps as he staggers backward. Deep pools of amusement stare down at him, curiosity low and languid in half-lidded feline eyes.

"No," the ancient curse decides, a disdainful smile pulling at its lips as Mahito grabs its arm with triumphant glee. Delight flashes in its eyes as Mahito's grin slips off his face. A raw terror fills his gut as his technique grasps at nothing, clawing at an emptiness where a soul should be. "My mistake... You are nothing so extraordinary."

Mahito begins to struggle, clawing at meat and bone, and his flesh bubbles and twists as it morphs rapidly between shapes. The curse watches him inquisitively, barely twitching as Mahito elbows a long, lance-like protrusion into its stomach.

"What a pity," the curse murmurs, letting go of his face as if it can't bear the sight of him.

Mahito trips in his eagerness to get away, scrabbling over the rocky path. His chest heaves as he stares up at the curse, haloed by misty moonlight. His instincts blare red. "Y-You're—! You're not..."

The curse tilts its head, gaze eerie and unblinking, and Mahito feels like he's drowning.

He picks himself off the ground and runs.

—

"Gojo Satoru?"

"That's my name! Don't wear it out."

"This is for you." The sorcerer offers a hand scroll, looking nervous. She's got the same white hair as he does, and if he squints, she sort of looks like a cousin he used to torment with worms as a child. Maybe that's why she looks like she's swallowing glass with every word. "It was found at the gates of the estate with a seal – nobody can open it. It's addressed to the clan head."

"Huh?" He accepts it, turning it over in his hands. He touches the red seal. "Weird... I don't recognise the cursed energy signature. No one saw anything?"

She shakes her head. "The elders think it's from, er, Geto Suguru's group of curse users. They advised caution when opening it—"

Satoru shatters the seal with an excessive blast of cursed energy, which ruffles his hair.

He unrolls it, squints, raises his eyebrows, then barks a laugh. "Nah. No way it's his. Who uses kanbun like this these days?" He flips it around and shows her. "Literary Chinese? This person is old-old. I'll go out on a limb and say it's a man, so you can go ahead and tell the old geezers to focus their efforts. Well – that's if they wanna do anything at all."

"A man? Why do you say that?"

He lifts a finger. "This scroll mentions Sukuna through an old contemporary title that no one uses anymore, so our buddy's probably from the Heian period. So many of those these days, right? During that time, men were taught written Chinese, as it was the language of government. Noblewomen used kana, which was less formal. In conclusion, it's likely a man – one who had links to the imperial court." Satoru's lower lip juts out and he taps his chin, scrutinising the careful, inky strokes. "An immortal sorcerer...? But then why wouldn't they use modern language? Is it an obstacle in case someone else managed to open it? Or is it meant as a clue to their identity?"

"Do they sound like an ally?" she asks hesitantly. Immortality is always a threat.

"Eh..." Satoru scans the paper, tilting it off-kilter as if it'll help him read it better. "No idea!" he chirps. "My Chinese isn't very good."

He shrugs, rolling it back up again. He steps past the young woman, playfully bopping her on the head with the end of the scroll. "Thanks anyway for the message. I'll be in the city for the rest of my day off, so if the elders want me, tell 'em to pound sand, 'kay? Catch ya later, alligator!"

She grumbles, glaring at his back. Thirty years old and he's still the same kid who put worms in her glass of milk.

—

Satoru leans back in his booth, idly adding two sugars to his tea. The café is a bright little place, popular with young people, and Satoru's unique appearance has garnered more than a few curious glances.

"My. You Gojo clan children all look the same."

Satoru glances up as a body slips into the seat across from him. His brow furrows, and his teaspoon pauses against the rim of his cup.

His Six Eyes scream curse. Common sense screams human.

"What are you?" he says sharply.

You place a teacup and plated muffin on the table. You have a receipt that says you paid in cash. Dressed in a textured white hakamashita kimono and black-and-gold hakama, you have the grace of a dancer and the steadiness of a tailor, every movement precise and purposeful. You lift your eyes and smile politely.

"Not something you must fear," you say, pushing the plate closer to Satoru. "My name is—"

"I know who you are."

"Really?" You tilt your head. "Not many do."

"Yeah, really-really," Satoru replies. He peers at the muffin. Triple choc-chip. You even collected a fork for him. "You've got a hard-on for souls, rules, and order. You had significant influence over the imperial court from the Asuka to Heian periods. You like art."

Your smile grows wider, almost genuine – if a little condescending. "Clever little thing, aren't you? Perhaps you know why I searched for you, then. I'd save my breath."

He begins to stir his tea again. Behind you, the young cashier stares, clearly enamoured by your outfit. She's a non-sorcerer. "I dunno. Lessons on modern life? What a crosswalk is, how to use a phone? Honestly, I'm surprised you aren't walking around in full formal sokutai."

He is also curious about your apparent knowledge of currency. Barter and trade were the main economy in your time.

"You do not come to be my age without understanding how to fit in, Gojo-san," you hum, taking a sip of your tea. It is strangely sweet, but not unappetising. "I come with a request. I hoped my history with your clan would allow me a sliver of your time."

"Depends on what it is," Satoru says, fiddling absently with his blindfold. You know part of him itches to unleash devastation upon you, right here and now. It's a sorcerer's instinct. "You've been polite so far, so fire away."

"A name," you say truthfully, setting down your teacup. Your countenance becomes grave. "I was released not long ago by a curse with a technique that afflicts the soul. He did not linger. I want to find him."

Satoru rolls his neck with a sigh, stretching his arms over his head. He settles back in his seat, folding his ankle over his knee, and jiggles his foot. "Uh-huh. Okay. You gonna tell me why you want this curse?"

"To thank him, perhaps. Or, more likely, to kill him. He seems cowardly, unfit for the power he wields – a mistake I must rebalance."

Satoru laughs, resting an arm on the back of the booth seats. "Ooh, man, you old curses are all so... intense! You know, there aren't a whole lot of records about you – I dunno if I wanna help you. Nothing personal, just a lack of insight. You get me?"

"I can appreciate a pursuit for knowledge. Very well," you concede. "What do you want to know?"

"I know you had history with my clan, but the records seemed purposefully wishy-washy. Why did they collude with you?"

"There was no collusion," you chuckle, interlacing your fingers on the table. "They sought me out. By nature, I am more than a simple curse born of fear. Some call me the Weaver, or perhaps the Allotter. I can not only touch but also alter a soul, and can suggest certain proclivities or dispositions. In some cases, I can completely revise a person's fate with just a warp and weft. Inclinations and temperaments go far in paving the path of one's life."

"You can change people's futures? Through the soul?"

"In a word: yes. That is why your ancestors sought me out and why I spent so long toying with imperial politics. Existence is a careful balancing act. I am its scales."

There is a glitter in your eye. So, Satoru deduces, you are proud. You may be sitting in this café with him and looking him in the eye, but you do not stand on equal ground. You are better. More.

"Sounds fun. Bet they liked it for saving face when someone got rebellious. Is there anything else you can do?" he asks as he sits forward, spinning his cup by the handle in slow circles.

"Why, Gojo-san? Planning on fighting me?" you say, voice lilting with amusement. You pull your sleeves up slightly as you reach for your tea and take a sip. "I see souls differently to your Six Eyes. Let me show you."

You extend a hand but he snatches your wrist out of mid-air, grip tightening in warning. With a soft, airy chuckle, you open your palm placatingly, brushing his chin.

"I won't do anything to you, Gojo Satoru – you have my word. I need you for what you know, and I may need your alliance in the future. While I could make you more trusting and subservient, I cannot force you to trust and obey me in particular. Puppetry is below me. Gods create the flood – they do not drag the dogs to drown."

"Oh, goodie, making friends with megalomaniac curses," he mumbles to himself. "Yaga's going to be so disappointed."

"You can't care about that," you say, a touch patronising. "You are stronger than them all, existing naturally in a place beyond their most desperate capacities. Why does someone like you submit to the weak?"

"I do care about that. Yaga's cool. Unlike you, I'm not about to be a tyrant and force everything to bend to my will."

"Oh, why not?" you drawl, leaning in with a dangerous grin. "Power is fun. Showing off is fun. Having servants pick up your brush just to place in your hand is fun. That's all I'll do today – show off what I see. It is far superior to your Six Eyes. After all, if we are to be allies, it is good to know what tricks we have up our sleeves."

Satoru stares you down. His grip loosens, and he folds his arms over the edge of the table. "Fine. But no funny business, or I'll put a hole in your skull – and it'll be a really big one."

Your smile widens as you reach out towards his chest, gently twisting your fingers in the air with a delicate ripple. You make a gesture as if pushing something aside, and you close your eyes and focus.

His breath catches in his throat and the world goes quiet, as if his head was dunked under water. Shimmering, translucent golden threads extend from the pinch of your thumb and the bend of your little finger, taut over the first joint of your fingers. They fade into nothing as they travel towards his chest – it's your touch that brings them forth into tangibility.

You tap the bundle of threads, humming softly as you gaze at them. "I can join, weave, and sever these threads. I could paralyse you or sever your soul's connection to your body – and to this earth."

"Ooh. Scary."

"Isn't it?" You chuckle and release his soul, leaning back. Air rushes back into his lungs and the café noise returns. "Are you pleased with what you know? Will you help me?"

"For a curse with a god complex, you're surprisingly deferential."

"I thrived in court politics for several hundred years, Gojo-san. I know how allies are made."

"Hm." He sits forward, pulling the chocolate muffin towards him. He picks up the fork and breaks off a piece of the top, sliding the prongs against his teeth. "What drew you to it? Court, I mean. With your technique, you could've been like Sukuna, taking power by easy brute strength. Aristocrats are always back-stabby. So annoying."

You tilt your head thoughtfully, a wistful little smile on your face. You lift a contemplative finger to your lips. "I like luxury. I didn't want to live in a forest, lying in muck and bathing in cold river water. I was also quite popular with women."

Satoru can't help but snort. He stabs the muffin. "Real ladies' man, were you?"

"Unfortunately not. I unsettled people the longer they spent around me. I did, however, make up for it through my excellent calligraphy and poetry. I once wrote a wonderful piece about Lake Biwa that the emperor himself enjoyed – I wonder if it has survived."

"I doubt it. A thousand years is a long time." Satoru peels the paper liner from the muffin, cutting it into bite-sized pieces. He pops one into his mouth with a pleased hum. "Well, colour me intrigued! You want Patchface, right? Crazy eyes, long hair, looks like he got stitched back together after a Final Destination death?"

"That would be the one."

"Then you're in luck. We've got sightings we're supposed to check out, and if I can save my guys the trouble, all the better. Meet me here tomorrow, same time, and I'll get you the file."

"Perfect." Your smile widens, almost unnaturally so, and you press your fingers to your lips to hide your sick glee. "You don't know what this means to me, Gojo-san. Such meaningless chaos is a blight on this earth and must be purged. I will be the hammer that falls."

—

"Hello. You must be this Geto Suguru I've heard so much about."

Suguru turns, tilting his head. His long dark hair cascades over his shoulders. He scans your figure – your hands are clasped behind your back, and you are clothed in traditional dress.

"You're no miko," he says, a teasing lilt to his soft voice. "I'm afraid you can't be back here. My visiting hours are over for today – we open tomorrow at eight o'clock sharp, if you would like to return then."

You smile, sharp and a little cruel, and Suguru's smile fades into a frown. You observe the picturesque temple from the engawa, the wood beneath your feet barely creaking as you step forward.

"It is unfortunate that sorcerers have fallen so far as to be unable to recognise their foe standing before them," you hum, gaze flickering towards him from the corner of your eye. "Back in my day, being a sorcerer meant something. It seems they take just about anyone these days."

"I beg your pardon?" Suguru's voice is like a knife.

"I am not looking for salvation. If I were, I doubt I would find it with you, sorcerer," you chuckle, watching the burnt orange leaves swirl gently across the pebbled paths. The golden sunset casts a soft glow over the temple grounds. Tall bamboo canes edge the gardens, making it feel intimate. You have missed such sights. "'Curse user', I should say, though I was never fond of that name. Morality is not so binary; not every sorcerer who rejects jujutsu society necessarily allies themselves with curses."

Suguru's folded hands drop to his sides, fingers inching towards a slender knife hidden in his belt. You're too close to risk the time it takes to summon his inventory curse. "Who are you and what do you want?"

You click your tongue. "So rude. I spoke with the Gojo clan head this morning – he had the foresight to stay his blade. You appear to have no such restraint."

"You know Satoru?"

The words come quick, sudden, punched out of him. His eyes widen; he knows his mistake.

You smile – not kindly. "The boy was generous enough to offer me your name. I take it you are the leader of your little establishment? I am looking for someone. One, I am told, who is under your command. It calls itself Mahito."

"I'm not telling you a thing before I know what you are."

"Ooph," you huff, waving a hand in the air as if dispelling smoke, "always the 'what', never the 'who'! Tell me – what is it that makes it obvious? I was so certain I had it mastered."

"You don't breathe," Suguru points out. "Nor do you blink."

"Ah..." You sigh, pressing your fingertips to your temple. "Such simple faults. I've grown careless. I didn't have to blink when I was trapped in that shrine. Now that you know what I am, will you tell me where I can find this 'Mahito'? I understand that you have appointments to keep. My time is equally precious."

Suguru's eyes flick over your figure. His gaze darkens. "Alright. Stay here. I'll find Mahito and send him to you."

"Thank you, Geto-san. I promise I won't wander off," you say playfully, smoothing down your hakama and taking a seat on the wooden steps. You brush leaves off the engawa. "You're doing me a wonderful favour."

"Don't mention it," he replies, expression unreadable. "He'll be here soon."

When Suguru finds Mahito – obsessing over old folktales and Heian-era courtesan diaries, as usual – he doesn't grace him with a greeting. He yanks him away from the long library table and stares him down.

"This is all because of you, isn't it?" he demands.

Mahito blinks, big grey eyes the picture of innocence. "Eh – what's 'cause of me?"

"There is a curse on my steps asking for you, Mahito," he says sharply. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"

"Um, no. I've barely gotten out the last few weeks," he complains. "I'm not making you any enemies. Swear it. Cross my heart."

"Well, it's a curse that's spoken to Gojo Satoru, lived, and received his help. I believe you've been learning about an ancient curse with favourable relations to the ancestral Gojo clan. I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this." His dark eyes narrow.

"You're accusing me of releasing him?" He sneers. "I haven't done anything! You think I'd shake Sukuna two-point-oh out of a box for fun? I'm not stupid."

"What would be stupid is releasing a powerful curse with no binding vows to keep us out of reach," Suguru hisses. "If this truly is the curse I think it is, then heavens above, you may as well have packaged us up, tied off a bow, and presented it to him. He deals in souls, Mahito, and not like you. He is judge, jury, and executioner of every living being, and you brought him right to our doorstep!" He inhales sharply, smoothing his hair out of his eyes with a snap of his sleeve. "Meet him by the east gardens. Speak to him. Kill him, if you can. Just don't keep him waiting."

In the gardens, Mahito recognises the broad back and perfect hair with a stone in his throat. There is a soft breeze, and your hair flutters slightly as leaves swirl around you, grazing the mossy paths and floating atop the pond's dark surface.

You stand, and Mahito is once again reminded of how imposing you are, dangerous and beautiful like a snake.

"Mahito. That is a title given to the descendants of the Imperial Family. You think so highly of yourself that you would invoke their memory, call yourself a child of the divine? How arrogant."

Your voice is as smooth as silk. You flick a hand out, fingers splayed, and the glittering golden nail guards gracing your fingers are like needles.

You make a pinching gesture, like gently grasping the stem of a brush – airy golden threads weave around your fingers. You glance over your shoulder with a growing smile, eyes crinkling at the corners like a lover looking at their darling. "Kneel."

Mahito gasps as the earth meets his knees painfully – painfully? – and his palms press into the stony path, sharp pebbles cutting into his skin. His forehead brushes the ground, and no matter how hard he strains, he can't move – he can't even lift his head.

"You," he wheezes, chest constricted, as he stares down at the mottled stones. "It's really you."

"Did you miss me?" you ask with a feline smile, gliding towards him. The pale golden threads of his soul are still wrapped around your fingers, bundled together like wilting flower stems. "Perhaps I'm old-fashioned, but having fun with someone, then running away when the deed is done, really hurts. I didn't even catch your name."

You sigh regretfully, crouching down before him and cupping his chin to tilt it up. His eyes flicker around him like a prey animal, and his fingers twitch as he attempts to use his technique. It's amateurish, easily subdued.

"Now, I am obligated to thank you for releasing me, however sloppily," you declare, turning his face this way and that, "but I must also punish you for treading so woefully far out of your league. What if I were a terrible, savage thing, one who would sooner slaughter you than speak with you? From one curse to another, I will teach you a lesson in control."

You draw away from him and he fears the way he yearns for your touch, body straining to return to the palm of your hand. Picking a single thread from the wispy bundle, you cut it clean in two with a razor-sharp flick of your nail guards.

A devouring hollowness seeps into his chest, black and hungry. He stares, trembling slightly, as you carefully select another, and another, and cut those as well. His head spins, his stomach lurches, and his veins run cold.

Then, taking the two ends of cut threads, you tie them together, and with a sway of your open palm, the knot vanishes, smoothing out into a single unbroken strand. You hum softly as you work, slow and meticulous. For you, this is not a battle. Only work. He is no threat to you – not even a thorn in your side.

You show him your artistry, delighting in your own design. The thread shimmers white-gold, brighter than the rest. "Isn't it lovely?" you ask, weaving the thread into his soul. It twists amongst the golden tapestry, its pale length entwined with the rest. "Your soul is a mess, tied and untied too many times during your transfigurations, but it holds strong. Its one redeeming quality, I suppose. Most do not take well to such drastic alterations."

A compliment? His heart skips a beat. You are undeniably beautiful, like a snow of cherry blossoms.

"Hm... here is the difference between you and I. You damage your opponents' souls and use your own as your last line of defence, yes?" You pause, waiting. "Speak, dear."

His heavy tongue flicks against the roof of his mouth. "Y-Yes..."

"Good. Now, if you knew better, you'd know how to keep your soul out of reach – to be effectively immortal. It isn't enough to simply push it to where your opponent's blade is not. We must be proactive, not reactive. Do you understand?" You push two of your fingers through the weave of his soul, parting the threads with ease. Mahito gasps, pleasure and pain searing him from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

"Your weakness is that you require physical touch. While you can attempt to compensate with unpredictability, your opponent still knows they can't let you get close. I have no such limitation. I may teach you how – if I find you worthy of it." You press another finger into the weft, slipping and curling your fingers into the silky twisted threads. Mahito's eyes roll back as his body throbs with liquid fire, deeper than he thought possible.

You tilt your head, eyes trained on his soul in your palm. Your lips purse. "Oh, poor thing. It's all kinked and knotted. But as someone famed for their gentle touch?" You lean in and a grin spreads across your face from ear to ear. "I could help you relax."

Mahito makes a sound like a gurgle as you stroke the soft golden threads with your thumb, smoothing out the split fibres and sharp corners.

"Wait," he manages to choke out, still prostrate before you. "W-Wait."

"Look at me when you address me." Abruptly, you seize his chin and force his face up, fingers digging into his jaw. Saliva drips down his chin from the corner of his lips, trailing over your fingers, and his face is a deep crimson red, eyelids fluttering and pupils blown wide. He whimpers, shuddering at your touch.

You observe him for a while, grip tightening and forcing his lips into a pathetic fishy pout. It'd be almost cute if he weren't so piteous.

"Yes?" you prompt. "What is it?"

He swallows uselessly, his length dripping and smearing the inside of his dark trousers. "Hurts."

"Yes, well, that is the point. How will you learn if there is no incentive?" You push two fingers into his mouth and he yelps, moaning wretchedly as you stroke the back of his wet throat. You tap his tongue, ignoring how he quivers. "Suffering builds character."

He drools on your fingers, lips closing around them. He tries to say something else, but you press down on his tongue and all he can get out is a pathetic little 'aah'.

You glance down, and a mocking smile spreads across your face at the sight of the obvious bulge in his dark trousers, a patch where the tip is even darker with pre. He squirms under your attention, his eyes flickering madly between you and his surroundings for an escape. He hasn't ever been so clearly outclassed before.

"Pitiful," you murmur, pulling your fingers out and wiping his saliva on his shirt. You grab his jaw and tug him up onto his knees to better inspect his shame. "Can I let go of you, or will you try to run?"

"Please..." His chest heaves. He's never begged for anything.

You release your hold on his soul. His body sags, his own once more, and the first thing he does?

He starts to scramble away.

You sigh, clicking your tongue derisively. You grab his pale ankle and yank him back – he cries out, nails raking lines into the pebbled paths.

"That was my fault. You never promised me anything." You push him to the ground, one hand firm between his shoulder blades. You shift your hips over his, pinning him in place, and play with his waistband, letting it snap back against his thin hip. He flinches at the sound. "But I won't lie – you've gotten me curious. What exactly were you begging for?"

Mahito glances over his shoulder at you, heart pounding behind his ribs. Instead of answering, he asks a question of his own. "What – what do you want?"

"An answer, if you could believe it."

"No – what do you want with me? Why did you come here? You coulda run, done whatever you pleased to anyone you wanted!"

You tilt your head, your weight not quite oppressive on top of him. You consider his words. "Your technique was what intrigued me. Never in all my years had I seen something even tangentially similar to my own." The threads of his soul dance between your fingers. "I have something embarrassing to admit: I long for companionship. Even Ryomen Sukuna had his little sorcerer servant. I wondered if you might be that companion – a successor, of sorts. If you agree, I am willing to forgive your earlier blunders."

Mahito's voice quivers. "And if I say no?"

"I will eliminate you."

It's not like he has much of a choice, does he?

You feel him slump below you. You hum, pleased, and begin to stand – but he grabs your wrist, keeping you on top of him.

"You're leaving me? Just like that?" he whispers, eyes huge.

"What else would I do? I've gotten what I asked for."

"You're—" He swallows, his head spinning. "You're gonna leave me like this...?"

"Why would I—" You halt. Oh. Amusement flits its way across your lips. You lean down, breath hot against the shell of his ear. He suppresses a shudder. "Oh, dear... you like what I do to you, don't you? Do I make you feel empty, helpless, starved? Would you like me to fix that for you, Mahito?"

He shivers at the way you purr his name, syllables soft and round. Would he? Would he like that? Part of him still wants to shred you to pieces for even touching him, for flaunting your superiority so brazenly.

But, as your touch shifts from pinning to playful, your fingers threading through his blue-grey hair the same way you caress his soul, Mahito's hostility melts into hot, heady desire.

"You long for me, don't you, Mahito?" you taunt, entwining your fingers with his like lovers do. "Like a little puppy waiting for its owner. Hah! How embarrassing."

"I'm not—!"

The back of your hand cuts sharply across his cheek. His head snaps to the side. It hurts.

"If I call you a puppy, you'll bark. If I call you a whore, you'll open your legs." You press your thumb into the dip of his hip, nails grazing his stitches. "If you want me to stay, to fix your broken little body, you are what I say you are. Am I clear?"

A wrecked noise escapes his throat. He nods as best he can with your fist in his hair.

"Good dog." You ruffle his hair – almost nurturing – and tug his hair ties out, leaving it all to pour over his shoulders, pale blue like an evening fog. He's as pliant as anything, and though he shrinks away when you tug his trousers down around his knees, he rocks his hips back meekly, searching for your own. "Stay still."

He stills. You bare your teeth in a sharp smile.

Carefully undoing your robes, you unwind them just enough to bare your chest and free your cock. Mahito watches it all, uncharacteristically silent – though his breathing quickens when he spies the size of your dick.

You grasp your shaft and guide Mahito's hips up. You tap it against his tight puckered hole and his breath hitches as the weight of the situation finally renders.

It takes some effort to fill his rippling walls with every inch of you. He gasps, elbows buckling under his weight, and he immediately slicks up like a cunt. The stretch is tight – suffocating, even – and you let out a low purr, eyes half-lidded and dark with sadistic delight.

"You fit me well," you murmur. "Like a practiced bitch."

He clenches his eyes shut, his hole fluttering around you as you languidly pump your hips back and forth – nice and deep. When you shove in the last few inches, burying your whole length in him until your base presses firmly against his ass, his body tenses and his cock throbs with a spurt of precome. He wants to widen his legs but his stupid pants lock his knees at waist-width.

He makes a noise high and whiny at the back of his throat. You trail your fingers down the stitches over his joints. Looks something like a puppet – or a doll, you think idly, gradually pressing down on him between his shoulders. He shudders and gasps, nails digging into the fine gravel path, and his hips jolt towards you, his hole clenching deliciously.

"Hnn..."

"What? Nothing to say anymore?"

He scrabbles at the ground, his head dropping onto his forearm below him. His pale hair cascades over his shaking shoulders.

"Shame," you murmur. "But I won't say I don't like a challenge. You'll have learnt obedience by the time I'm done with you."

You pin him to the ground, throwing your weight onto his upper half while you pound his slick little hole, tight and quivering. He squeals like a piglet, his legs kicking and toes curling as he moans desperately. His spine arches dramatically.

"I – ugh—!" His nails dig into the loose fabric gathered by your waist. "Ahh! Ah, ah, n-not like this! Y-You can't treat me like this...!"

"Who'll stop me? You? Don't make me laugh." You lean down, burying your cock deep into his asshole, and his dick spurts weakly as your length forms a sizeable bump in his stomach. He heaves and gasps, a hand flying down to cradle it, and his eyes roll back as you grab the back of his head and slam him into the dirt. His mouth falls permanently open, an unending stream of cries and moans falling from his lips.

You grind your cock into him, his firm ass clapping against your thighs, and you hike his sagging hips higher with a click of your tongue, fingers brushing his throbbing cock and making him keen. The bulge of your dick through his stomach makes him giddy, even as you yank roughly at his hair to manhandle his body the way you like it.

He comes without warning, ass clenching like a vice, and your cock scrapes roughly against his gummy walls as he quivers and screams. Your cock twitches in his flat stomach as he jets streams of come onto the fine stone paths, his spend seeping between the pale gravel. He can barely breathe, filled up to the throat with thick cock, and he moans wantonly as he weakly thrusts his ass back against you in a pitiful attempt to drag out the ecstasy of being used.

Fingers tangling in his hair, you yank his head up, looming above and narrowing your eyes at his flushed, teary expression, completely blissed out. "Did I say you could finish?"

His eyes roll back at the low, warning growl of your voice. He cradles his belly, rubbing your tip through himself, and obsessively runs his trembling fingers down his stomach as if stroking your shaft. "No...! No, hngh, ah – jus' feels good, feels so good—"

Not even an apology. You click your tongue. You reach down, trailing your fingers up the curve of his ribs, and press your palm to the centre of his back. Your fingers curl and pull.

You fist the white-gold threads of his soul: they're paler than humans', wiry. Unassuming. How pathetic.

You tug and he cries, babbling and slurring as his body seizes and more come spurts from his leaky tip. He's not worth very much – not for his soul, and not for his morality or sense of identity. The only thing he has going for him is his tight, wet hole.

Staring down at him, you almost regret promising him his life. Despite your grip on his hair, he still tries weakly to wiggle his hips back against yours. Not only is he a coward, but a greedy one, too.

You feel... cheated. He seemed so promising the first time you saw him – what happened to all that potential? You don't like admitting to being wrong, but you may have no choice. Unfortunate. At least there's a lesson to be learnt here about caution and setting oneself up for disappointment.

Twisting his hair around your hand, you tug to make sure your grip is secure before yanking him up, forcing his back to arch as you drag him towards you for inspection. You scan him impassively, still fucking him hard enough to create small hollows in the gravel path beneath his knees.

His appearance is fascinating. The stitches across his pale skin... You wonder if they keep him together. What happens if you take them out? Would he fall apart?

You brush your fingers over the stitches on his hip, ignoring the way he shudders. It would be so easy to remove them. His eyes, too – they're mismatched. He'd be prettier with a matching set. Perfection is attainable through symmetry and order; while he's flawed, you can improve him, and anything is better than nothing.

But you probably shouldn't linger here too long. That Geto Suguru didn't seem to appreciate your presence, which is a shame because you are an absolute delight to behold. You look human enough to pass as one of them, with the exception of a few facial markings that can be explained away as make-up in this modern era. You'd called them birth marks back in the day for being born under an auspicious moon, and you must be divinely beautiful to humans because they never questioned it and simply asked if you were busy that evening.

Hm. That Gojo child you met earlier was rather charming, fair and confident as he was...

Mahito cries out, clawing at your hand as you shift it from his hair to around his throat. You squeeze his jaw and he moans as your grip forces his lips open. He pants, chest heaving, his wide eyes tracking your face as you stare down at him impassively. You tilt your head.

You spit into his mouth and force his jaw shut.

His eyes flutter as he whimpers, body jerking and jolting as he flails and swallows. He hiccups quietly against your palm as come splatters his stomach, his dick throbbing and heavy as you grab it and aim it up. You fuck him harder, deeper, every technique-imbued thrust twanging at the fibres of his soul. You're feeling a little playful, after all, and Mahito looks adorably pitiful when you bury yourself in to the hilt – pain and pleasure like this must be so new to him.

He comes hard. With your help, he manages to spurt all the way up his chest and neck. You hum softly, a low rumble in your chest, and your approval feels like nirvana to Mahito. He rocks backwards on your cock, urging his body to draw out his high. Surely you'd approve of him even more.

He hangs from your grasp, his arms limp below him. His fingertips brush the gravel with every thrust, strangled moans spilling uncontrollably from his lips. Every sound is new to him, torn from him the way screams are.

"Greedy mutt," you murmur, tucking his hair behind his ear almost sweetly. "Over and over, you take what you want, chasing pleasure selfishly. I gave you ample chance to try again, but it seems I have to take things into my own hands. How disappointing."

The shame that squeezes his lungs is disorienting and unfamiliar. Why does he care so much about what you think of him? He doesn't get much time to ponder it before something deep within tangles and snaps, reverberating through his very being.

His soul gleams between your perfect fingers. He can't move.

"Cursed spirits are fascinating. They aren't tethered to the world like humans are, yet I can interact with their souls the same way," you hum, weaving your fingers through his soul. The pleasure splits and cracks his thoughts apart, destroying any potential to plan or even think logically. Your fingers flutter. "Geto Suguru ordered you to kill me. Ah-ah... Don't deny it. One glance at you and I know you could never even draw my blood."

Twisting your fist in the threads of Mahito's soul, you slam him down into the gravel, making him wail as his body jostles back and forth with the force of your thrusts. The tiny pebbles dig into his skin, leaving cuts and little abrasions that hurt, and his heart has never hammered so hard before – he's basically a human in your hands, disgustingly mortal and fragile. Drool trickles down the corner of his mouth as his eyes roll back, your thick cock impossibly hot and heavy inside him. His ass slaps against your hips, tight and firm.

He can't come. He can't. It's not that he doesn't want to, but that his body won't allow it – it no longer obeys him. It obeys you, and you are a cruel master.

"No," he wheezes, nerves burning, smouldering, with heat. "No – don't—"

"You wanted this, Mahito. Begged for it, even," you interrupt, your hand heavy as you press his face further into the ground. He lets out a strangled whimper, gnawing the inside of his lip. "You weren't wrong, were you? You're not stupid enough to forget what you wanted, are you, Mahito?"

The scorn in your voice stings like poison, every word dripping with disdain. His lungs burn as he inhales, your name slipping through his teeth somewhere between a sob and a moan. His nails dig into the gravel; the pain gives him something else to focus on as he desperately tries to ignore the gnashing maw hollowing out his insides.

"I'm sorry!" he shouts, his wet hole swallowing you like a throat. He whimpers pathetically, voice pitching high and warbling. "Th-That's what – nngh – what you want to h-hear, right? I'm sorry for coming! For being greedy – hnnh, please," he sobs, hips bucking madly against your grasp. "Please let me come, I'll listen, I will – I'm sorry, I'm sorry for everything—!"

He cuts himself off, eyes showing their whites as you carve a hot path through him, settling deep inside him and coating his tender walls with your seed. You groan softly, jaw working as you fuck your come into his tender asshole. He gawps, breathless moans needy and high-pitched on every heavy exhale. His teeth sink into his lips, breaking through skin. The iron taste of blood fills his mouth.

"What a pretty apology," you breathe, amused. You fuck him roughly, carelessly, his skin red and tender from impact. "Say thank you, mutt."

You release your iron grip on his soul – body? He can't tell them apart – and his body slumps to the ground as he wails and hiccups, tears streaming down his cheeks as he comes a gushing waterfall. Arousal burns white-hot in his gut as his toes curl, legs kicking pathetically as he jolts and shudders.

Before his high even peters off, you pull out and let go of him. He drops to the ground with a pained whimper. His hips tremble and jerk, his swollen hole fluttering around the thick white seed dripping from it. White teardrops trickle down the inside of his thigh.

Mahito shivers, drooling into the garden path with a hot, dazed expression. His hair is a mess, there's blood under his nails, and his cock still spurts with every twitch of his hips. You're not even touching him anymore.

"Th-Thank you," he moans, quiet and humiliated. "Gnggh..."

The sound that burbles out of him is wet and pitiful, as if he's choking on his own tongue. You wipe your hands on his clothes before tucking yourself back into your kimono. You reset your kanzashi with a soft hum as you stand and turn away.

"I gave you what you wanted, Mahito," you say, stepping over his limp body. "I hope that, the next time I see you, you'll have honed your technique further. I gave you quite a few demonstrations with your soul – remember them well."

Shakily, he drags himself up, chest heaving. He wipes the tears off his cheek and glances uncertainly up at you through his messy fog-grey bangs.

"N-Next time?" he parrots, voice cracking and ruined. "You're... not staying?"

You click your tongue chidingly. "Asking another favour of me, mutt? You'll run out of them quickly if you continue like this." You pause on the engawa, glancing over your shoulder at his naked form, barely covered by his own ruined clothing. You tilt your head. "On second thought... let's call it a trade rather than a favour. I want something from you."

Mahito straightens despite his achy, stinging soul, buzzing with the red-hot remnants of your cursed technique. "Anything," he rasps, practically pleading. "I'll give you anything you want."

You smile, too-sharp canines catching the pale light. "What do you know of Gojo Satoru?"

"We want you to steal a cursed tool from the Gojo estate."

At the familiar deadpan voice behind you, the suave, flirty smile on your face freezes. You turn your head slowly, your hand tightening around a bottle of whiskey and a woman's empty glass. The woman in front of you – dark-haired, smoky-eyed, an absolute bombshell in a tight navy dress and heels sharp enough to kill – simply raises an eyebrow, less than pleased at the sudden interruption.

"Pass. I am currently indisposed," you drawl, and the woman's pink lips curve up into a satisfied smile. She leans closer to you across the bar, trailing stiletto nails up your hand and under your folded white sleeves.

Behind you, your boss stands in a pristine white suit, mouth twisting with its usual scowl when it comes to dealing with you. While you are constantly employee-of-the-month in terms of the prizes you ferry back to him, you are less than ideal in every other aspect. Lazy, arrogant, and flirtatious towards anything with a pretty face, you are everything except reliable. Conditioned by your good looks, perfectly-suited cursed technique, and staggering ability to never get caught, you have become something of a local star in your boss' underground bar. Everyone wanted a piece of you, and you welcomed it with open arms.

"This request is different," he reveals. "The payout's more than your last four customers combined."

That gets your attention – and the attention of everyone in hearing radius. Everyone's looking at you now.

The woman you were chatting up leans closer, switching her crossed legs. "More than the last four?" she whispers to you, and you tilt your head towards her. "That's, what, twenty million yen – at least?"

"You're the one who's good with numbers, honey," you reply. With a casual motion, you pour her whiskey on the rocks, and her fingers brush yours as you slide the glass over the countertop. "Mm... Stealin' from the Gojo clan. Not sure how much I want to risk fucking god himself noticing me where I shouldn't be."

"Aw, baby," she trails her fingers over your hand, lifting her glass and smirking behind it, "you scared?"

"Healthily, I think."

"Maybe slightly more than necessary," she teases.

"That blue-eyed bitch can spot a rat twitch from across the city," a patron shouts, probably one too many drinks in. Your other bartender, however, looks completely checked out of her job, probably nursing her own hangover. The man slams his beer down, making it slosh. "Don't fuckin' take it, buddy! You're our best guy – 'thout you, what'll the rest of us schmucks do? Scrape by, stealing wallets and watches? Pah!"

"Agreed," another patron chimes in, lifting her fruity cocktail. "The other Big Families are a walk in the park compared to the Gojo clan. You can't rely on its head being elsewhere for a set amount of time, nor can you fight your way out if you get caught – and you will be caught, it's Gojo fucking Satoru. Anyone who accepts is downright suicidal."

You hum, bobbing your head from side to side indecisively. "Oh, but twenty million yen... that number's absurd. Who'd even have that kinda cash lyin' around? You sure this ain't a trap, boss?"

"It came from a verified client. They've always been generous and the money is clean. It's real."

You whistle lowly. "Twenty million... for some hokey little toy? I can't say I'm not interested."

"No!"

"Baby, I was joking. You're not serious."

"C'mon, man, you'll fuckin' die!"

"You all shut it!" you bark, though there's no real heat behind it. The woman with the cocktail gives you the finger. "Listen, I came from goddamn nothing. If someone says my life is worth twenty million yen, even a loss is a gain. I've already made it far above my station." You turn to face your boss and toss your towel onto the counter, giving him a firm nod and a sharp smile. "Alright, big man. Walk me through it."

—

When you warp onto the high walls of the Gojo estate, it is disturbingly silent. The Zen'ins and Kamos had servants for every little thing, constantly working throughout the night even if it was just to fix the caulking or patch a scratched shoji door. Here, however, the only movement is the wind through the lantern-dotted engawas and the only sound is the trees rustling gently over the eaves.

Dressed in tight, dark tactical gear that's more fashion than function, you jump short distances by warping through space, an utterly silent pop of cursed energy splitting the air itself whenever you land. Even as you venture deeper into the estate, closer to the personal quarters of the clan's esteemed head, the grounds remain conspicuously, suspiciously empty.

Along the outer rings of the family home, you felt the cursed energy signatures of dozens of servants and unimportant clan members, huddled together and tense as bricks inside buildings. With each warp, you leave more and more of them behind, until the inner circle is completely deserted, a ghost town lit with swaying paper lanterns. Completely deserted...

Except for one.

You find the slender figure of the Gojo clan head resting against the edge of his desk, wearing dress slacks and a crisp white shirt even at midnight. The scene is like something straight out of a noir movie. The only light is from a tall lamp in the far corner of the room behind the desk, draping everything in a soft golden glow – the panels of the lamp cast sharp shadows that stretch across the ceiling. There's a prism in his hands, casually tossed from hand to hand and spun between his thin fingers. It's a twenty-sided icosahedron, bright white, with spikes on every vertex gilded brassy-gold.

It's the exact cursed tool you had been sent to retrieve, and it is sitting in Gojo Satoru's palms.

He tosses it into the air and catches it. Spins it like a basketball. He tilts his head in your direction – not enough to look, just enough for his voice to carry. "Took you long enough."

His voice is high, airy, careless. Playful.

"I call it being fashionably late." You step through his open doors and shut it behind you, your smirk widening as you rake your gaze appreciatively over his figure. Broad shoulders, tiny waist, legs that go on for miles. Now all that's missing is a pretty face – but, to your disappointment, he wears that infamous blindfold.

You lean against the solid wood doorframe. His quarters are built differently to the rest of the estate – here, the wood is darker, the walls heavier, the shoji doors patterned with gilded paint. It looks regal, distinguished, and completely, utterly boring.

"So," you chuckle, voice thick with amusement and a dark, drawling accent that no high-born descendant should ever like to hear. It speaks of common roots with a criminal twang. "You're my mysterious benefactor. What a strange turn of events this is, hm?"

"Not strange at all, really." Satoru stops playing with the cursed tool, turning around for the first time and setting the prism in the centre of the desk. "You're YN, right? You break into the other Families' warehouses, bedrooms – even their bathrooms, so I've heard. But never mine. Why is that?"

"Oh, you can call me whatever you like, pretty." You smile with an edge like a blade. "I never got paid for anything Gojo-related. Don't take it personally, sweetheart. You bought me for twenty million yen a few days ago and I accepted within ten minutes of hearing the offer. Not my fault nobody's brave enough to even ask about what you might have squirrelled away in this place."

You cross your arms over your chest, the black long-sleeve making your arms look huge. Same thing with those tactical pants and your thighs. His eyes are obscured by his blindfold, but by the way you snicker and lean back against the wall with a smug grin, something else must be showing.

"So, sweetheart, what was your plan? To let me steal that little toy and give it back to you later? I'm all for the easy money, don't get me wrong, but this just feels a little..." You waver a gloved hand mid-air. "You feel me?"

Satoru shrugs with an unreadable smile, idly pushing the cursed tool back and forth with the tip of his finger. "Word along the grapevine is that LN YN is handsome and debonair, with a strong moral compass. You don't kill anyone. The 'gentleman thief' made real."

You get the impression that he's watching your every move in razor-sharp clarity. His attention is almost suffocating, even through the blindfold. He tracks you like a wolf tracks a deer, every step you take measured and catalogued with a tiny twitch of his head.

You tilt your head and chuckle. "No, no. Ain't a gentleman, sir. I don't even think I have a birth certificate. And I certainly steal for myself, rather than for the thrill or with a Robin-Hood flair. Money makes the world go 'round, you know? Still..." You push off the wall and approach him with a lazy, cat-silent swagger. You hook your thumbs into your belt when you're directly next to him – on his side of the desk. "I like the rest of what you said. Now that you've seen me in the flesh, do I measure up to your dreams, Gojo Satoru?"

"Never said I believed what they said. Just that your reputation precedes you." He stiffens slightly at your proximity. He hadn't expected you to cross the implied boundary of the desk with such ease – now you are just a few inches away, smiling crookedly at him with a glint in your eye that promises trouble.

"You don't seem particularly worried about how you, as a curse user, are standing right next to me," he says, black blindfold giving nothing away. "You're not concerned about how I know your real name, either."

"Curse user, schmurse user. I like taking things that aren't mine – I'd be doing the same thing regardless of which side of the political world I'm on. If all I want is money, they give it far more generously than your side does, and without all the bureaucratic nonsense. Neither do they care for my history, which tends to be a bit of a job-stopper in polite society. " You wave a dismissive hand. "Anyway, I like it when you say my name – sounds much better coming from a mouth like that." Your smile widens as your eyes trail down his slender throat and his exposed, pale collarbone. "Mm. Closer up, you're a pretty little thing, aren't you? I could just eat you up."

His cheeks flush pink. He crosses his arms over his chest – protection, you realise with a grin. The golden light shimmers and bends around his figure, so it's not like you could genuinely do anything to him, but you realise with delight that you've made him self-conscious. What a brag this will be!

You decide to push a little more.

"Need a hand with something, clan leader? My skillset goes beyond petty theft, but I'm sure you already know that," you purr, playfully leaning closer. You reach out, as if to touch his waist, but all you do is roll the cursed tool beside him back and forth, spinning it like a top. "I would be a wonderful trophy husband – dashing, clever, appropriately egotistical. Plus, I'm great with kids. If you need an heir at your big age, I could help with that, too."

Satoru's mouth twitches – up, almost. "You steal kids?"

"Only if the kid commissions it. But that's only happened once." You pluck the white prism off the desk and inspect it casually, noting all the glowing runes etched into each bone-white face. You've never seen them before. "Now, if I take this, will you resist? My actions will change depending on your answer, so choose wisely, pretty."

His smile takes on a cocky edge. "What, you wanna fight me? You'll lose, you know."

"Maybe," you reply, tracing one of the runes. Your sharp gaze notices the way Satoru immediately shifts, as if jolted but playing it cool. "But not many can say they've seen Gojo Satoru fight and live to tell the tale."

"Who said you'd live?"

"Well, you've commissioned me in particular several times, according to my boss. You've never met me at any of the locations except this one, which, incidentally, is the one you've paid the most for." You step closer and continue:

"I don't think you want to intercept me or bring me in, or you'd have done that somewhere more... low-key, where I'd be both more likely to accept and less likely to suspect foul play. Showin' up in your estate's personal wing, offering me a number I can't refuse... Well, I feel a proposition incoming. One that is, perhaps..." You press your hand against the desk near his hip, twirling the cursed tool in your other hand and brushing the strange, glowing runes. He shifts his weight and his knuckles tense. "Related less to my professional expertise, and more to something personal."

You lift your gaze from the prism to his obscured features, a sharp smile spreading across your features. "Am I right, Satoru?"

He stares back at you, unreadable. You press harder against the runes, making them glow brighter, and you watch, fascinated, as he stiffens visibly, catching himself on the edge of the desk before his legs give out.

"Maybe you should take a seat, sweetheart. You don't look too good." You reach out, and you are absolutely delighted when your fingers touch the smooth cotton blend of his high-quality dress shirt. With a pointed shove, he collapses into the chair, jumping slightly as you slam your boot down on the seat in the space between his thighs. His legs jolt apart and he lifts his head quickly.

Your smile widens into something wicked. You lean down, bracing against your knee. "Wanna tell me what this cursed tool does, baby? You seem... very sensitive."

He stays silent, his chest rising and falling shallowly. His lower lip pushes out into a pink pout. "Don't call me 'baby'."

"Why not? Not your style?"

"You call everyone that." He pauses regretfully, then, as your amusement grows and reveals itself in your smile.

"Oh?" you say lowly, squeezing the prism and adjusting your boot closer until the steel toe presses against his crotch. He jerks and grabs your ankle, grip tightening as you lean down and intrude on his space. Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips. "Now… how do you know that, sweetheart?"

He swallows. You hum.

"Has someone been watching me?" you lilt. "What a surprise. The untouchable golden boy has a dark secret. The strongest of our time, the peak of sorcery... dabbles in stalking."

His teeth grit together. "It's not stalking," he argues. "I was – I was watching your whole group of curse users. Reconnaissance."

"Oh, I'm not one to laugh, so don't get so defensive. You can call it what it is without lying. A man's gotta have hobbies." You take his chin in your hand, lifting his face. His pronounced Adam's apple bobs, and you gently press your thumb against it, feeling it shift. "Reconnaissance... for the man who could erase half of Tokyo with a yawn. Sweetheart, you're not subtle at all."

Your grip tightens and you tug him closer until your lips nearly touch. You know where his eyes are – you can see his brow furrowing under the blindfold. You stare into the deep black cloth with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smirk.

"You want me, don't you?" you whisper, shifting your boot to dig into the front of his slacks. He sucks in a breath and your hand moves to the back of his head, stroking the short shaven hairs of his white undercut. His hair is silky. "You orchestrated all this over months, gave millions of yen to the criminals you're supposed to eradicate, all to get my attention... Maybe I should have worked at a host club," you tease, sliding your fingers through his cloud-white hair. "Pity I'm too set in my ways to change professions now."

You lift your other hand, and his luxury silver watch gleams in it, unlatched. The mechanisms within are silent, and the face is a deep, opulent emerald green. It's the sort of watch that's styled like a bracelet, with a rectangular face in line with the edge of the band and an understated logo. Only rich-rich people wear this sort of thing – most, when buying a high-end watch, want to show it off as a high-end watch, not let it vanish into their silhouettes.

You lick your lips. You just love it when wealthy people become infatuated with you.

You tuck the watch into your pocket and Satoru doesn't even fight. He noticed, of course, as a press on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't tear his gaze from your face to even acknowledge it consciously.

His head spins. You're looking at him. You're finally looking at him.

His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. "You don't need to work. Steal. I can... I can sponsor you."

"Hm?"

"If you only align yourself with curse users for the money," he repeats, "I can sponsor you. Pay you more. As much as you want."

"Really? As much as I want...?" You trail off, and your eyes gleam wickedly. You don't stay quiet for long. "Thirty million yen instead of twenty. Then I'll think about it."

"Done," he replies instantly, and you reward him with a firmer press of your boot. He gasps, hips jerking. "Mmh—"

You chuckle and rock the toe of your boot against his clothed cock, leaning back slightly. "Good boy."

Satoru's grip tightens on your ankle – not pulling, just holding. His face flushes dark at the pet name, his lips parting, and he slides his hand up your calf, clutching your trousers. "Yes, fuck," he whispers, and it descends into a pathetic, whining keen as you step harder on his visible bulge, his knuckles going white. "Yeah..."

Oh, how adorable. The cutie has a thing for praise.

It's also hilarious. This guy is the one all your co-workers are deathly afraid of? The one you were afraid of? He's just a man. A man with a strange, misplaced obsession over little old you.

You feel like laughing, so you do. It's sharp, mocking. He looks up at you, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and you remove your foot from the chair, standing in front of him with folded arms. He sucks in a sharp breath when you relieve the friction on his cock.

"No, wait," he gasps, digging the heel of his palm into his bulge to mimic your boot. "I was—"

 "What, close? Already? I didn't know Gojo Satoru was so fuckin' easy. Go on, then," you chuckle. "Take your cock out. Let me see if it's even worth my shoe."

Biting his lip hard, he fumbles with his belt, slipping his hand in his fly and wrapping his fingers around himself. He's stiff as rock, arousal and desire creating a wet spot inside his underwear, and he pauses with a sudden clarity of his actions, hesitantly glancing up. What is he doing...?

You just arch a brow at him. "Well? I don't have all night."

Biting his lip, he pulls himself out with a sharp breath as the cool air hits his hot skin. His loose fist bobs instinctively up and down his length.

He's slender here, too, though decently long, and his length is a sweet, dusky pink. The vein on the underside is the most visible, but he's otherwise quite smooth. His white curls are neatly trimmed, and as he tugs his dress shirt out of his waistband, you catch sight of a lovely white happy trail disappearing under the hem of his shirt.

"Ah," you purr, dropping your arms and grabbing the back of his chair, leaning down to inspect him. You're close enough that he can count your eyelashes, the press of your presence against his own like a physical, radiating heat. He's sharply aware of every move he makes. "How pretty. You're just so pretty, Satoru."

He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. His cock trembles, a thick white bead bubbling at his slit and sliding down the underside. "Th-Thank you..."

And he's awkward. You laugh aloud again. His throat bobs. You reach up and clamp the edge of your glove between your teeth, tugging it off and tossing it onto the desk. You wrap your bare hand around his cock, your palm rougher than his, and he nearly knees you in the back of the leg with how hard he jolts.

"Easy, tiger," you murmur, beginning to stroke him slowly. His hand falls away and you take over, sliding teasingly from base to tip and back again. He gasps, sounding winded. "There we go. Like that, sweetheart?"

He bobs his head, gripping the edges of the chair. You rest a knee on the outer edge of the seat and he reaches automatically for it, hand gliding up your thigh and twisting in the tactical straps wrapped around your leg. These straps actually have a function – they hold up the sheath to a dagger, also clipped to your belt to spread the weight.

Is he trying to ground himself? Cute. You lean in and press your lips against his, relishing the sharp gasp he lets out as your lips meet. He grips your thigh tighter.

His hips jerk as you nip his lower lip, hard enough to snatch an involuntary noise out of his throat. You soothe over the spot with your tongue and push it between his teeth, smiling as he willingly lets you in with a wrecked moan. Your tongues slide together, wet and dirty. Your lips smack. He leans up into you, chasing you.

"Ever gonna tell me what this cursed tool is?" you murmur, pulling back slightly to glance down at his cock in your hand. It twitches under your attention, already slick and dripping. "I'd love to know how it makes you so... responsive to my touch."

He swallows, tongue darting out over his pink pout. His chest rises and falls quickly, and you can see the furrow of his brows in the shadows of his blindfold. "Why'd you stop...?"

"C'mon, tell me. I can keep a secret." You peck his lips. "I'll keep moving if you tell me."

He gulps, gnawing his lower lip as you press your thumb into his leaky slit. "I-It's, um..."

Hesitantly, he reaches up and yanks the mouth of his shirt open, unbuttoning it down the centre. He pulls it apart and stares up at you, his lips bitten and parted.

Seared into his chest is a circular sigil. Strange ancient kanji line the inside, three layers of them, and each old-fashioned stroke glows with a supernatural golden light. They're written in the sort of calligraphy you'd see in museum pieces where the dynasty gets progressively more and more 'artistic' until the ink strokes resemble black rivers more than anything else.

You stare at the characters etched into him, fascinated, as the glow ebbs and flows with his breaths.

Below the markings, he's lean – muscular the way a dancer is, a gymnast. Strength in motion, the kind that never stops until it meets an equal and opposite force. You trace the character for 'heaven' with a finger and his breath hitches violently, his cock jolting in your fist.

"Oh, you're naughty," you whisper, playful and dangerous all at once. "Emotion enhancer, huh? The Prism. I looked it up some three years ago when it still belonged to the Kamo clan. It's meant for manipulation, good for politics the same way poisons are. You, though... you're using it wrong."

"I-It's not wrong if it doesn't come with a stated purpose—"

You grab his cheeks, yanking his head to look at you and not the floor. Your eyes trace his pretty features, a smile spreading uncontrollably across your face. "You're using it to make yourself fuckin' horny. Ha! Its creator must be rolling in the grave right now – to think their magnum opus of political control is being used to overload your brain with pleasure." You shake him slightly by the jaw, fingers digging in until his lips are forced into a cute fishy pout. "Slut."

He whimpers.

Honest-to-god, he whimpers.

"Oh?" You coo, endeared. "You like it when I'm mean to you, sweetheart? How sweet..."

Your cock twitches in your pants. You lean back, palming your bulge, and Satoru tries to follow you. You shift, straddling him on the chair while standing. He slides his hands up your thighs, staring up at you, watching your every move.

He hooks a finger into your belt loops. "Hnn..."

You chuckle. "Yes? What do you want, sweet thing?"

He exhales harshly, reaching down to stroke his throbbing cock. His head rests against your stomach. His body twitches. "I want... I-It's not fair that I'm undressed and you're not."

"Fair? Hey, you lured me here with the promise of lifechanging money. That's not fair. Why should I be nice to you in return?"

He swallows, another finger hooking into your belt and tugging ineffectually. "C'mon, 'm paying you..."

"So I should do everything you say because you're desperate enough to pay me for my body?" You continue to lazily palm yourself, and Satoru gasps as you twist your hand in his hair and pull him forward into it. His fingers stutter up your body, gripping your hips. He strokes himself faster, to your amusement.

"No, I just—"

"If you want me to do something, beg for it." You pet his hair. "Maybe I'll go easy on you."

Gulping, burning with equal parts shame and desire, Satoru opens his mouth. He squeezes his length in his fist. "Please. Please let me see you. I-I'll suck your cock if you let me," he whispers. "Please."

Fuck, it's a thrill to have Gojo Satoru actively begging for you. He's a far cry from the untouchable god everyone makes him out to be. He actually seems more touch-starved than anything – he leans heavily into your palm as you stroke his hair, gripping your leg to keep you close. His pout is pink and glossy, often trapped between his teeth, and his cheeks redden when you look at him, even more visible on him than any other person.

Man. You've always been a sucker for pretty criers. You have a gut feeling Gojo Satoru is one of them.

"Alright," you agree, kind. "Go on, sweetheart."

His hands shoot up and he fumbles with your belt and tugs open your fly. His throat bobs roughly as he glances up at you, his palm pressed against the heat of your bulge. You offer an encouraging nod and his teeth sink into his lower lip as he reaches in and fishes you out.

His face is so close it almost smacks him in the cheek. He stares at it for a long moment – lips parted, throat bobbing repeatedly. Carefully, reverently, he wraps his fingers around your base, his other hand around his own.

His head spins. You're bigger. Heavier.

"Does it measure up to your fantasies, Satoru?" you ask, smirking. He nods, small and embarrassed, and you pet his hair before gripping it tight, tugging his head to slide your cock under his blindfold. He gasps, whimpering softly as your cock glides back and forth against his cheekbone, pinned by the blindfold.

"H-Hey...!" he stutters, voice pitching higher. "F-Fuck, oh, shit – mmh..."

"Got a dirty mouth on you." You drag his face towards you, your fat cockhead dripping into his pristine white hair as it pops out the top of his blindfold. You hold him there for a moment, letting him squirm and gasp at the heft and heat of you pressed firmly to his skin, before pulling back and reaching down, tapping your tip against his parted lips. "Open."

Obediently, he opens up. You feel him tense as you push your thick cock into his warm, wet mouth, filling all the space from behind his teeth to the back of his throat – he gags slightly when it brushes his uvula, but he quickly swallows to suppress the reflex, choking more of you down. You groan lowly at the feeling of his throat closing around you, letting him bob his head at his own pace.

His soft tongue swirls around your length, and saliva gathers in his mouth as he moans and squirms in the chair. He sits in this chair when his clan's elders come in to ask things of him or update him on family politics. But now, after three months of learning your name and... and monitoring you at a distance, he finally has you, and he's sucking you off in the same chair where he is formally petitioned for aid like some king.

A shudder runs through him. The thought bounces around in his head. He's sucking off a thief – he's touching himself while being used by a criminal. He nearly comes early.

He pops off with a wet slurp and a shaky exhale. Before you can say a word, he slides off the chair and kneels at your feet, grabbing your cock and opening his mouth to take it in again. You stop him with a slight tug of his hair.

"Aw, cute – I like your initiative. But if you're not going to sit in your fancy chair..." You step around him and drop into it as if it's a throne, a gleeful smile stretching across your face. You settle down and curl a finger in the air, beckoning. "Hm. Comfy."

His cheeks darken and he shuffles between your thighs, reaching for your glistening length, and lowers his head.

His lips, warm and soft, envelope your dick with more urgency. He savours the taste, masking the pause with needing time to adjust, and the salt of your skin tastes even better than he could have imagined. You're warm and hard and real and the joy almost makes him delirious.

He licks your shaft from base to tip and swallows it down again, two-thirds of your cock disappearing in one smooth motion. You groan in pleasure and tilt your head back, combing your fingers through his hair and widening your legs. Greedily, he takes advantage of the extra room to shift closer, bobbing his head and determinedly choking down your cock.

The sound is loud in his large room, though muffled by the woven tatami mats and natural wood that make up the larger part of it. In a more modern room of a similar size and layout, the hard surfaces would only make his sounds clearer.

You keep yourself relatively quiet just to hear Satoru's breathy noises whenever he lifts his head and rests your thick tip behind his lips. One of his hands is curled in your open fly, and the other shallowly strokes the base of your cock which he cannot fit. His pink tongue curls around your tip, sliding along the leaking slit with a wanton moan.

Shit, you never want to forget a sight like this.

"Hold still, sweetheart." You reach into a pouch strapped to your chest and pull out your phone, smirking as you unlock it and swipe to the camera app. You lift it. "Smile, pretty."

To your immense amusement, he does – he pops off your tip and presses your length to his cheek with a flushed, shaky grin, pink tongue peeking out.

The camera flashes.

You let out a low whistle as you lower your phone onto the desk, a smirk on your lips. "Worthy of a lockscreen, I think."

He lets out a sharp, shaky moan at the idea your fellow curse users might take a cursory glance at your phone and see him like this. He wraps his lips around your tip again. He balls his fists in your pants and bobs his head faster, deeper, desperately. One hand disappears between his legs, and you laugh at him as he jerks himself off like something piteous.

But you are nothing if not magnanimous.

You shift your leg between his thighs, slotting your boot under his weeping cock. He pops off with a stuttered breath, squeezing your ankle.

"Hump it," you order, voice low with husky amusement. "Don't touch yourself."

Muscles taut with desire, the restraint to hold himself back, Satoru gingerly shuffles closer, pressing his tip to the smooth leather of your shoe. It glides back and forth, the leather smooth and cold, and he lets out a trembling noise as his cock drags against the laces, catching and pulling. Shamelessly, he watches his pre drip into the rough cords, soaking into them. Unless you swap your laces you'll be carrying him around everywhere you go.

That thought makes him so fucking horny he gets dizzy. The markings on his chest gleam cruelly.

He rocks his hips messily against your combat boots, quick and needy. His moans hum on his tongue, making you groan at the vibration. In response, his sounds only pitch higher, more frequently, as if getting off on your unabashed groans alone.

You comb your fingers through his hair and pull him down firmly, swiftly, to the base of your cock. His bottom lip presses against your hot, heavy balls as he gags wetly, choking slightly. His shoulders tremble as his nails sink into your thighs, shoving his hips forward against your rough laces.

Your head tips back with a low, pleased rumble, slightly breathier than the previous ones. You shift, legs widening an inch, and your fingers tighten in his hair as his hot, tight throat convulses around you each time he swallows you down. Saliva drips from the corner of his lips, stretched white around your length.

He's basically limp when you grip his hair with both hands and begin to fuck his throat, one hand curled around the back of his neck.

His blush disappears under his blindfold. That thing is such a pain... You can't even tell where he's looking. You want to be able to look him in the eyes while he unravels.

Hey, aren't you're the best damn thief in the country? You always take what you want. This should be no different.

You tuck a finger beneath his blindfold and pull.

His hands fly up a second too late.

His eyes are blue – as blue as they say, though speckled with silver when the light catches just right on his thick white lashes. They are also slightly red and puffy, and his blush goes all the way up to his temples – the colour makes his eyes stand even more from proximity alone.

He covers his face with square yet slender hands, a loud whimper vibrating up and out of his chest. He's still got your cock in his mouth and you hiss in pleasure, dick throbbing hotly as he grips your hand holding his blindfold. You can feel him trembling in shock, his palms warm and soft.

"Aw, don't want me to look?" you coo sweetly, and he just moans. "You gonna cry, pretty thing?"

He shakes his head as well as he can with your fat tip stuffed in his mouth. His tongue presses against the underside, licking and tracing your veins with his tongue. Discreetly, he hooks his finger over the top of his blindfold and tries to slip it back down.

You grab his wrist. "Trying to distract me? You know, I'm disappointed you even thought that would work. What's so scary about showing me that pretty face, hm? Or are you just shy?"

He sniffles, pressing his hand lower over his eyes. Your brows shoot up and the laughter that escapes you is loud and mean. He curls into himself.

"Shit! Are you actually crying?"

He can't say anything with your cock in his mouth, and you feel him shuffle closer to your leg, rubbing against your boot with renewed vigour. Every stroke is long and lingers against its peak. It's desperate, and you can feel his hips jolting short and shallow like he's trembling. You can't help but coo at him as you twist your hands back into his hair.

"C'mon, sweetheart. I'll fuck you properly if you let me see your face." You lean closer to his ear, lips curved into a mischievous smile, and pet his hair like a puppy. "I'll make you come as many times as you want, however you want."

His hips jerk against your leg. A hitched breath, a staggered pause.

He lowers his hands.

It takes your breath away. His face flushes an even darker shade of red, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. He fists your pants tightly, his soft little moans travelling up your cock and settling in your lower stomach.

"Oh, Satoru."

What a fucking view. He blinks up at you, trembling, trying to make himself look small, and his eyes widen slightly as you twitch in his mouth and pull him all the way to the base of your cock in one sudden, ruthless motion.

His eyelashes flutter and the whites of his eyes show as he chokes on your cock, gagging and twitching as he nuzzles slightly deeper into the front of your pants, trying to fit more in even when there's very little left. Eager thing.

You begin to fuck his face again – or use him to fuck yourself, more like. You drag him back and forth, hands twisted firmly in his hair, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as saliva drips from the corner of his stretched-white lips and sweat gathers at his temples and the small of his back. Your touch is electrifying, your low groans and muttered praise only serving as a positive feedback loop that makes him need more, more, more.

He struggles to think. Your cock just fills his throat so well, as if you're made for him! How can you be more perfect? You couldn't if you tried.

His saliva drips down your hot, thick cock and soaks into your clothes. He's so wet. He can't control it anymore. He can't control anything anymore.

You twitch in his mouth. "Gonna come, baby," you husk, voice low and rumbly. It's rougher than your usual syrupy purr, perhaps closer to your real voice, and Satoru's heart and cock throb so hard it hurts. "You're going to swallow it all."

He nods fervently, leaning in, relaxing his jaw even more. His dick is soaked in his own pre, and another spurt spatters your laces as you thrust up into his mouth. You grunt, sharp and hungry, and Satoru feels you twitch as you stuff his throat with your fat cock one last time.

Hot come bursts down his gullet. He lets out a loud, high-pitched moan, almost a cry, that's cut short as he works on gulping it down, gasping between each swallow. His throat convulses greedily, sucking you down, and his nails dig painfully into your thighs. You pull him close, his nose brushing against your stomach, and the tears finally begin to roll down his cheeks.

He's shaking so hard you can feel his tremors in your own bones. The markings on his chest glow in central, rapidly-pulsing patterns. His thighs clamp around your calf, grinding messily.

When you finally exhale, leaning back, Satoru stays put with your cock between his lips. He swallows, bobbing his head dazedly, and thick white come trickles from the corner of his slick mouth, glazing his lips with it. Tears track down his high, aristocratic cheekbones.

With a wicked smile, you pick up your phone again. You whistle and snap your fingers, and like clockwork, Satoru's glossy eyes trail up to the dark eye of the phone.

You don't have to say anything. He does it all himself, even lifting his hand in a shaky peace sign in a motion that seems thoughtless, automatic. Probably his go-to pose in front of a camera.

The camera flashes. He suckles on your cock slowly.

You look at the picture with a laugh, turning it around to show him with a smirk. "Shit, you look like a fuckin' slut, Gojo Satoru."

His hair is a mess, bangs pinned back by his blindfold. His face is deep pink, eyes dazed and pupils blown so wide there's only a sliver of blue left ringing them. There are tears on his cheeks and creamy come smeared on his lips – lips wrapped tight around a thick cock that looks pornographically big when contrasted against his fine, pretty features.

And the peace sign... Fucking hell. Satoru whimpers softly.

You pat your thigh lazily, turning away to lock your phone and pop it back into its little pouch. You don't even look at him when you speak, careless and casually cruel. "Pants off, then come here."

He obeys as if he was waiting for your order. He scrambles to shimmy out of his dress slacks and sit in your lap. After making sure your phone is secure, you finally raise your gaze to Satoru, who actually quivers when your eyes meet his. It makes you smile.

"Look at you," you murmur almost affectionately, reaching down to wrap your fingers around his cock. He jolts with a whimper. It's swollen and rubbed raw and red, almost painfully so, and coated in sticky warmth. You tilt your head with a growing smirk and pull him closer as you lean forward to look over his shoulder at your boot, almost hugging him. 

Your boot is covered in come. The black leather gleams under the light, streaked with milky white. Your eyes gleam when you pull back to laugh in his flushed face. The sudden proximity of your bodies, the lack of space between them, had his head spinning, the indulgent scent of your cologne invading his brain. He presses his nose into your neck, gasping breaths inhaling your scent of leather oil and rich, almost chocolatey cologne. 

You tug his hair playfully, making him moan. "You came from sucking me off, huh? Shit, you're even more pathetic than I thought! You can't get much lower than paying your enemy to spend time with you, but somehow, you managed to do it. Aren't you embarrassed, Satoru? Aren't you going to apologise for ruining my shoes like a fucking whore?"

He makes a choked sound like he's about to cry. You pull his hair warningly and he gasps sharply, pressing his hot face into the crook of your neck.

"'M sorry," he whines, voice high and shuddery, "I'm sorry! C-Couldn't help it, jus' felt too good—"

You slap him across the thigh with a sound like a gunshot. He flinches and moans your name. "Did I ask for excuses?"

"No," he blubbers, grinding his cock pathetically against yours. It leaks so much. "No, 'm sorry, 'm sorry..."

"Good," you praise, and Satoru shivers, fingers curling in your shirt. "Want me to make you feel even better?"

His eyes widen. He nods hard, swallowing and leaning closer as if to kiss you again. You indulge him, meeting him halfway, and he lets out a happy little moan that's so cute you almost squish his cheeks. You satisfy yourself with squeezing two handfuls of his smooth, firm ass.

You slide a hand lower, your middle finger gliding against his rim. You feel him clench around nothing as you circle his hole, letting him whine into your mouth as you tease him lazily.

He pulls back with a sharp gasp as your fingertip dips past his rim. Your finger pushes into him, slick with his own come, and he arches his back and presses down against your body, trying to get that perfect arch to get your fingers against that sensitive bundle of nerves.

Knowing what he's doing takes away much of the secrecy, though. You pull back when he arches, follow him when he grinds against you, and it isn't long before he dissolves into pitiful whines that go straight into your ear.

"No, no, c'mon, please," he whimpers, trembling when your stroke the markings glowing on his chest. Each line is hotter than the rest of him, as if heat had split him open along every brush stroke and oozed from him. It was so raw, so beautifully vulnerable. You like this version of Satoru a lot more.

You hum. "Why should I listen to you? Convince me."

He bites the inside of his cheek to mask his growing frustration. His dick is so hard it arcs up towards his stomach, drooling from the tip with every beat of his heart. Every time your thumb brushes his rim, it twitches.

"You need to s-stretch me for your cock," he whispers, the words foreign in his mouth and so sweetly humiliating. "You're too big. You need to... You need to prep me so you can fuck me as hard as you want. Please put your fingers in me. I won't come, I promise, sir, I won't – o-oh..."

His voice falls abruptly off a cliff as two fingers slide into his ass. His eyes roll back as they curl and push into him, stroking his hot, gummy walls experimentally. He clamps around them, his jerking, trying to fuck himself on them.

You grin, sleazy. "'Sir'? Oh, I like the sound of that. I'm not usually important enough to have a title like that."

You like it. You like it. Satoru files it away in the hot mush of his brain for later. For now, he tries to concentrate on not bursting early. It's easier said than done when you begin to grind against him, pushing your cocks together until his drooling tip leaks against yours, wet strings of pre joining his to yours.

He's so much wetter than you – not for your lack of arousal, but anything even close to normal pales in comparison to whatever he's going through. He's trembling on just two of your fingers, and when you add a third, he nearly sobs. His lower lip quivers and he gnaws on it to focus on the pain and not the pleasure of the burn, the stretch. You kiss his tears away and his head spins with syrupy desire.

"More," he croaks, gasping shakily as you pump your fingers in and out of him steadily. His hole squelches. "Please, more, more, gimme more so I can fit your cock inside me already," he nearly cries, fists bunching in the leather holster across your chest. He wiggles his hips messily against your thick cock, smacking them together. "I want it, I need it, please—"

"Yeah? How bad?" you tease in a low, husky voice, moaning as he slides his cock between your balls. It's delightfully filthy, and his tip spurts threateningly as you slap his pale thigh. "Answer me, slut."

"So bad!" he hiccups, body shaking as you tease your pinky finger against his tight hole. He pushes desperately against your knuckles. "I want it so bad, I want your cock, I want you – I've wanted it for months, please, I can't control it anymore, jus' need you to fuck me already," he moans, and his breath hitches violently as you press the first joint of your pinky inside him. He buries his face in your shoulder, hips rocking against you. It's like once he's started talking, he can't stop. "Yes, yes, yes, stretch me open for your cock, I-I'll make you come, you can come inside, i-if you want! Please, oh, fuck, y-you're stretching me...!" he gasps, hips jolting as you press four fingers inside him, curling and uncurling. Your fingers scrape his sensitive walls.

"You're so chatty," you chuckle, pressing your fingers in deep. He lets out a choked moan as you avoid that swollen button inside him that makes him come apart. His cock is throbbing hard, and you don't want him coming just yet. "And you talk like you're in a bad porno. You don't sleep around much, do you?"

Satoru whimpers. He doesn't respond, which is just as much of an answer as words would be.

You work him open steadily, though your hand quickens in the middle of your next sentence and leaves him gasping for air as his hole squelches loudly in the open bedroom. "That's okay – you must be a busy man, right? Not a lot of time to spend looking for connection." You curl your fingers, your palm slapping his skin with each gunshot-rapid pump of your wrist. He shoves his face into your neck, arms tightening around you.

You kiss his cheek absently, curling a hand in his hair. "That's the reason you're mixing business with pleasure, isn't it? You can't mingle with non-sorcerers 'cause of your Six Eyes. 'Babe, why do you wear sunglasses inside? Why do you wear a blindfold?' And that's not even mentioning exorcisms and your day job. 'If you're rich, you must have a good job, what do you do? Oh, it's old money? What's the family business, what's their name so I can google them, how'd they strike it rich?' If you can't answer all that, you'll just look like a yakuza with sensory deprivation and exhibitionist kinks."

He can't keep up with your words plus the hot sensation of your fingers pumping in and out of him. He moans.

"Funny that you chose me out of all people," you muse, relishing in the way he claws at your clothes like a desperate little puppy. "You could have your pick of sorcerers… yet you've decided the one you'll have is the criminal. Tsk-tsk-tsk. Naughty little thing."

"'S not my fault," he whines, hips jerking up with a stutter. He shifts higher on his knees and his hand flies to the nape of your neck as you dip your head and kiss his pink-flushed chest. You chuckle against his skin and run the flat of your tongue over his hardened nipple. His grip tightens. "Wait, n-not there—!"

You trace part of the sigil carved into his chest with your hot tongue. He drops his hips sharply and turns his face into his forearm as he bites down on it, muffling the cry that shakes through his frame. His body aches with a marrow-deep need, and he blinks back stinging tears. His chest heaves, every exhale punctuated by a breathy, pathetic noise.

You pull away from his nipple with a soft pop, licking your lips. You trail kisses up his collarbone and neck, ending up underneath his ear and making him shiver and lean into your embrace. He holds you close, cradling your head against his neck to keep you kissing right there. His skin tingles, and the harsh scrape of your teeth so close to his jugular vein turns his thoughts into static.

He barely reacts when you stand and lay him instead on his desk, pushing folders and unsigned reports aside. He parts his thighs and stares dazedly up at you as you lean down to kiss him – he props himself up on an elbow and wraps his legs around your waist, hooking his ankles over your ass. He whimpers, head tipping back, as you press your thick tip against his puckered hole.

"Please," he gasps against your lips, leaning up to chase your lips whenever you part for breath. His breathing is heavy, growing uneven when you tease his entrance with your tip – you never push in deep enough for it to pop past his rim, and his wet cock throbs with need, jerking against his stomach. "Please, I need it, sir, need it so bad, fuck me—"

In one firm motion, you slide your cock all the way inside him. Your balls press against his ass with a soft smack.

His lashes flutter. His lips part. His legs lock tightly around your hips.

His whole body jolts – once, twice, and then the first sound escapes him. It's tiny, broken – more of a hiccup than anything else. He buries his face in your shoulder.

He comes.

From the simple act of pushing your cock into him, he comes. You support the arch of his back, cooing condescendingly over him as his cock jerks and splatters thick ropes of white over his stomach, dripping down his sides in thick rivulets. It soaks into his white happy trail and he can barely speak, every inch of his brain imprinted with nothing but pleasure. It's like it's being carved into him.

"Oh my god," he whimpers, breathless as he presses his hand to his mouth. His legs tighten around you as you start to move, his leaky half-hard cock flopping onto his stomach. You flick the tip and his teeth nearly bite straight through his lip. "God! Fuck!"

"You can cry if you like," you chuckle, fucking him lazily. You shift your hands to rest on his hips, hiking his thighs higher whenever they slip. "I won't tell anyone. Promise."

The pictures are more damning than whispers that Gojo Satoru might cry during sex. Without proof it just sounds like jealousy or petty rumours, because why on earth would the big, strong, capable Gojo clan head cry at all? He's blessed.

Fuck, he can't imagine everyone's faces if they ever saw those photos. Him on his knees, happily sucking the dick of the criminal he's supposed to bring to justice. 'Justice' for curse users usually takes the form of immediate death, and Satoru is distraught at the idea that a cock like yours would go away just because you stole the elders' toys once or twice... a day.

Staring into your eyes, looking at those perfect kissable lips curved into a smirk, he promises himself that this is just to satiate his curiosity – and his need. One and done. With the addition of his little Prism, this single event could, theoretically, satisfy him for the next ten years – his memory's damn near perfect, so the mere recall of it would be like reliving a porno he starred in. Great!

Less great, however, is the fact that you're fucking him so deep that it's melting his brain, and he can't exactly remember something if there's nothing to put the memory in. He struggles to retain it all, the overstimulation even worse for someone like him. He's panting hard, clutching your shoulders, as you angle your hips and drag your cock against his prostate.

He makes an inhuman noise and his arm buckles under him. He slumps against his desk, arms swinging wide, scrambling for grip – and an ornate porcelain pen cup – probably a gift from some event he can't be bothered remembering – tips off the edge and shatters with a sound that cracks the sex-thick air like a whip. You cock plunges into him and he squeezes the edge of his desk, knuckles white as your thighs smack rhythmically against his ass.

"Why'd you go and do that, huh?" you pout, dragging your hands down his chest and stomach, caressing him. You run your hands down his thighs and hook them smoothly over your elbows, leaning forward. He moans sharply as you press into him at the new angle. "What a mess you've made."

You run a finger through the creamy glaze splattering his stomach. His cock jumps.

"Guess it just means I'm doing a good job, then," you hum, and he nods emphatically, his head feeling heavy and dumb. He whines, sniffling, as his body begins to feel the burn. When you glance down, leaning back, his rim is puffy and red, thoroughly fucked open. If he wasn't able to heal himself, he'd be walking funny for days.

"Feels good," he gasps, "feels so good..."

You look delighted. You lean down and kiss him deeply, and his moans grow louder, like wounded little whines, when you nibble a trail of hickeys down the side of his neck. His nails scratch stinging lines into your back as you grind your hips into him, letting him feel the entire length of you filling him up.

"Doing so well for me, sweetheart," you murmur as your cock twitches inside him, pressing against his slick, gummy walls. "Yeah, just relax. If you wanted pleasure, I can give you that."

Suddenly, Satoru's head lifts and he tries to prop himself up on an elbow, pushing at your chest. He tries to speak, but all that escapes are gasped little moans.

A knock at the door.

"Gojo-sama? Do you need anything?"

A servant. They must have heard the cup shatter.

Satoru nearly bites through his lip. He presses a shaking hand to his mouth, pushing more insistently at your chest, but you do not give – you slow your movements into something torturous, leaning down to whisper in his ear.

"Answer them, baby."

His brow furrows in adorable dissatisfaction at the petname – what he considers your 'default', if you will. He opens his mouth to refuse, but you knock his voice from his lungs and he instead lets out a tiny, swallowed squeak, legs tightening briefly before trying to get you to pull out.

He swallows roughly, nails digging into your skin as he meets your amused gaze, his face burning with heat.

"I'm fine," he calls back, his voice breathy but otherwise shockingly steady. "You can leave."

You lower your head back to his throat, pleased by his farce. You kiss along his jaw, beginning to move your hips again. His breath stutters in your ear.

"Are you certain...? I thought I heard something break."

You grab him by the waist and turn him over, bending him over the desk. He stares back at you, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, as you slip your cock back in with a silent exhale. Relishing in each tight, silky stroke, you fuck into his ass slowly, making him slap a hand over his mouth and his grip turn white-knuckled on the edge of his big desk.

Another knock. "Gojo-sama?"

You pick up the pace, huffing softly as you press your palm to the small of his back – his pale, flushed skin shines with sweat. Life is so unfair – you would love to lick it off him, but you can't if you want to remain buried in his hot, tight hole.

"D-Don't worry about it!" he bites out, blue eyes fluttering shut when you kiss the nape of his damp neck. His thighs quiver as you use your body and press him into the wood, your dick sinking deep into his eager hole with a soft squelch. "I'll clean it up. Just go!"

You grab his wrists and pin them beside his head, making his eyes widen further. He shakes his head fervently, unable to swallow his sharp gasps each time your cock kisses his swollen prostate. He presses his thighs together and squirms, bucking back onto your cock. You chuckle quietly into the crook of his neck, nipping dark bruises into the thin skin.

"I can send for someone to clear it for you. Such a menial task does not befit you."

Tightening your grip on his wrists, you slam your cock in with a startling wet plap of skin-on-skin. You press him into the desk and he lets out a choked gasp, eyes rolling back as his knees buckle – he tries to catch himself but only manages to push himself deeper on your cock. His heart pounds like a war drum as his weak knees knock together with your thrusts, all too rough and hard when someone is right by the door.

Oh, god. Oh, god.

The floorboards creak as if they're stepping forward to open the door. Satoru flails slightly, hands groping for purchase – he only manages to make you bite his shoulder in punishment. He whimpers through kiss-swollen, pressed-together lips.

"Don't come in!" he shouts, panicked. "I – I have a migraine! Just leave."

"Gojo-sama—"

"Now!"

A pause, then hurried footsteps receding down the hall. As soon as they turn the corner at the end of the hall, Satoru lets out a cry and jolts forward, releasing a string of pained, relieved moans as copious amounts of come splatters the desk below him. His moans turn high and whiny as you pick up the pace, fucking him hard enough to shove his dick into the hard desk surface and smearing his spend all over himself.

"Y-You asshole," he sobs out as his bliss peaks, trembling as his eyes well up. He sniffles, hair bouncing with every thrust. "Oh, oh, oh – no, stop, 's too muh-much...!"

"The view from up here says it's not enough," you tease, and he moans in distress. "You did so well, sweetheart. Such a good boy f'me... so good at being pretty and quiet, hm?"

The praise goes straight to his dick. It spurts again, one thick distinct rope of white, and he starts to sniffle, quivering every time your cock bullies his prostate, your thick tip punching it relentlessly.

He can barely moan, let alone think. Your hot, velvety balls press against his skin, and he feels them twitch as you grind against the curve of his ass.

"C-Can't breathe," he whimpers, his cock drooling a puddle onto his desk. "'S too big – oh fuck, oh, fuck—! Sir!"

"What, am I gonna fuck you to death?" you laugh, groaning as he tightens around you. You grab the meat of his ass, slapping it cruelly, and curl a fist in his white hair to yank his head back. You wrap your hand around his bared throat, making his body arch prettily against you, his ass pressing higher. "Think you can come again?"

"No," he cries. "Ah, ah... Too much..."

You kiss him over his shoulder. His white lashes flutter as you pound him into the desk, his ass rippling obscenely. His back is a broad, flushed, sweat-slick canvas, defined muscles flexing beneath the skin. Blank – for now, you think, amused.

You slide your hand up his throat, gripping his jaw, forcing his spine to arch further. Every time your cock slams into him, his cock leaks and his glowing markings pulsate so deep it burns in his marrow. His moans are constant, breathy, hiccupped.

"I think you've got one more in you, sweetheart," you murmur as you lean down, voice rough with lust. His hand grasps blindly at your hip, nails digging into you. "I want you to come for me."

"I can't," he moans, creamy pale thighs shaking with every jolt of white-hot bliss you send up his spine. "'M done, nnh, I can't anymore—!"

"Aw. Your pretty little cock's running empty? You can do one more. Just one more," You pout and reach down to grab it, making him sob as you tighten your fist and begin to stroke it – up and down, up and down. He's a mess of precome and his creamy spend, splattered on his tummy and the grand desk below him. Tears glitter along his lashes as you pump his throbbing dick and fuck him deep at the same time, leaving him nowhere to run to escape. Forward into your fist, backwards onto your cock, and your warm lips on his. He squirms helplessly, the muscles of his defined back rippling with the effort to keep himself up.

His lips are swollen and sticky like a summer dream. He makes even this debauchery look pretty. When your finger slides down his slick slit and presses into the hole, he starts to cry.

It's not loud, like you'd expected. His shoulders shake as he gasps and moans your name, greedily pushing back onto your length and whining through his tears when his skin meets yours with a filthy obscene clapping. He's cute – trying to muffle his sobs, pressing his hand to his mouth as he blinks glassily up at you, brows furrowed in the sweetest little teary expression. You shift your hips and ram into his slick hole, and the way his slender fingers slip and part over his pink lips is something straight out of an art gallery. Tears run down his blazing cheeks.

You smirk. You were right. He is a pretty crier.

When your pace grows heavier, hungrier, he realises through a distant haze that you're close. His hole is raw and achy, so deliciously sensitive, and you groan against his skin, dipping your head to bruise the shape of your teeth into his red-flushed neck. The pleasure is pain, and the pain is pleasure. He sniffles weakly, punched-out little gasps and moans all that he can manage as the feeling engraves and buries itself directly across his snap-firing neurons.

His voice is slurred. "Mmgh – c-c'mming—"

He jolts against you as he spurts over your palm, fucking the wet hole of your fist. He's messy, greedy, dizzy, and you whisper husky praise into his ears that soothes the white-hot burn of overstimulation behind his teary eyes.

Those blue eyes roll back as you slam him into the table, letting out ragged groans that carve themselves a home in his consciousness. His arms buckle, and his fine wood desk is cold against his fiery cheek. Your panting is hot and sharp against his ear. He won't be forgetting these any time soon.

With a sharp, heavy succession of thrusts, he feels you pour inside him, thick and creamy and searing-hot. He can barely whimper before you pull out abruptly and spurt thick ropes over his ass and back, fisting your cock with the hand dirtied with his come. His puffy, abused hole winks up at you, his hips weakly canted up to display the stretch of him. A thin line of white dribbles from his rim, and he grips the edge of his desk to keep himself from collapsing as his knees give out without your hands to keep his hips up.

A wide, blissed-out smile stretches across Satoru's flushed, tear-streaked pretty face. Loose, lazy moans slip from his silky pink lips with every spurt of your cock across his ass and back, claiming him as yours. His chest heaves, his expression almost giddy as he lays his head on the cool wood, his body aching adoringly with the remnants of your affection.

He hears you rustle around behind him, fixing up your clothes. He lies there, spent, shaking, trying to remember how his tongue works in his mouth. He presses a trembling hand to his chest and smears the pine-soot ink off his chest, breaking the seal – with just a few rubs, the circle breaks and its entire molten-gold appearance sputters and flickers out like a snuffed candle. What remains is simple black ink, the sort used for calligraphy, painted onto his toned torso in the shape of each circle and rune.

"Fuck," he whispers hoarsely, every gasping inhale making his muscles tense. "Holy fuck…"

"Was it?" you tease, pressing yourself over the line of his body. You curl your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up to roll back against your shoulder, and Satoru's eyes glitter as you extend your phone in front of you. You kiss him deeply, making him let out a ragged moan as his tongue runs along the line of your teeth, and the phone camera lets out a cheerful snap. You let the kiss linger for a moment longer before you pull away, lips smacking with a wet, pornographic sound.

"You're just perfect, aren't you?" you whisper with a growing, fascinated smile, admiring him. He lets out a raspy laugh and kisses you again with a lovesick smile, reaching out to personally take a burst shot of photos on your phone.

"For posterity," he whispers, stroking your cheek. You kiss his neck with a chuckle and he lets you slide out of his grasp, his raised hand falling gently to the desk with a soft thump. He watches through half-lidded eyes as you fix your harness and slide your gloves back on, and you step into his blind spot, passing over his other side.

"Wait."

You pause a few steps away with the Prism in hand, almost perfectly composed except for your untucked shirt and kissed lips. "Yes, sweetheart?"

He pushes himself up, lazily draped over his desk. "Where are you taking that?"

You flash him a sharp smile. "Out. Quick vacation never hurt anything." You tap it gently with your knuckles. "I still have a contract to fulfill. It needs to travel from the Gojo estate into the hands of my client… and I do so love a personal hand-off." You wink and step backwards away from him, tossing the Prism over your shoulder and not bothering to catch it. A large violet portal opens up directly behind you on the floor and swallows it whole, vanishing with a soft burbling murmur.

You offer a lazy two-fingered salute, continuing to walk backwards until the heel of your boot tips over the abrupt ledge of the portal. "So don't worry, darling. I'll be seeing you around far sooner than you think."

With that, you tip backwards into your portal, and you vanish from sight with nary a whisper. The portal closes without so much as a ripple of cursed energy, and Satoru is left alone and naked in his quarters, another man's seed dripping from his hole and down the curve of his ass. Lazily, he sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he pulls his phone out of a drawer, turning it on to see a red dot residing in a downtown area of Tokyo, blinking slowly.

A soft, breathy laugh echoes in the traditional room. His eyes gleam with a silvered infatuation, his lashes fluttering as he presses the nail of his thumb against his rosy, kiss-swollen lower lip in a caricature of shyness. "Yes," he murmurs, his tender gaze sharpening into something like obsession as the dot blips four blocks over to a bar and restaurant street in a single pulse. "You will be."

The sun is hot, beating down on Jack's scalp, even through his golf cap. Sweat brews underneath, tickling his curls in a way that tells him he's going to have a rough day.

Dread bubbles in his stomach as he reluctantly shuts the door to his truck, taking in the greens before him. They're large, many acres over a large country club, one he's unsure he could pronounce the name of, let alone fit in at.

He spots the pro shop, so large and intimidating he feels like a cartoon character, cowering under an evil giant. An evil giant in white linens and golf gloves.

So to speak, this is not his crowd. All the same, he grabs his golf clubs, and begins his journey into this hellacious day.

As he approaches, he spots the reason he's here— some hospital higher up he's been sent to impress in order to garner some more PTO for his staff.

They're lucky he loves them.

"Dr. Abbot!" The big-wig croons, a plain man aptly named Dr. Alex Smith. Jack's face stretches in a tight smile as he extends his hand for a shake. "How are you? So happy you could join us."

"I'm alright," he replies, a nonchalant air in his tone. "It's a gorgeous day."

He's not typically one for niceties and small talk, but today? It's a bit of a different story.

As Dana so lovingly puts it, he's shit at hiding his feelings, and he needs to fix his fuckin' face. He's going to need all the luck he can get.

"Absolutely beautiful!" He booms, clapping him on the back.

The man's hand is large and aggressive, and Jack assumes the two adjectives will describe today quite well.

Soon, a golf cart rolls down the gravel. a blessing that spares him from more small talk. His relief is momentary, though, because what he sees behind the wheel nearly gives him a heart attack.

You're sitting there, the prettiest thing he's seen in years. Pink manicured nails perch atop the black leather as you slow down, shifting the gear.

His eyes drift from your sweet face, down to the white tennis dress clinging to your curves. It's enough to make him dizzy, and he wills himself to look at something, anything else.

He regrets this, because of course he does, as he takes in the rest of your cart. It's bigger than your average golf cart, and, in his defense, what you've done with it makes it seem a lot bigger.

Jack takes it in, a bright pink explosion assaulting his vision. A pink disco ball swings from the rearview mirror, reflecting off your pretty face in shiny glass shards.

A baby pink tarp protects you from the sun, and the protective urge in him yearns to put a cap on your head. He's seen enough scalp damage in the ED to last him a lifetime.

Jutting out of the side is a little cabinet, filled to the brim with snacks. The counter below has little handles on the side, and he can only imagine the different types of alcohol in there.

In the haze of you, he thinks he hears a low whistle coming from his left, coincidentally where Dr. Smith posts up beside him. Anger burns through him, and he extends his neck, twisting his head from side to side, desperate to shake it off.

You pop up, breaking his bubble with a sweet, 'hi!', and a wiggle of your fingers. Your manicure flashes in the sun at your greeting, and he wills himself to think of dead puppies, his grandma, anything to rid his brain of your beauty.

Smith is first to approach, holding out a hand for you to shake. Ever so polite, you accept, greeting each member of their group with the same level of enthusiasm.

"Last, but not least!" You chirp, holding your hand out to Jack.

He freezes, forgetting he's actually there, and not an invisible passerby. Eyes darting to your hand, it feels robotic, the way he extends his own, letting you lead the shake.

God, what kind of man is he?

Looking past you, Smith has already planted himself in the front seat of the cart, and nothing about that sits right with Jack. The rest of the group is relegated to another, normal golf cart, trailing behind yours to the first hole.

His eyes can't help but burn into the back of you, keeping an eye on Smith, as well. Jack doesn't know much, but he knows damn well that if he touched you, he'd simply see red.

This passion, this fire, scares him. He just learned your name all of five minutes ago, didn't even know you existed when he opened his eyes this morning.

Yet, you've captivated him. Your kind smile, your bubbly personality, it's enough to make a man go weak in the knees.

Though, he supposes that's why you were hired. He can't be the only man who's felt this way in your presence, in fact, he's probably far from it.

The thought makes his stomach twist, and he pushes it down as the cart comes to a stop. He averts his gaze as you swing out of your own vehicle, though you make it difficult, you're so pretty.

With a snap of your sweet fingers, you gather the attention of the men in record time. It's impressive, the way the group flocks to you, and Jack's no exception.

Guilt roils through him as you meet his gaze, a smile spreading your lips in a way that makes his heart pound. You deserve better than his leering, though the way your eyes linger for a moment gives him a sliver of hope.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he snaps his head away from you. Your voice floods his ears, soft enough to lull him to sleep if he really tried hard enough.

"Okay," you start, clapping your hands together. "So, here is how my cart works- any time you're hungry, or thirsty, let me know, and I'll get you taken care of."

I'll get you taken care of. Fuck, Jack, you pervert.

"All of your orders will be put on the tab of an…" rummaging for a small receipt tucked in one of the cabinets. "Alex Smith?"

Jack's heart lurches, stomach turning at his name.

"Doctor, sweetheart," he clarifies, and Jack can't help his eye roll. "Dr. Alex Smith."

Fix your fuckin' face, Abbot, Dana's voice plays in his head.

He sees you tense at the nickname, and his fingers clench in a fist. Desperate to ease your discomfort, he butts in.

"Thank you," he huffs, and your gaze snaps to his. "For- y'know-" he clears his throat, regretting opening his mouth. "Being there for us today."

His breath hitches at the eye contact, the first time he's been brave enough to give your face a proper look. You're so stunning, his heart hurts. You give him a small smile, and somehow his chest puffs on its own.

"Of course! Are you a doctor too?" Your smile widens with your question, and Jack nearly trips just standing there.

"Uh-yeah, yeah, I am," he coughs into a closed fist, holding out his free one for you to shake. "Dr. Abbot."

The regret is instant, once your hand touches his. It's electric, sending shockwaves through his veins. Smooth fingers wrapping around his calloused ones, your firm shake a pleasant surprise.

He can feel his hand clamming up, a small voice in the back of his head chanting, wrong, wrong, this is wrong. Clearing his throat, he brings his hand back like he's been shocked. In a way, he has.

Your smile falters, and he's unsure if he's seeing properly as you return your attention back to the rest of the group.

"Our drink options range from water, to soda, to some beers and hard seltzers. We don't sell hard liquor, just to be clear," you hold up a stern finger, a coy smile on your pretty face.

Your instructions were met with nods and grumbles of approval, and Jack is entranced by how easily you've captivated this group of grown men.

"Okay!" You chirp, clapping your hands together. "Let me know if you guys need anything, have so much fun!"

His heart patters at your squeal, and he tampers it down as best he can. He'll never see you again after today, and it has to stay that way.

The doctors within his group saddle up to the first hole, Jack hanging towards the back. Jack has golfed before, but it's definitely not his preferred activity, especially after losing his leg.

Peeking out of his peripheral, you make it all the more enticing, much to his everlasting dismay. Perched on the bench of your cart, you give a peppy clap, maybe a 'woo-hoo!', if they swing really well.

It makes Jack's stomach hurt, knowing he won't get that from you. Walking up to the hole, his first hit is instantly out of bounds.

"Woah! Bad morning, Abbot?" Smith asks, dripping with condescension.

His heart rate spikes, flitting his gaze over to the man, but he's not looking at him. He's got a thumb pointed toward Jack, wagging it as if to say, 'get a load of this guy.'

This would irritate Jack on any normal day, but with Smith's gaze on you, the way it lingers, like it's a joke he's not in on, it's enough to make him disintegrate.

The rest of the morning, his swing is just as terrible. Silly distractions flit through his mind, the wind rustling through your skirt, the tap of your pretty nails on the beer bottles you keep popping for Smith.

Smith. Jack has half a mind to report him to the board after today. The way he leers at you, flirts with you the drunker he gets, it's enough to make him vomit all over the pristine greens.

You take it all with a smile, friendly enough to keep him at bay, but not too overindulgent, as if to suggest reciprocated interest. The amount of times you've probably had to deal with this is something Jack would rather not think about.

"Woah! You see that, pretty girl?" Smith croons, pointing toward the birdie he just hit. "Not the only stroke I'm good at."

Jack's head snaps up, white hot rage simmering deep in his belly. His mouth moves before his brain can catch up.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say to her?" He asks, and the entire group snaps their heads in is direction.

His ears turn pink, but he refuses to back down.

Smith rears his head back, as if he's never been called out for his predatory behavior. He probably hasn't.

"Uhm-" he chuckles, scrambling for words. "Why do you care so much, Abbot? You wanna find out?"

Jack rolls his eyes, teeing up to his own ball.

"Just want to make sure you're keepin' it professional, Smith," he says, hitting the ball without making eye contact. "This is a work function, you know."

"Yeah, well if you care that much about being a professional, maybe you'd swing better," he condescends, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder.

He flinches at the contact, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Boys, boys!" Your sweet voice flutters. "Please keep it kosher, or I'm going to have to end our game early."

You approach Jack as you speak, and his heart thumps louder in his chest.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot," you coo, and his cheeks burn. "But I can take care of myself, I'm a big girl."

He rolls his eyes, desperate to tamper down his desire at the name you've bestowed upon yourself.

"Sorry, 'f course you are," he shakes his head, looking down. "'s just not right. He shouldn't speak to you that way."

Then, you do the unexpected. A delicate hand perches on his forearm, forcing his gaze back to you.

"You're sweet," you whisper, so quiet he can barely even hear it. "I'm okay, promise," you squeeze his muscle, and he expects you to walk away, for that to be the end of it.

But you don't. You stay, saddling up next to him to watch the rest of the group take their turn. The lingering smell of your sweet perfume fills his nose, and he nearly passes out.

He nods, not really wanting to believe you. The instinct to protect you looms large over his head, a solar eclipse of possession that threatens to choke him.

He shifts on his leg, a dull ache starting to settle in where the bone meets prosthetic. He leans on his golf club like it's a cane— the juxtaposition of you next to him, hands on your hips, left one jutting out, clutches his heart.

He's desperate to be as subtle as possible, not wanting to put any more attention on himself, but you notice. Of course you do, your pretty head flitting towards his stance.

"Oh! Do you need to sit? I'm so sorry, where are my manners!" You chastise, and he attempts a self-deprecating wave.

"No, no, gosh, I'm okay, you've been perfectly pleasant," he replies, training his eyes on the ground beneath him.

"Well, let me continue to do so and offer you a seat," you hold an arm out, and he accepts, grateful through the fog of his embarrassment.

Escorting him to your cart, he takes a seat, a long groan escaping his lips at the relief. Maneuvering his bad knee, his pant leg rides up, exposing the carbon fiber of his prosthetic.

A small gasp escapes your lips at the sight, and his heart sinks. The last thing he needed was your pity.

"I'm fine, please, don't," he waves a hand around, avoiding eye contact as embarrassment creeps up his spine.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I wasn't-" you shake your head, and he instantly feels guilty for opening his mouth in the first place. "I just= I should've mentioned this at first, but we have chairs for accessibility! Here-"

He watches as you reach towards the top of the cart, a pull out drawer nestled above the snack cabinet. Your waist stretches as you reach, and he nearly has to palm himself to keep his cool. In it, you reach and pull out a folding lawn chair, wiggling it in the air in offering.

He can't help but smile, despite the guilt relentless in his veins. He nods, the apples of his cheeks pink and pert.

"This will be much more comfortable, Dr. Abbot," you coo, placing your hands on his shoulders as he settles in.

A long sigh leaves him as he sits, his breath hitching at the contact. He's near a blissful state, the bubble of your attention closing in around him.

That is, until, he remembers who he's with.

"Hey!" Smith yells from across the greens. "If I knew losing my leg would get me special treatment, I would've gone with ya to Afghanistan, buddy!"

He cackles, high fiving the men surrounding him. Jack's stomach burns with shame, embarrassment, rage.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Smith," you call, and his heart stops. "That's incredibly inappropriate. It's not special treatment, I'm just making sure he's as comfortable as you guys are, please refrain from making comments like that again."

His heart sings, a symphony conducted by your sweet words. He looks down, tears pricking the back of his eyes. He can't remember the last time someone spoke up for him like that, and God, did he ache.

"Ohhh, c'mon, baby," Smith croons, his unsteady gait bringing him closer to you. "I'm just bein' funny. What? You don't like funny guys?"

Your face pinches as he comes closer, standing proud and strong nonetheless. God, he admires you so much.

"I like it when guys make jokes that don't poke fun at someone's trauma," the pep in your voice is gone, and a chill runs down Jack's spine.

"Pssh, please," Smith rolls his eyes, saddling up beside you. "You can't pretend you haven't been giving me eyes all morning."

Jack watches the scene unfold, tensing up as he wraps his arm around your waist.

"Smith-" Jack warns, but it's too late.

His hand goes lower, until it's reached your backside, a pinch followed by a swat. You jump, your hands instinctively reaching back to protect you. Jack sees red.

He's up, the ache in his leg now next to nothing, nothing compared to the rage he feels on your behalf. Rearing his fist back, he socks Smith in the face before he can think otherwise.

"Oh my God!" You squeal, and he darts his gaze over to you.

Your eyes are wide, scared and glossy. His heart hurts.

"What the fuck Abbot!" Smith seethes, gritting through his teeth and writhing on the ground.

"Smith I-" Jack starts, but he bites his apology back. He's not fucking sorry, so why should he try to save face now?

"You can kiss your position fucking goodbye," he spits up at him

"Uhm- I have to=let me call my manager," you croak, shaky fingers fumbling for your cell phone.

You lift the device to your ear as you run behind the cart. Jack's heart clutches, he swears he can see you wipe away a tear before you fully disappeared.

Jack's heart pounds in his chest the longer he can't see you, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his hands start to shake.

He itches to chase you, to follow you and wipe your tears and ask if you're okay. His heart drops, though, knowing that it's not possible, that he's absolutely fucked it.

You're soon replaced by a man, approaching the group with his own golf cart. You don't take off until he's there, but when you do, you nearly kick up dust with your speed.

Guilt is acid in his stomach, bubbling and popping like witch's stew. His adrenaline is relentless, moving his feet for him as he runs to the spare golf cart.

He thanks whatever powers that be that the keys rest in the ignition. Wasting no time, he turns it, moving the gear into drive and pressing his foot on the pedal.

He finds you in the main hall, nursing a fruity drink at the bar. His heart sinks looking at you, slumped over, head down, quiet shakes rocking your shoulders.

It's only now that the adrenaline eventually subsides, deep breaths heaving his chest. Regret swoops over him, that live long guilt he's wrestled with all day rearing its ugly head.

He doesn't back down, though. He's just slower, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants as he nears your bar stool.

"Hey," he says.

It's slow, careful. His heart hurts when you look up, your glossy eyes meeting his. He watches you snap back into your professionalism, wiping your tears and offering him a watery smile.

"Hi, Dr. Abbot," you croak. "I'm so sorry I took off on you guys, I just- that's never happened to me before."

"No," he waves a gentle hand. "No apologies, if anything, it's me who should be apologizing. I feel like I made it worse. You told me you could handle yourself, and I should have listened."

He hovers by the neighboring stool, not wanting to push your boundaries unless offered.

"No, no, it's okay," you say, sitting up a bit straighter. "You can sit, I won't break."

Your smile lights him up from the inside out, and he slides onto the brown leather. His heart picks up in speed as he settles into the new proximity, his thigh brushing against yours.

"Hey! Josh!" You call to the bartender, a young man who immediately responds. "Can I get a…" you trail off, eyeing Jack up and down before deciding, "a jack and coke. Thanks!"

"My name's actually Jack. How'd you know?" He asks, and your mouth drops in sweet surprise.

"What! No way!" You swat his bicep, and the brief contact gives him enough energy to run to the moon. "Dr. Jack Abbot. I like it!"

He flushes a deep red, one that spreads from his cheeks all the way down his neck. Bringing a hand to his nape, he scruffs once, twice, three times to quell his rapid heart rate.

It's then that Josh brings his drink, and he gratefully accepts. Taking a big swig, he feels your eyes burning into him.

"Hey, Jack?" You ask, your voice tender and sweet. "Wanna go for a drive?"

Your question intrigues him, and he winds up in your passenger's seat, down the back roads of a country club you intimately know.

"This is where my dad would take me when I was little," you tell him, pulling into a cove of willow trees along the path.

"Yeah? You've been coming here for a while?" He asks as you park, the wind rustling the beautiful view in front of you two.

"My dad is now president of the board," you admit with an eye roll. "This job was just to keep me out of his hair."

"Wow," he blinks. "So that's why you didn't care about running off in the middle of your group?"

It's a risky tease, he knows that, but it's so worth it when he sees you smile. He flushes, can't help himself when he says,

"You're so pretty."

Your breath hitches at the compliment, and he'd regret it if your eyes hadn't sparkled. It's so easy for him to get lost in your eyes, to almost forget how you got to this point, but then he does, and his face falls.

"Listen, I'm sorry, I don't want to put myself on you, especially if you don't want it. Not after today," he shakes his head, eyes trained in his lap. "But I think you're incredibly beautiful, and way out of my league. I'm thankful you even looked at me today, let alone-"

He's cut off by your lips on his, a gentle, soft hand scraping his cheek. It pushes a light 'oomph!' from his lips, though he doesn't hesitate to kiss you back.

There's a string of spit connecting you when you pull away, and Jack breathes out a long, heavy sigh.

"I actually couldn't stop looking at you, Jack," you confess, and his heart swells. "Even when you missed every single hole."

He throws his head back in a sweet laugh, grasping your arm as you lean into your own giggles.

"I only missed because I couldn't stop thinking about the prettiest girl in the world only feet away," he confesses, rubbing the fabric of your dress between his fingertips.

"You're too nice to me," you mutter, resting your hands on his shoulders. "I want you, Jack. Is that okay?"

He shoots his gaze up, his mouth slightly parted.

"You do?" He asks, not quite believing his own ears.

His belly burns as you nod your head, leaning your face closer to his.

"And I don't want this to be just sex, how do you feel about that?" You whisper, your lips against his, taunting him.

He nods, his hand finding your waist.

"Yeah, I feel good about that," he chokes out, a Cheshire smile spreading your lips.

"Good," you quip, swinging your legs over his hips. "But we're gonna start with sex. That okay?"

He nods, eager like a school boy, but he doesn't have time to be embarrassed when your mouth meets his.

It's intense this time, deep and passionate, your tongue running over his bottom lip. His hands settle on your waist, a light squeeze encouraging you to put your full weight on him.

It's electrifying, the way you connect. your weight coating him with desire. He feels himself twitch in his pants, a muffled groan escaping him as you roll your hips.

"Feel good, Doctor?" You ask, eliciting a gasp from the deepest parts of his chest.

"So good, you're a dream," he mumbles, grazing his nose against yours.

You kiss him again, rolling your tongue over his at your newfound access. Rolling your hips once more, he plants his feet on the ground, thrusting up into your clothed center.

"Ah!" You whine, throwing your head back. He peppers kisses along your neck, surprised when you press down on his hips with yours, wiggling a little. "You're not doing any of the work, handsome," a coy smile spreads your lips. "Let me, your poor leg's been through enough."

He swears he could cum right then and there. Fully hard now, you continue your motions, now slipping your arms through your sleeves.

The top of your dress falls, exposing your pretty tits to the late afternoon sun. His head darts around, looking for any stragglers. There's no one, and a wave of relief floods through him.

"You're sweet," you coo, fingertips returning his gaze to you. "But nobody comes back here, trust me."

"Oh, so you take all your golf guys here, huh?" He asks. It's playful, but the possibility of your answer makes him seethe.

"Only the important ones, the ones I really need," you mutter, nipping his lobe before sitting up on your knees.

You wiggle the rest of your dress off, sliding it down your knees and flinging it off your ankles. His eyes widen as you mount him again, now in nothing but your panties.

His finger traces the waistband, and your breath hitches in his ear.

"You're so fucking beautiful, Jesus Christ," he whispers, smashing his lips against yours once more.

You fiddle with his belt buckle, moving to his zipper, pulling him out with an eagerness that strokes his ego. He's heavy, his cock flopping against his polo shirt.

Your eyes go wide, and his heart pounds against his ribcage. He can't believe you, sweet, beautiful, stunning you, is interested in him. He feels like a million bucks.

"God, how's this gonna fit in me, Jackie?" You ask, giving him a few strokes.

A shiver unzips his spine, and he throws his head back against the seat. Chest heaving, his stomach burns with desire for you. The curve of your waist under his fingers, the delicate touch on his cock, it's enough to make him insane. You make him insane.

Swinging your legs off of him, you kneel along the bench, ass up in the air. He pouts at the loss of your warmth, and you smile. You pinch his cheek, placing a chaste kiss there after.

"You're cute," you dote, and he blushes. "I'm gonna put your cock in my mouth now, 'kay?"

He nods, still in disbelief this is even happening. Your lips wrap around him, and his vision goes white. Jaw going slack, he lets a strangled groan pass through him.

"Wow, wow, oh God, sweetheart, that's so good," he whispers, hand in your hair as you take more and more of him. "Holy shit."

You wiggle your ass at the compliment, hollowing your cheeks as you reach his base. Your nose tickles the curls that pepper his skin, and he has to hold himself back from bucking up into you.

"Fuck!" He shouts, squeezing his eyes shut as he free hand finds your ass.

It slips into your panties, palming your bare ass in his big hand. You shake into him again, and he nearly blows his load then.

He feels the front of your panties move, then, and he looks to find your hand slipping in them.

"Ah, ah!" He swats your hand away, taking over. "Let me, gorgeous."

Your folds are so slick, his stomach burns. They're silky, smooth with your desire, and if all he does for the rest of his life is make you cum. he'd be happy with that.

He finds your clit, reveling in your little jump, little squeal around his dick. The vibrations rattle through him, and his stomach burns with hot desire.

Pulling off of him with a gasp, you rest your head on his thigh, stroking his cock as he continues to touch you.

"I'm gonna cum, Jackie, feels too good," you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing a sweet kiss to the thick skin.

"Yeah, go ahead, baby, that's such a good idea, hm?" He asks, picking up his pace a little. "Gonna get you nice and relaxed so you can take this cock, 'kay sweetie?"

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut, a few loose moans escaping your lips. It's like a dream, the pleasure etching itself across your face. Fire blooms in his veins, his desire for you almost palpable.

"Oh, Jackie!" You squeal, body tensing as you soak his fingers.

"Thaaat's it," he coos, rubbing you through your release. "That's my girl, good job, good job."

You gasp, clinging to his forearm as you come down.

"Oh my gosh, that was incredible, thank you Jackie," you smile up at him, slowly sitting up.

His hands stabilize you, settling your shaking body back over his. Your tits dangle in his face, and he can't help but pepper kisses along the plush skin.

"You ready, angel?" He looks up at you, and your eager nod is his final cue before he pushes your hips down.

You swallow his tip, your walls tight and slick, his eyes rolling back into his head. It's dizzying, how tight you are around him.

"Oh! Jackie it's already so big, how am I gonna take all of you?" You ask, and his heart pounds.

"God, you can't say that to me, gonna blow my load before you can even do that," he breathes out a laugh, finding your eyes.

Your eyes glaze over as you sink further down onto him, his stomach burning. He grips your hips, pushing you further down onto him.

Once you're seated, he nearly blacks out. He gives you a swift slap to your ass, encouraging you to find your rhythm.

You listen, the good girl you are, bouncing up and down, up and down. It's slow at first, intoxicating and tantalizing as you drag his length through your walls.

"Fuck," he breaths, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Good?" You ask, lips pressed to his temple.

The warm air of your words absorb in his skin, if he could eat them, he would.

"So good, fuckin' perfect," he whispers, hands gripping your ass as you speed up.

Blood roars in his ears, his eyes blazing as they follow your breasts, bouncing with each thrust.

It's overwhelming, almost, the jiggle of your plush skin against his.

"Oh Jackie, 'm gonna cum again," you whimper, planting your hands on his shoulders and speeding up.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he breathes. "Me too, gonna cum. Cum with me?"

You nod, pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Embarrassingly enough, this is what does it for him. The intimacy pushes him over the edge, fire pooling low in his abdomen with his release.

He dissolves into the pleasure, helping you rock against him. Your sweet cries echo through the empty space, mixing with his grunts and groans.

"Jackie, fuck, that's so good, fuck, fuck," you whine, and he presses a quick slap to your ass as he twitches, coming down from his high.

You settle on him with a shiver, relaxing into his chest and wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

Breathing together, he rubs his hand up and down your back, adding a light scratch and invoking goosebumps.

You press kisses all along his shoulder, on each freckle, his tummy burning with something sweeter, brighter than before.

"Hey," you whisper, biting the shell of his ear. "I know this is totally backwards, but hear me out."

Before you get any further, he lifts up your head, boring his eyes into yours.

"What, sweet girl?" He asks, pressing a quick kiss to your smile.

"I say," you start, "we get cleaned up, and you come join me in the Great Hall for dinner. I memorized Smith's tab, we can put it on there," you finish with a wink.

He throws his head back with a laugh, bringing you in for another kiss.

"That sounds amazing," he coos, cradling the nape of your neck in his hand.

"And theennnn," you drawl, slipping off him and reaching for your dress. "We can go back to mine, and I can show you something that no other customer has seen," you wiggle your eyebrows, and his heart skips.

the girthy rubber pushed into his ass with a heavy, rhythmic thud. some of the residue lubricant oil spluttered out with each lunge. bucky let out a pathetic whine into the sheet, his eyes rolling back.

the cock ring was tight, trapping the blood within and making every sensation feel so explosive. he was fucking losing it.

"please, ma'am — let me cum," he choked out, his voice thick and desperate, his face flushed a deep red.

you just laughed patronisingly, raking your nails down his muscled back. "what was that, james? you didn't use your big boy words. you want to orgasm — you have to ask properly."

every time the strap hit that sweet spot deep inside, his toes curled and his back arched, trying to find some kind of relief you wouldn't give him. the ring was a cruel pressure; it made his cock with a near-painful need.

"please ma'am — please just let me — let me go — please, please, ple —" he whimpered, his jaw slack against the pillow.

"now, now," you murmured, leaning down to whisper in his ear, pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder, "a gentleman doesn't just beg — he asks nicely. tell me exactly what you want, sweet boy."

"i want — i want to cum for you ma'am, please!" he cried out with a sharp voice crack and a hitched gasp.

however, you don't give him relief. you just thrust the strap-on back into with heavy push. you sigh as you reach down to finally around his cock. bucky was quite proud of it, the girth, the length — it truly made all the dames giggle and gasp. it was one of the major reasons he'd even opted for his secret hustle anyways.

you ignored it; you barely even stroked it.

honestly, you don't give a singular darn about his pleasure. you heard the talk of him during tea parties, you paid for this night, you're going to use his body.

"there we go, sugar," you mutter down to his trembling figure, driving in meanly, "just take it like a sweet, useful thing, alright?"

he's practically vibrating, his muscles twitching under your touch, but you keep your hand on his cock minimal — just a teasing, useless friction. it was enough to keep bucky on the brink of madness without letting him fall over the edge.

"s'too much — oh lord — i'm gonna —" he gasps, burying his face further into the satin, his voice breaking with each quick prodding reaching deep within him.

with a smirk, you slide the cock ring off. the sudden rush of blood makes him howl a high-pitched sound of ecstasy. he's lost all control, clutching the pillow tight as he grinds his hips frantically against the sheets, trying to find the right friction.

"there we go, my handsome soldier," you sharply command, voice dripping with honey-like poison, "so sweet for me, taking it all and now giving it all."

between your mean praise and his prostate getting bumped with a patter of brisk thrusts, he finally snaps. he cums hands-free, body spasming against the sheets, completely undone by the way you've been wringing that orgasm out of him.

"good boy," you praise, watching him tremble and deflate, "you're so hardworking, so obedient."

panting heavily, bucky stays face down, his forehead pressed against the damp satin as the last of his tremors fade. his pride as a man was thoroughly dismantled — all while you're just watching him lie there, satisfied with the job well done.

as his breath calms down, you reach out and give his flushed arse a polite, stinging slap. he lets out a tiny whimper into the pillow, his body still twitching from the orgasm.

"i believe we still have another hour left on the booking, no?" you tell him, your voice smooth and entirely unapologetic.

bucky drags his head up just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eyes glazed and unfocused. he gives a small whine — without a second of hesitation, obediently spreads his thighs a wider, offering himself back up to you.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus

$ join taglist

Sometimes, your boyfriend was worse than an animal in heat, and today was one of those days.

You were sitting at a desk, already preoccupied and busy when he decided he wanted it. Right now.

But instead of asking for sex like any normal person would, or by giving subtle hints, he decided it’d be a good idea to climb under the table and shove his face between your legs. His eyes stared right up at you with this fake-innocent look you were far too familiar with. “What are you scheming now.” You pushed your chair back a little and clicked your tongue at the sight, but still decided to give him the benefit of the doubt— big mistake there.

“Ohh I’m not. You just look kind of stressed out~” he leaned his cheek against your inner thigh, his hands coming up to rest on your legs, “I thought I’d help you… blow off some steam?” Truth be told, you knew from this point onwards you wont be able to finish whatever you were doing, yet you still resisted for the fun of it, “not right now, I’m busy. Get out from under there.”

“Booo, that’s no fun.” A pout formed on his face, and he opened his mouth wide, tilting his head back slightly to give you a better view. His hand reached up to point towards his tongue, as if that move was anywhere near necessary, “I can use my mouth~ I know you like it when I do.” The grin that followed was one of pure cheekiness and smug, self-confidence. And before you had the chance to voice your arguments, he smushed his face into your crotch.

His jaw was wide as he mouthed at your cock through your clothes, obviously not giving a damn about a right place or right time. “You— fuck…!” You couldn’t help the sharp hiss that slipped through, your fist slamming onto the table above him. “Hmmm〜♡” he hummed, eyes sparkling with mischief as he enjoyed himself. Like a worshipper at an altar, he lapped and sucked at you until he felt you hardening under his lips, then smirked all satisfied. That fuck-ass smirk, you were going to wipe it off his face at some point.

“Still gonna object?” He mumbled straight into your groin, making you shudder with goosebumps, the spots he’s been licking at were all soaked through with drool. “Not like you’ll stop even if I do.” A bead of precum seeped to the surface, and he moaned at the taste like some kind of cheap hooker. He couldn’t help himself, he just really adored your musk. “Mhmm~! Ahh… it’s been so long ♥︎♡ I missed the taste of you.” You clicked your tongue at the display, scoffing, “you just got a taste recently, the hell you on about?”

With his familiar sulking face, he snapped back at you, “that’s a long time for me.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling your scent as if drunk on it. A faint blush dusted his face and ears as he chuckled in satisfaction. “Are you some kind of incubus or what?” He didn’t answer that one, for he was too focused on freeing your cock from the cage that was your trousers. His hands twitched upwards for a split second, before a better idea crossed his mind. Why use his hands when he could just—

“…of course you had to be extra like that.” You stared down at him, both speechless and kind of impressed, watching him use his teeth to unzip your pants. It was a struggle to not use his hands, of course, but he knew something about it gets you all hot and bothered. He nuzzled into your crotch to open up your clothes some more, sticking by this self-imposed ‘no hands’ challenge.

Once he saw all the pre you were leaking through your underwear, he licked his lips in anticipation, “someone’s more eager than they’d like to admit.” You let out a breathy laugh, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair, your hold firm but not yet painful, “don’t think I haven’t noticed you are also hard.” Your foot pointed to his erection, to which he shrugged.

“I’m honest about my desires. If I want it—” his hands gripped your thighs a little tighter, his teeth pulling down the last layer of restraint that was hiding you from him. It was just enough for your arousal to spring out, right into his face. He took it even further though by holding it with one palm, and rubbing his cheeks against it, like a cat nuzzling up to something to mark their territory, “—I get it.”

The feeling of his soft cheeks actively rubbing against your sex was weirdly exciting. You knew he was a slut, but even then you’ve never seen him debase himself this much. “Is that all you’ll do? Snuggling against my cock? Fucking hell, it’s not a plushie.” After hearing your annoyed groan, he pressed a kiss to the tip, “you just can’t wait to see me use my mouth huh?”

He tilted his head to the side, his tongue darting out to lick along the ridge of your head. It seems he’s paying special attention to your tip, while one of his hands wrapped around your shaft and fisted it lazily. These kitten licks at your most sensitive area was nothing but his way of teasing, and you were close to just slamming his head down your cock. “If you’re going to start shit like this, finish it properly.” You both knew he could do so much better than this, do so much more stimulating things. After all, he knew your likes and preferences like he studied it.

“I started it? So it’s my fault that you’re like this?” The tip of his tongue flicked over your slit a few times, catching any precum that leaked from you, making your grip in his hair tighten by a fraction. “Fuck— who else but you, huh??” He grinned deviously, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you, “I blame your self control.”

His taunt, paired with the erotic view of him whoring himself out on your cock—pleasuring you—was giving you mixed emotions. On one hand you wanted to punch him for how obnoxious he was, yet as soon as you’d see the needy, raw desire in his eyes, your anger just vaporizes.

With a low sigh, you began combing your fingers through his hair, a gesture a comforting one that made him purr, “if you don’t start sucking on it like you mean it soon, I’m going to give you reasons to blame my self control.” He jerked, as if a switch’d been turned, his voice a teasing melody that couldn’t hide his excitement, “is that a threat?” “For you? I think it’s more like a reward.” Touché, he couldn’t argue against that. So instead, he repositioned himself, his mouth hovering right over your cock, “then I better get to work ♡”

Next thing you know, he swallowed your tip inside his mouth, his cheeks puffing out a little from the stretch. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle though, he was used to taking way more than just that. For now, he was still fine with only the tip, his tongue flattening out against the underside as he sucked greedily. It was so warm and wet inside his oral cavity, you could barely help yourself. His actions only grew bolder at your obvious enjoyment, your length twitching inside him from time to time.

He made sure not to use his teeth as he slowly descended, his lips stretched tight around your girth. He slowed down a lot compared to the rushed beginning, mainly because his throat refused to work with him today. “Mmmhh…! Ah— hnNghh…” He mumbled, the struggle clear in his voice, saliva trailed down his chin all sloppily. You guessed he was cursing under his breath, but you couldn’t exactly understand him when he’s stuffed full with your dick. Nonetheless, the vibrations send a nice little shiver down your spine, and your hips bucked up unintended.

The sudden movement made him rip his eyes wide open, and he immediately pulled off, choking a little, “urghh…! *Kofff, koooff* damn you…” you didn’t stop him and allowed him to catch his breath, not without a snarky remark though, “too big for ya? Or is your throat uncooperative after yesterday?” He shot you a slight glare, which only prompted you to tease him more, “what, you screamed and cried so much, how could I forget? My ears are probably still bleeding because of it.”

Oh now you’ve done it, he was so gonna get back at you for that. Without a single word, he drove back in, this time he arrived at where he was before way faster. His grip on your legs tightened, his chest heaving as he tried to regulate his breathing before taking you deeper. At this point his jaw was starting to get sore, he really needed to up his game.

“Still tryna deep throat it all?” You chuckled, cupping his face to hold him there, thumbs rubbing circles into the sides of his head, massaging his temporalis muscle to help ease the strain. The soft caressed were a drastic contrast to the hot heat resting in his gullet, creating a dizzying sensation that unraveled him piece by piece.

His eyes watered as he made a rash decision of trying to just shove the rest of it in, which had him groaning and trembling around you, “mhmfffhh…!!” Tears glistened in his lower eyelid, so close to rolling down his flushed cheeks. “Is my poor baby gonna cry?” He shot you a fierce glare at that infantilizing tone, then deliberately used his teeth to scratch you lightly.

“Ah— fuck!” You exclaimed, gripping his roots for purchase. His scalp stung under your grip, and he whined out as a result. What he did didn’t necessarily hurt, it was just uncomfortable and kind of surprised you, “that’s it, no more playing nice.” You snapped, and shoved his head down until his nose was crushed against your pelvis, forcing him to take all of you in one impossibly deep descent. He immediately gagged at the feeling of your tip hitting his palate, stretching his throat and making itself home inside him.

“Mhmmmff?! HnngHh—!!” He cried out, squeezing his eyes shut as he desperately tried to learn how to breathe again, his throat refusing to take it and choking repeatedly. The tears from before finally spilled down that pretty face, mixing with the drool dripping from his chin. His fingers dug into your skin, nails breaking flesh and leaving behind bright marks. The boy also ‘hit’ you a few times in mock anger. Much like the frown he was showing you, there wasn’t any heat behind it, just him acting out like always.

You kept holding him down, unmoving. But that also meant he wasn’t allowed to move either, forcing him to accommodate you while basking in the sensation of it. “If you need a break, tap my thighs three times. Otherwise, I’m gonna keep going.” Then, you tugged the hair that’s been sticking to his temple back and asked, “did you hear me?”

He nodded weakly, still coughing and hiccuping, though not trying to pull back. Why would he, anyways? This was the best part of it all, he just adored it when you’d snap and use him like some toy. Not that he’d ever say it out loud. Even so he did appreciate how you always made sure to set a safe word.

His throat convulsed whenever he tried to gulp down the saliva and precum that was pooling in his mouth, the tightening sensation making you gasp in response. You gritted your teeth, trying hard to restrain yourself until he was ready. It was getting increasingly difficult, he just looked so damn cute impaled on you.

“Deep breaths, in and out. I don’t have all day. Or were you planning on cockwarming me?” You groaned when he still couldn’t get used to the stretch after a hot minute, then slapped the side of his head gently, “c’mon now. Are you even trying?” He was! He was trying! Why don’t you try deep throating something that was big enough for him to feel in his lungs? “MfffHhh… ngHhh..!!” He tried to bite back at you. At least his muffled complains were quite entertaining.

“Pfff, I can’t understand you anyway.” You laughed to yourself, then slowly began rolling your hips into his mouth. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” As if he’d believe that. You both knew he didn’t want it gentle. By now, he has adapted to the stretch, his throat widening visibly to make it fit. Just the thought was enough to rile you up, and seeing it physically was even more lewd. “…hmmm…uh-uhmNggHh~♡” He soon started bobbing his head up and down, in rhythm to your thrusts.

Whenever his nose met with your pelvis, and your cock hit another deep spot in his throat, he’d whimper so deliciously. His eyes squinted into this petulant pout, permanently glaring at you. “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll cum soon.” You hummed, that expression was indeed pretty adorable and tempting, then you suggested, “shall we take it up a notch?” Before he could process what you meant by that, your other hand also tangled in his hair. With both hands now holding his scalp like some kind of makeshift leash, he didn’t need to guess what this was about.

You stopped with the lazy rolls and began fucking his face in earnest, pulling back until just the tip was in before shoving it all back down. “HnNghh—!! Ah-urghhmmm, g-guuuhh ♡♥︎♡” His eyes rolled back at the rough treatment, a series of whimpers escaping as his brain short circulated.

He was filled with you, everywhere, in the best way possible. His nose buried in your crotch, taking in your scent, his tongue tasting your fluids, his eyes and ears focused on your expressions and words, while his throat took your brutal thrusts. All of his senses were overwhelmed with nothing but you. It was to be expected that his body would protest against this perverted, nasty act, even if he was loving every single second of it. His throat kept fluttering around you, though it did only made you go harder.

The way his heart hammered in his chest was almost painful, like a never ending parade of drums. He could feel his air being punched out of him with every deep pound, everything in his larynx was burning like hell. By now, he was weeping freely, brows furrowed as he took what you gave with single-minded focus. His tongue trying it’s best to be proactive, to do something— yet your pace was so fast, he could barely react to it other than offering his body up to the one that will surely break him.

“You look so needy like this. So fucking sloppy.” You could barely hide your excitement as you used his tight mouth like some personal fleshlight, your vulgar words sending shivers straight to his groin, “like the taste of my cock? Like it when I fuck that pretty face of yours?” He couldn’t really answer verbally— of course he couldn’t, not with you filling him up to his nostrils, so all he did was nod meekly while moaning into your shaft.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Even now, with him unable to do anything but take it, you were provoking him on purpose. He couldn’t even think of a good comeback right now, because his mind was so overwhelmed. It felt like he was drowning, his vision darkening at the edges as your voice rang in his ears. His own neglected cock was painfully hard, dripping and soiling the floor below. At this rate, all this sensory overload was going to make him cum untouched. Yet there wasn’t a single place where he’d rather be than right here between your legs, sucking you off like the slut he was for you ♥︎

And soon enough, his efforts bore fruit. You were close, damn close to spilling it all over his tongue. A sharp gasp echoed from above while your arousal twitched insistently against the back of his throat. “Ugh— haha… good job, I’m close. Keep that mouth spread a little longer, yes? Or tap my thighs if you don’t want me to cum inside.” You warned him, and he just moaned louder. “Mhmmm〜 hmm… nGhhuuu—uGhhmmfff ♥︎♡” He could tell you were on the edge even before you told him so, since otherwise your thrusts wouldn’t have turned so messy.

And right now? You were fucking him like you were chasing your own high, like he was just a hole to use and ruin, drinking up his gasps and sobs with no regards to his comfort. Naturally he could have stopped you with a simple tap, yet why the heck should he? He was loving this! He wanted to feel your hot seed filling him from the inside, trailing down his gullet and making his eyes water even more. This was the sweetest reward he could ever ask for, so won’t you please cum already?

Your pace came to a sudden stop as you slammed your hips up into his face one last time, holding him still while your climax washed over you. The sounds and curses that slipped from your lips were like music to his ears. The hot spill of your cum was both pain and ecstasy, mixed into a terrifying cocktail that fucked up his senses. You were cumming so much, he’s been forced to swallow while it kept coming— and even then it soon spilled from the edges of his lips, dripping down his chin.

What a waste… he wanted to swallow it all...! Which is why his shaky hands left your thighs and formed a flat bowl beneath where you two were connected, a desperate try at catching all the astray drops of seed. The gulping action kept making his throat tighten around you, as if trying to milk you dry. And it was working way too well.

You panted heavily before pulling his head off of your cock, a little worried that he’ll actually suffocate otherwise since he was holding his breath. But you weren’t done yet and ended up painting his face with the rest of your load, leaving behind this glossy fluid that stuck to him like glue. Some of the stripes got onto his chest and clothes, some were clinging to his hair… you didn’t account for this when you made that move.

As you pushed him off, he immediately gagged while his lungs screamed for air, eyes squeezed shut as he felt that sticky, thick fluid coat his cheeks and eyelids. His face was burning at this point, which was why your cum felt cold when it hit him. A full body shudder coursed through him as he gasped and heaved, trembling uncontrollably. “Ah— ahhHngh…! Ah… *kofff kooofff—* hnngh-hic” he was still shuddering in the aftermath, having also climaxed from the sheer intensity of what just transpired~

You kept holding his head by his hair, your grip loosening only after you finished painting your masterpiece. He looked debauched— more than just perverted. He was an absolute wreck, ruined to the point of no return. And by the looks of it? He relished in the fact that it was you who broke him.

As if him tasting and swallowing your cum wasnt filthy enough, now you’ve gone and defiled his face as well… Was ‘self control’ ever in the room in the first place?! And what’s with that dreamy, sheepish look on his face? His eyes were all glazed over while he stared up at you blankly, his mouth still gaped open, displaying how much you’ve filled him while cum dripped down in rivulets. “You alright there? Did anything get in your eyes? Does your throat hurt?” You sighed, wearing a faint smile while scrubbing the ropes of cum near his eyes away with your thumb.

He closed his mouth and gulped loudly, a clump travelled down his gullet before he parted his lips again, sticking his tongue out to show the empty inside. “My throat’s fine, and my eyes were closed,” he answered, though his voice showed obvious signs of use. It sounded all rough now, evidence of the damage you’ve caused.

“You didn’t have to drink it.” You said, while rubbing your own fluids between your fingers. The consistency was a little gross, you wouldn’t personally eat it. “I had to, you were cumming right down my throat.” He snarled, but then began licking the residual sperm from his hands. “…do you even see what you are doing right now? Are you that addicted to my taste?” With a heavy, speechless sigh, you tilted his head up to face you, and wiped the rest of the white liquid off his face, “besides, isn’t there a much bigger problem here than your hands?”

He huffed slightly, mumbling a small ‘whatever’ as he let you take care of him, secretly enjoying this moment with a low rumble in his chest. Once you were done moving the most of the sperm from his skin onto your digits, you placed your thumb on his bottom lip, a silent signal for him to open his mouth again. And he did, grabbing your wrist with both hands, before licking your fingers clean like a starved, wanton thing.

“You are such a slut.” You chuckled playfully, and he bit your thumb in retaliation, “hmm~ only for you ♡” As a result, you pressed down onto the middle of his tongue to force his jaw to widen, snorting, “haven’t you learned from the first time? Or are you doing this on purpose?” He met your gaze head on and just smirked all smugly, arching his back from where he was kneeling. His legs were cramping a little, but he just ignored it.

You toyed with his mouth a some more, acting as if you were ‘inspecting’ whether he actually swallowed it all. Moving his head from side to side, glancing into his oral cavity while also accidentally shoving your fingers a little too deep, triggering his gag reflex. When he heard your laughter, he pulled a frustrated and somewhat flustered grimace. “Well, since you did such a good job blowing me, I’ll let you off easy this time,” you decided. It might have been your imagination, but you thought you saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes.

After pulling your fingers out again, you wiped them with a tissue, before doing the same for him. He looked kind of empty while receiving aftercare. It made you wonder if he was cooking up some strange plans again. Which, as you’d soon find out, was indeed the case.

He took one glance at your crotch and drove back in, licking a long stripe with his tongue flat against the underside of your still half hard cock, declaring all smugly, “since we are cleaning up right now, shall I do it for you?” You were in disbelief, frozen still for a second before saying, “…haaaah. Really, is my dick all that’s on your mind?”

“Yesshhhhh ♡♥︎ you could keep me down here all day if you want~ and i’ll drink it all up ♥︎♡♥︎” he said without missing a beat, already kissing the tip with a newfound enthusiasm. This was him trying to catch every drop he’s missed, retuning the favor of you wiping his face. He was being extra sloppy too by using a lot of spit, and it took no time until you were back at full length. It send involuntary shivers up your core, and you clasped a hand over your mouth to shut yourself up. It’s almost as if he wanted you to cum again.

“Haha… fuck no you don’t.” Suddenly, you pushed your chair back, grabbed his wrist and pulled him out from beneath the table. You weren’t going to let him act however he wanted forever, there’s a limit, and he crossed it way too many times. “The next load’s gonna be in here.” Your hand cupped his ass, groping it roughly, making him gasp in surprise. “Now bend over.”

You’d recently joined your university’s severely underfunded manga club under the guise of picking up a new hobby. And whilst it was partially to pick up a new hobby, there was another underlying reason you probably wouldn’t tell anyone else about; You were grieving.

‘Rotten Peonies.’

The greatest piece of erotic femdom manhwa to ever grace the digital shelves, in your personal opinion. It was your favourite manhwa of all time and it was everything you could possibly ever want in a piece of media, as if it were a rare fruit hand picked specially just for you, that it was pretty uncanny how much it suited just to your own taste buds.

You waited eagerly every week to read the latest chapter and it was what kept you going when uni life and just every other aspect of life got too hectic, too stressful, too…much. It was your escape and you were so attached to all the characters by now, but mostly the male lead, Choi Taekbae. From his pretty character design with the shaggy wolfcut, brown doe eyes and rosy cheeks, to his funny, playful, golden retriever-esque personality, and the way he orbited around the female lead like a lovesick puppy, he was completely your type to the T. And the way he acted around and treated the female lead, submitting to them, letting them do whatever they wanted to him, never ceased to make you giggle and sigh out at your screen.

Taekbae was completely unlike how real men were and the manhwa was made totally catered towards the eyes of women: gorgeous art style and fashion, well thought out characters, real chemistry, and just the good amount of filthy. It understood what women actually wanted to see. Unlike all that other grotesque, borderline pedophilic slop men wrote. With the highly unrealistic female characters reduced to boobs ridiculously the size of hot air balloons, yet they always had a stick thin figure somehow, body proportions way off to be real. And of course, they always had to make them act child-like too, always in need of saving by their way too muscular toxic, alpha man. That’s why you liked ‘Rotten Peonies’ and taekbae so much, it was refreshing.

Real men will always end up disappointing you one day. You lived by that, you’d seen it happen many a times, had it happen to yourself a few times too. They’ll let you down, they’re all the same, some just take longer to show their true colours. It’s only a matter of when it will happen, not if.

You did not know who the writer was, appearing under a pen name ‘CBG’, but you’re so certain it’s a woman because there was no way in hell a man would ever have the capabilities to write such a masterpiece. A very cool, very feminist, very cultured, intellectual woman with impeccable taste. You admired her art and looked up to her so much.

But it wasn’t just how deliciously drawn the panels of Choi Taekbae were when he was getting fucked with pretty, teary eyes—which you meticulously saved to your camera roll—that you were drawn to by now, the plot was captivating and you were also incredibly emotionally invested and attached to the storyline as well. Surprisingly, the story was quite sweet and butterflies-in-your-stomach inducing, making you also read it for the cute, romantic moments between the main characters, while cursing the universe for not handing you your own Taekbae.

Which is why your stomach had completely dropped, utterly devastated after you had eagerly anticipated the latest chapter like you usually do, giggling into your pillow and kicking your feet at taekbae until the very end, then biting your nails at the very tense cliffhanger. It’s alright, you just have to wait one week, you’d told yourself. You’d absentmindedly scrolled down to read the author’s note, and thats when you saw the two words that shattered your entire world:

On hiatus !

‘Sorry I’m just not having much inspiration at the moment to continue anymore!’

No, no, no. This can’t be. What were you supposed to look forward to anymore?! Some series’ remain on hiatus for so long and never end up coming back. What if CBG never writes for it ever again? What if you never find out what happens next, what became of Taekbae and the female lead? What were you supposed to do without seeing new panels of taekbae anymore? Were you supposed to just keep on living? Without closure?

So, maybe you are being a little bit too dramatic, but it doesn’t matter, your beloved manhwa!

You were beyond distraught, completely devastated, which led you to joining your uni’s manga club in the mean time to cope. At least it would have you looking forward to something else every week. You also just wanted to learn about the actual process of making comics, since you always found it intriguing how your favourite author could even possibly make such art, could evoke so much emotions from you with a single panel. And who knows, maybe you could even create your own little stories and characters, your own world to escape to sometimes.

Being at the manga club had made you completely empathetic towards your favourite author. You could perfectly understand why they might have went on a hiatus now, it was hard work and there was a lot that actually went into it. And, despite there being not many members, it was very insightful. You were starting to enjoy it a lot, picking up a new hobby instead was actually really fun. Or, it would have been.

“So do we get free snacks, or was that false advertising or something?”

Choi Beomgyu.

“They’re not technically free.” Kai, your club president, had explained politely, still giving him a friendly smile. “Everyone takes turns each week to bring in snacks or bake them for all the members to eat.”

“Cool.” He’d leaned in, ripping open a packet of crisps with ill manners, not bothering to listen for the rest of the meeting.

That was your first impression of him, and you can’t say you’ve seen him in a better light, in fact, it only consolidated your thoughts about him. He’d joined around the same time as you and he was pretty insufferable. He was lazy, never took the lessons seriously like how you did, irritatingly, inexplicably handsome—not that it matters—and he made the most annoying, eye rolling commentary and jokes ever during the sessions.

While the rest of you actually tried to analyse storyboarding techniques, effects, and how to create and draw backgrounds, beomgyu spent most of the club meetings sprawled across the folded chairs, legs spread wide and munching on snacks obnoxiously loud, saying stupid things for attention like, “Do you reckon Shonen writers have a kink for dead parents or…? Like, why do they always have to add that?” You’d watched, eye twitching as his crumbs scattered over the stack of carefully arranged Shonen volumes on the table. Why he was here, at your nerdy little club, you didn’t know.

Actually, you were absolutely sure he was only here for the free snacks, which it wasn’t like that was just a mere speculation anyway, the dead giveaway being that he’d eat and shamelessly pocket away half the snacks on the table.

He was exactly the type of man you hated in this world, that made you pray, hopefully, somewhere out there in this world, there could be a choi taekbae.

Kai cheerfully clapped his hands today, earning everyone’s attention. “Alright, everyone! We’re going to pair up and try to create a short one-shot manga based on the shoujo genre. Doesn’t need to be perfect, it’s just for fun and to show to everyone else next week!”

You sat straighter in your chair, excited at the sound of the project. It was totally up your alley, maybe you’d even make something inspired by Rotten Peonies, something worthy of CBG herself.

But, with you and beomgyu being the newbies, of course, everyone had made their own tight knit group of friends by now, already pairing up with their best mates, which unfortunately left just you and choi beomgyu on your own. You look around the room desperately crazed, frantically hoping there was someone else left on their own, but to no avail, there was no one else you could work with.

And so, you were forced to partner up with him. This was going to be utter hell.

“Guess we’re partners.” Beomgyu smirks, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Don’t worry. I’m a creative genius. You’re in good hands.”

You scoff incredulously at him. “Yeah, right.”

That’s how you ended up at beomgyu’s dorm, sitting cross legged on his bed, a notebook between you as you both tried to brainstorm ideas together.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” You ask, narrowing your eyes as beomgyu tapped his pen on the paper repeatedly with creased brows in exaggerated concentration.

“Yes,” Beomgyu says confidently. “Actually, I’m pretty experienced.” He looks up at you with infuriatingly self assured eyes, twirling the pen around his fingers, doing, admittedly, pretty impressive pen tricks. “It’s my passion.”

You don’t believe that, leaning back and crossing your arms at him. “Well, do you even know what shoujo is?”

“Yeah, Shoujo is catered towards girls-” He says, looking pleased with himself but then breaks off, frowning as if struck by a revelation, tossing the pen onto the bed and suddenly getting up. “Wait a sec.” Before you could ask what he’s doing, he hops off the mattress and disappears for a bit into the kitchen without another word. A few minutes later, he returns triumphantly with a pack of gummy sweets, chewing on them.

You raise a brow at him.

“What? I love gummies.” Beomgyu tilts his head, muffled with his mouth disgustingly full with them, cheeks all round and puffed.

“At this age?”

He shakes his head at you, tutting. “Wowww. You’re ageist. I’m going to twitter and I’m gonna cancel you.”

“They’re way too sweet for anyone who’s not nine.” You roll your eyes and retort.

He makes a deeply offended look your way and plops himself back down onto the bed, stuffing four more of the sweets into his mouth all at once, not even bothering to ask you if you’d like them too, or asking if you’d like to eat or drink anything for that matter. Some host he is.

“Right. Ideas?” You sigh, waiting for him to diligently chew the sweets he’d gobbled up at once before he can speak again, his mouth still full and frankly, looking like he was struggling.

Finally, beomgyu swallows with a cartoonish gulp and then brightens up instantly. “We should make a parody of shoujo tropes. It’s usually romance, set in high school, there’s holding umbrellas out for the heroine, someone gets sick and the other nurses them back, school trip to the beach, someone confessing during firework festivals, an annoying ex comes back from the dead, they’re locked in a storage room, there’s only one bed, blah, blah, you know all that stuff.”

He’s strangely pretty informed on this. You nod in approval, a parody could be a good idea. You’re a pretty competitive person, and whilst it’s not even being judged, you still have this need to be the best out of everyone else and to impress your club president. “Uh huh. Okay. We need character ideas.”

“Well, there has to be a hot guy. Girls love that.” Beomgyu draws a large, lopsided stick figure on the paper, labelling it ‘HOT GUY.’ He grins stupidly and shoves the notebook proudly towards you. “This is our male lead. This is Hot Guy.”

You stare at it, unimpressed. “I don’t think we can hand that in. I’m gonna be honest.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “Obviously not. We just need to figure out who he is first.”

“A cliche bad boy?” You suggest.

Beomgyu dramatically scribbles ‘BAD BOY’ drawing out an arrow from the stick man.

You pinch your nose bridge. You don’t think you’ll get a lot done today. “Let’s give him a name then.”

“Timmy.”

“WE’RE NOT CALLING HOT GUY THAT.”

“What? Timmy is iconic. I’d swoon over him.” Beomgyu theatrically places a hand over his chest in mock sincerity.

Shaking your head, you grab the notebook and pen out of his grasp, ignoring the accidental brush of his warm, soft fingers against yours- Clearing your throat, you cross out Timmy and write Seojun instead.

“I still think it’s a good name. Timmy…” Beomgyu mutters mournfully.

You ignore him. “Okay we need to give Hot Guy Seojun a personality.”

Beomgyu pouts but perks back up and contemplates, tapping his chin and looking up to the ceiling in deep thought. “Maybe…everyone thinks he’s this bad boy but he’s actually not at all, what if he’s actually a scaredy cat? Shy? If it’s a parody, what if we reverse the stereotypical gender roles? Make the female protagonist the bolder one?

“Ooh. That’s kinda good.” You nod, eyes lighting up, slightly impressed that he could even form any ideas. “Write that down.”

The both of you get excited now, beomgyu clearly very happy that you liked his suggestion, smiling back at you with little crescent moon eyes. You draw out arrows, bouncing ideas back and forth, adding traits to your male protagonist, what he likes and dislikes, what he could look like, what he could wear. Once you were done, it was time to properly sketch Hot Guy Seojun out.

“I’ll do it,” Beomgyu volunteers, snatching the pen before you could argue. You watch him fully skeptical, ready to mock whatever doodle he comes up with, expecting another one of his lopsided stick figures. But once he’s done and pushes the notebook pridefully your way to see, you’re taken by complete surprise.

Because it was good, like, really good.

A very handsome man with messy hair, fox like eyes and a sharp jawline stares up at you from the page, a drawing exactly like how you’d expect a male lead in a comic to look like. His art style was surprisingly so pretty, it almost reminded you of CBG’s, but it’s probably a common style. Clean, expressive, precise. His line work and perfect inking had this polished look to it that you’d only ever seen in actual professional manhwas and mangas.

“…You can draw?!” You blurt out, astounded.

Beomgyu tilts his head innocently, feigning offence. “Of course I can. I said I was experienced. This is my passion.”

“Why did you join the manga club?” You query, still in awe at his drawing skills.

Beomgyu shrugs, spinning the pen in his hand. “I like making comics in my spare time but I’ve been struggling with it lately. Thought if I joined I could learn more and get my motivation back maybe. What about you?” Beomgyu asks curiously, “Why’d you join?”

“My favourite manhwa series went on hiatus.” You confess. “I didn’t have anything else fun to do anymore so I joined the club because I wanted to learn about the process and maybe make my own.” But you couldn’t refrain yourself, once you started talking about it, you couldn’t stop, couldn’t help but go on a long, impassioned rant. “—She left us on such a big cliffhanger! And the main guy, Taekbae, oh my god, he’s my favourite character ever, he’s literally perfect and so cute and funny and my type and-”

Suddenly beomgyu pauses mid pen spin, eyes slowly going wide. You were too busy, gesticulating animatedly to notice though. “You’re a big fan, huh?” Beomgyu asks carefully, slowly.

“I’m her biggest fan,” you declare. “I was so heartbroken when I saw the hiatus note.”

“Huh.” A grin slowly spreads across his face, “Yeah… i’ll get to it eventually.”

You blink at him. “Huh?” What was this dude even going on about?

He leans forward, looking insufferably smug. “You’re talking about Rotten Peonies. I’m CBG.”

You stare at him. He stares back. Then you snort, incredulous. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious!” Beomgyu says, still grinning. “CBG. Choi. Beom. Gyu. That’s me. I drew it, idiot.”

“No. No, you didn’t.” This was a very weird joke of his. But then again, you’ve never quite understood his type of humour. Although, you don’t know how he knew you were talking about Rotten Peonies, though saying taekbae’s name might have given it away. Still, why would he even know that?

“Yes I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“Did.”

“No.”

“I literally did!”

“Prove it!”

Exasperatedly, beomgyu flips to a blank sheet and in a minute, sketches out an exact perfect replica of a Rotten Peonies panel of taekbae and the heroine. “Believe me now?”

You gape. “Okay…that’s…scarily accurate. But this still doesn’t actually prove anything. You just copied it out.”

Beomgyu sighs, getting up to rifle through a folder on his desk. Out came piles of drafts, storyboards, covers. He even pulls up his publishing account on his laptop, in which you can clearly see he was the author.

Your jaw hit the floor. “Holy shit—” You just blink at him, utterly dumbfounded, brain short circuiting.

He was CBG.

How was that possible?

CBG was a girl! Okay, it was never actually stated, but how can a man write so much emotional depth, actual good erotica? And most of all, Choi Beomgyu, the guy who manspreads and leaves crumbs all on the shonen mangas, who makes the dumbest commentary?!

Then, you grab his shirt in both fists, eyes wild, shaking him hysterically, “YOU MUST WRITE THE NEXT PART! I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THEIR ARGUMENT ABOUT BEING MORE THAN FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS AND THE WHOLE SHIT WITH BAEKHYUNG!”

“Wha-hey! Okay, okay.” Beomgyu flails and yelps, slightly freaked out by you. “You’re…very intense.”

“I’ve been going insane.” You snap, still clutching onto his shirt, just accepting the maddening information you found out, there were more pressing matters here, your beloved manhwa was on the line.

Beomgyu sheepishly sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, I’ve been struggling with the sex scenes. They feel… I dunno. Unrealistic? Like I’m not doing it right.”

You knit your brows, you’ve never thought that. Everything was perfect. “Why do you think that?”

“Because I don’t…” Beomgyu hesitates, cheeks blooming pink. “I…I don’t…”

“Don’t what?” You press him.

Beomgyu sighs again. “I don’t actually know what it’s like..” he winces, ears also going a very vivid, bright shade of red.

Your eyes go wide. “No way. You mean, you’re a virgin?”

“Shut up.” Beomgyu mumbles, completely embarrassed and averting your gaze.

You laugh so hard your sides hurt. “You’ve been drawing porn this whole time, and you’ve never even had sex?”

Beomgyu groans, burying his face in his hands which only makes you giggle even more at him. It’s quite cute.

And that’s when it hits you.

The wolfcut. The shy, embarrassed flush. The way his puppy eyes dart away like he’d die of shame. You gasp. “OH MY GOD. Taekbae’s literally just a self-insert because you can’t get laid! You mean I’ve been thirsting over your self-insert this whole time?!

Beomgyu’s head shoots up, furrowing his brows in denial. “What-NO! Self insert?? No, he’s nothing like me.”

“You literally gave him your hair!”

“That’s a coincidence!”

You arch a brow, unimpressed, giving him a stern, deadpan look as if to say ‘come on, it’s so obvious.’

He deflates under your gaze. “Well, okay, maybe a little-”

You cross your arms and huff, but you’re heavily amused right now, narrowing your eyes as you stare at him cryptically, slowly grinning. You just thought of an absolutely brilliant idea. “So…what you’re saying is that you’d write again, get inspiration, if…someone actually fucked you?”

Beomgyu opens his mouth then closes it, utterly speechless.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” You shrug.

“You’ll—what?!”

“I’ll pop your cherry. You better write that next part.”

You could tell he was nervous, practically hyperventilating, chewing on his bottom lip raw.

“Relax, beomgyu.”

“I am!”

“No…you’re not. I know I’m hot and all, but breathe.”

You sat behind him, your chest pressed against his back, your legs spread as he sat in between them, your breath tickling the side of his neck and making goosebumps arise on his skin and his whole body, visibly shuddering. Beomgyu squeezes his eyes tightly shut.

You sigh, placing your hand onto his thigh thinking it’d calm him but it only makes him jolt violently. You try again, voice softer, rubbing slow circles on his skin. “If it’s too much you’ll tell me, okay?”

Beomgyu’s throat bobs, his sharp adam’s apple moving up and down as he nods, a little more relaxed, but still only a little. “Mmh.”

You bring your hand to hold his bare cock, thumb pressed on his slit, very lightly, only slightly, swirling your thumb around on his fat, pink, leaky tip. The effect is immediate, beomgyu sucks in a shaky breath, gazing down at what you’re doing to him, so flustered at the sight. You try to calm him down some more, trying to loosen him up as he sat so stiffly, so on edge, only keeping those light, slow ministrations for him to be able to get used to it. Your other hand combs gently through his soft hair, massaging his scalp as he leans into your touch.

“M-more…” beomgyu speaks up after a while, faint but needy, feeling a lot more comfortable now.

You stilled. “You sure?”

He nods so quickly you almost laugh, and so you slowly start sliding your hand up and down, smearing the slickness on his length. Beomgyu’s thighs tremble, a little closed whimper escaping from his mouth. Your free hand grabs onto his thigh again, digging your nails into the pretty plushness, partly to stop them from shaking, but also because you heavily enjoyed his reactions when you touched his thigh.

“Jesus, are your thighs that sensitive?”

Beomgyu attempts to shake his head, but you can see the way his eyes already glaze over just from your slow movements on his dick and your hand gripping his thigh, “N-no-!” You rake your sharp nails down them, dragging and leaving a little trail of faint, reddened lines onto the skin that was once unblemished. A squeaky, startled noise leaves beomgyu’s mouth at that, bucking into your hand, hips jerking. You want to leave his thighs filled with all sorts of marks and scratches and bites and kisses, they’d look prettier like that.

You hold onto his thigh harder, squeezing the flesh, bringing your pace on his dick a little faster and your hand wrapping a little tighter around his girth. Beomgyu clasps a hand to his mouth, eyes squeezed shut in overwhelming pleasure and trying to quiet down the loud moan he just let out.

“Why are you slapping your hand to your mouth? We’re at your dorm?”

“O-oh right…” Beomgyu removes his hand from his mouth, placing his hand down and balling it into a tiny little fist on his lap instead, still trying to fruitlessly suppress all the noises he’s making, incredibly shy and bashful and you can’t help but giggle at him. The next noise that spills out of him is a strangled whimper, caught halfway between embarrassment and overwhelming pleasure.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s just you and me here. No one else can hear.” You coo at him, bringing your hand to play with the soft locks of his hair once more, “I want to hear your pretty moans. Don’t hide them.” You ghost your lips over his neck, gently placing kisses on the delicate column of his neck, but of course, his neck is sensitive too.

You lick a slow stripe up the side of his dainty neck, watching the way he shivers as you chuckle, now sucking hickeys onto it, seeing how they slowly appear on his skin like ink blotches seeping into paper, violet and maroon and magenta, an assortment of colours on his porcelain complexion.

His fairy-like ears are so cute too, so red, and small, you catch his ear lobe in between your teeth, pulling and tugging and then licking a stripe along them too as beomgyu’s squirms and whimpers at the feeling, sucking nastily on his ear, watching him writhe.

You pick up the pace of stroking his cock, pumping him up and down, thumbing at the slit, twisting your fist at the base, and it’s all too much for him, breath faltering with every stroke. He throws his head back, resting it on your neck, succumbing into you and slumping onto your own body, you’re basically holding onto him, definitely not stiff anymore. His deep chesty, restrained moans, becoming breathier and whinier as times goes on, losing himself completely, “H-hahhh…” beomgyu pants as you whisper a mix of filthy words and praises into his ear.

Another grab at his thigh and digging your sharp nails deeper into them, and you feel the spurts of his cum reach your hand with a ragged cry. He orgasms fast, but that’s what you expected anyway, he’s a virgin after all. Beomgyu turns his head, hiding his face and panting into your neck, “Woah…t-that was…”

You scoop up his pretty cum onto your index and middle finger, bringing it to his face, “Open your mouth, puppy.”

Beomgyu widens his eyes, but the pet name clearly fries his brain, because he accepts, opening his mouth for you obediently. Of course being called puppy gets to him, it’s obvious, if not for the light pet play that appeared pretty often in the manhwa he wrote. Beomgyu’s tongue peeks out, letting you stuff your fingers into his mouth, he looks at you as he wraps his lips around them, sucking and licking his own cum clean off your fingers, doing it so well, moaning around your fingers, his eagerness and the way his eyes were fixed on you filthy and obscene but so sexy.

The sight was too familiar. You’ve seen this in Rotten Peonies with taekbae, his puppy eyes looking up at the female lead as he diligently sucks on her fingers, swallowing his own cum, you’ve saved it to your camera roll, added it to your hidden file. This was so strange. You can’t say you didn’t like it though. Especially now that you’re seeing the resemblance with takebae and beomgyu, god this freak was really just writing his own fantasies.

“You’ve been dreaming of this haven’t you, virgin?” You tease but beomgyu just nods, unable to say anything. “Pathetic.” You spit out, as if the sight of him wasn’t making your pussy flutter and making you so incredibly soaked through your pants, as if this wasn’t everything you’ve pretty much wanted in real life.

You pull your fingers out of his mouth slowly, watching the connecting string of saliva from his mouth and your fingers stretch. Then you grab his shoulders, pushing him down onto the bed and you crawl on top of him, straddling him. He immediately tenses again, getting nervous all over.

You take your bottoms off, leaving you in your underwear and you seat yourself on his bare cock, sliding your clothed pussy on his sensitive dick. Beomgyu nearly chokes, breath catching in his throat.

You roll your hips lazily, moving and grinding against him over and over, your own lips parted as the friction bumps with your clit, your panties drenched by now and leaking onto his own wet dick. Beomgyu’s head falls back into the pillow, throwing his forearm over his face, other hand curling into the sheets tightly, clearly not being able to take it.

“Beomgyu,” you murmur, grinning at his fucked out expression. “Take my shirt off.”

Beomgyu freezes like a cute little deer in headlights. Slowly, awkwardly, he tugs at the hem until you help him yank it over your head. He freezes again when faced with your bra, staring dumbly, seemingly bewildered.

“And my bra.” You deadpan.

He reaches up, attempting to, nervously fiddling with the fabric.

“Are you serious right now?”

“I’m trying!” Beomgyu protests and whines. And after far too long, the clasp finally comes undone. At the sight of your tits, beomgyu’s mouth falls open, flustered beyond belief and eyes completely glued to them in awe, like he’d never seen boobs in his life-which, you guess he hadn’t.

“You’re so hot. So pretty…” He doesn’t even move, still staring and gawking at your breasts in disbelief.

Rolling your eyes, you grab his hand and press it firmly to one of your breasts to which he lets out a gasp. “You’re allowed to touch, you know.”

“O-okay…”

Beomgyu cups one of your tits in his hand, still in awe, squeezing inexperienced, too timid, too unsure, just little presses and squeezes, bringing his thumb to slowly brush over, feeling your nipple, and gaping. “It’s so soft…and squishy.”

You laugh, almost, fondly at him. He writes and draws all this filthy shit, and yet he acts like this. “You’ve drawn countless panels of porn, how are you so clueless?”

Beomgyu furrows his brows, his face on fire. “Drawing and doing are two very different things you know!!”

You giggle once more at his expression, voice dripping with mockery. “Come on, even taekbae knows this much.”

He just hides his face in his hands, those small, little breathy moans and gasps still escaping him as you continue to hump his dick, grinding down on him, sliding your clothed pussy along him.

“Aw, my dumb little virgin. You want me to fuck you? Do you wanna know what it feels like to be inside me, hm?” you purr, leaning down just enough so your breath ghosts against his ear.

Beomgyu just nods along to your words stupidly like a bobblehead, moving his hips mindlessly with yours, speechless and unable to speak up, eyes half lidded and his thick long lashes fluttering.

You grab his chin in your hand, grinding down harder on him for emphasis. “Use your words, dumb puppy.”

“Please,” he blurts out immediately, voice cracking so high, “please, wan’ you to fuck me…Want you to take me.”

“You wouldn’t be cumming inside me within seconds like a little virgin, would you?”

“No, nonono.” Beomgyu shakes his head wildly, “Promise I won’t. Want to be inside, please. Please?”

The desperation of his voice goes straight to your core so you lift yourself off him to rid yourself of your drenched underwear, discarding it carelessly. His big eyes follow every single one of your movements like a starved, waiting dog, gaze snapping back up to you when your hand wraps around his cock. You grab his dick, using the head to rub your clit, drawing little stuttered gasps from his lips, sliding him over your slicked entrance and folds, the feeling of your pussy actually on his dick, too much for him already, his hips twitching helplessly beneath you. Beomgyu mewls, head thrashing against his pillow. “O-oh—fuck—please—”

“Are you really sure, beomgyu?” You ask him again, gently, sincerely, scanning all over his face for any uncertainty.

“Yeah, yes-want it so bad.” Beomgyu pants needily, hips jerking up desperately just at the thought.

You inspect his face once more for any hesitation and then take a hold of his dick, hovering, just about to sink down on his fat tip, the head of his cock pressing right against your entrance, and suddenly, he panics.

“Fuck, fuck, shit, okay. I’m kinda scared.” Beomgyu comically breathes in and out, his heart racing, bracing himself.

But you find it quite endearing and entertaining, laughing softly at his expression. “Scared of what?”

“I don’t know!”

“Do you want to be inside me or not?”

“Fuck, I do.” Beomgyu whines, seemingly in a dilemma.

You lean down, staring at him assuring and serious, cupping his face, pressing his hot cheek to your palm and you feel him melt and relax instantly at your touch. “It’s okay gyu, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. You have to tell me though.”

Beomgyu nods, looking into your eyes too. “Y-you can do it. I want you to.” he says finally, voice trembling but certain.

So, you ever so slowly, sink down all the way onto his dick, inch by inch until he’s buried inside to the hilt. It knocks the wind completely out of beomgyu, gasping for air, throwing his head back so theatrically, moaning out so long and loud, it doesn’t sound like it could be real, straight pornographic, his entire body arched. “Ohh. oh my g-Oh my god…”

“Is this okay?”

“Y-yeah…ffuck…”

Beomgyu reaches his hand out like a man drowning, grasping and taking a hold of one of your hands in his, and interlocking them as if grounding him, holding onto it so tightly as he tries to catch his breath, panting deeply. You don’t move, waiting for him to get used to the feeling of being inside your pussy first.

“Shit, ‘m okay. You can keep going.”

You swivel your hips around him, then leisurely, for his sake, start riding him. Beomgyu reacts to everything, every roll of your hips, every shift of angle, sending him spiralling further, literally so sensitive it’s unreal, every sensation so new to him, his appearance and the noises he makes are priceless, cute, deep, yet whiny little cries slipping past his lips.

As time goes on, and you quicken your pace, bouncing on his sticky dick, still holding his hand, beomgyu is long gone, not knowing how to endure being fucked. The most dumbest, debauched, dreamy expression taking over his entire face, genuinely drooling, dribbling down from the corner of his mouth and onto his chin. Apparently, you’d fucked him so dumb already.

“Puppy, does it feel good?” You taunt, even though his expression was already answer enough.

It takes beomgyu a while for him to even register you’d asked him a question, and an even longer while to actually formulate an actual thought and an answer to it.

Beomgyu’s eyelids droop heavily with pleasure, sweat beading his brow, slurring his words and his lisp fully coming out, “ughh is sso goood, ugh-ah, pussy sso perfect. It’s ssso…” he was meant to say more, but he doesn’t bother continuing, cutting himself off, his eyes flickering down, getting hypnotised, watching as your boobs jiggle with every bounce right in front of his face, wonderstruck by this. What a perv.

He looks just like how taekbae looks when he’s getting fucked right now, so delirious, he sounds so wrecked, definitely looks like it too. His messy, sweat ridden bangs of his brown wolfcut falling into his eyes. All you can see now are his glossy, glistening, plump, round lips parted and stustained in the perfect shape of an ‘o’.

This entire predicament is still so crazy to you, you’re basically fucking your favourite character in a way. You can’t believe he’s still CBG who you looked up to. The annoying idiot from your manga club who scoffs all the snacks. You also can’t believe you’re seeing Choi beomgyu like this, and you never thought he’d be a virgin.

“Will you kiss me?” That cuts your thoughts off.

“Huh?”

“Please. Kiss me?” Beomgyu looks up at you with devastatingly vulnerable, sparkly, round, big, eyes, his voice small. He looks like he’d cry if you say no to him, pleading at you, needing the intimacy.

You can’t say no to that, leaning down, you capture your lips with his, kissing him softly but messily, tongues tangling together. Beomgyu whimpers sweetly into your mouth, closing his eyes and so into kissing you, his hand that has been interlaced with yours this entire time, refusing to let go, squeezing even tighter as you ruthlessly ride him. Wet, filthy sounds of you fucking him take over the room, as well as a plethora of beomgyu’s pretty, euphonious moans he emits into your mouth that you gobble up, increasing in volume and reaching an octave higher, music to your ears.

You bite at his bottom lip, dragging your teeth and he pulls away for air, “y/n…I’m soo closee...” Incoherent words of begging and your name, falling past his lips, face contorted with overwhelming bliss and ecstasy. You clench around his cock so tightly on purpose, earning a mangled, raw scream from him and he cums immediately after, cumming so hard from being fucked for the first time and shooting a substantial amount of his load inside that it overflows, and when you pull yourself off, it all stickily oozes back onto and around his dick, his breath coming out in ragged sobs and gasps of disbelieved pleasure. “Fuckfuckfuck—” Beomgyu cries out, astonished and just totally overwhelmed with everything right now.

He doesn’t last long again, you not even being able to have your own orgasm, but you can’t even be annoyed at him. He’s so cute. His gorgeous reactions to everything and the way he was so sensitive was so much more worth it and rewarding than any orgasm, and even better than reading any of the manhwa panels, the images of beomgyu fully engrained in your head, it’s fine, you can get off to it later.

You let him ride it out, cooing soft praises for his first time, calling him a good boy and saying that he did so well as he clings to you. You pull him in for another kiss, thinking he’d appreciate it but he can barely kiss you back, his body literally limp and boneless. He still doesn’t let go of your hand, bringing his other hand up so he can hold your other one too, quietly whimpering into your mouth.

“Well,” you murmur when you pull back, still perched on top of his convulsing frame. “Was that inspiration enough?”

“Uh huh…” Beomgyu pants raggedly, a far away look in his eyes, barely conscious.

So, perhaps there are real men like taekbae out there. Well, only one.

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and disappointing when fics have such little reblogs. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it makes writers want to actually write more :)

A/n: yipeee. I hope you guys like this 😭 idk if it turned out the way people were expecting but ! I think this would be a good series where they fuck so beomgyu gets inspiration and ideas for his manhwa 😭 but I’m not gonna write it loll.

It’s been a few weeks now since you ended things with anaxa and anyone could tell his complexion was terrible. He was ashamed to admit he pulled multiple all nighters to conduct research just to distract himself. He couldn’t sleep well after you left, his mind wandering to places he didn’t permit. All this resulting in a lack of self care. Hyacine had to drag him out of his lab quite a few times and force him to take his meals. By the looks of it, he fell victim to his old habits, which you so painstakingly tried to correct; yet now that you weren’t here, he didn’t bother anymore.

Occasionally, one could catch him grumbling to himself, groaning in annoyance. Well, this was about the ever so prideful Anaxagoras— and to make matters worse, you were the one who broke it off. Your reason? Some excuse about the two of you not being ‘compatible anymore’. Anaxa interpreted it as you not being fond of his eccentric personality like many others, just the truth dressed up in sugary veils. This was fine, it didn’t matter to him, he expected this to happen sooner or later since he’d never change his ways. You know what? He didn’t even care that much, you weren’t the first one to be like that.

Even though he admittedly was still feeling quite down due to the separation, he brushed it off as frustration that will pass with time. It wasn’t going too badly actually, if not for this unplanned variable that disrupted everything. Because today, he caught sight of you chatting with someone else while wearing that stupid grin you’ve normally only shown him before. You and that other person, bashfully conversing, looking like something straight out of a story with literal sparkles and roses surrounding the frame.

Was he imagining this? Or were the two of you actually flirting. No matter how often he rubbed his eye, the scene didn’t change one bit. This wasn’t just two ‘friends’ talking, no… this was you moving on to someone new. Already.

It ticked him off, it irked him. He didn’t want to keep watching yet couldn’t stop neither. His heart pounded in this irrational way, leaping out of his chest. It made him want to stab his remaining eye out.

Judging by the way you desperately tried to keep the conversation going, as if you were unwilling to part with them, his intuition was right on the nail. To think you’ve set your sights on someone new already… it hasn’t even been that long since the breakup! Not to mention he was still affected— no, no he wasn’t. He was doing perfectly fine without you. This had nothing to do with him anymore, you were single now, he had no reason to be invested.

That’s how he would have liked it, yet emotions aren’t always logical and he couldn’t stop his hands from tightened into a fist. The longer he watched everything unfold, the more his chest twisted.

Firstly… let’s calm down. Maybe you weren’t pursuing this person at all and he was just overthinking. You used to always tell him that he’s the only one for you and all that tooth rotting-ly sweet stuff. While he knew those were sweet nothings, the reason for you to say them in the first place couldn’t have faded this quickly, right..? Anaxa was convinced of his reasoning for a few days or maybe he just gaslighted himself until he saw you with that person again. This time? It seems you two made some progress on your relationship— you were even tying their shoelaces!

There’s no denying it anymore. You most definitely moved on, left him stuck as the only one still struggling with was has been lost. It hurt, as if his heart was being torn and squeezed. It hit him like a realisation he hated to admit. He might be arrogant, but he wasn’t oblivious nor stupid, he could tell this nasty emotion he felt was jealousy. How very pathetic. He didn’t know he was the possessive type nor that he still had lingering feelings. Despite how desperately he tried to not show it, how he tried to lie to himself, he was still hung up on what he used to have.

For a while, he was moving like a madman. Observing the two of you for no reason, following you around everywhere. Even he didn’t have a logical explanation for his own actions, though if he had to make a wild guess, it probably stems out of desperation. This continued for longer than it should have, and now, three weeks after breaking up, you gifted that other person a large boutique of bright flowers.

Their sweet laughter as they gracefully accepted the gift felt like needles piercing his chest, a gut wrenching feeling boiled beneath his rib cage. As if his heart just sunk to the bottom of an ocean, heavy and forgotten. He wasn’t crying or anything, not even pulling a grimace, just a cold frown as if he couldn’t stand the sight of you two anymore. Which was frankly enough the truth.

This surely wasn’t fair now, was it? You left him for a… what, better option? Worse? Someone prettier? More bold? Or was it about the amount of attention one could give? They sure seemed carefree enough, always hanging around you, unlike him, who was holed up in his lab constantly. Was this the real reason you left, because he was always busy? So you were just lacking attention, huh? If he had known you were this high-maintenance, he would have—!

A deep sigh escaped his lungs, there’s no point in cussing out the past, he should put his focus onto the present instead. Now that he has concluded you simply want more of his time like the greedy pest you are, a new plan has been weaved in his head. Time, he just needed to make more time for you and you’d willingly come back to him. By that logic, it’s not like you left because you found someone else, you were just looking for a replacement. For a mannequin that can play house with you and be the object of his jealousy simultaneously.

What a relief, that means he only needed to tell you he got it all figured out. You should have told him you wanted him to chase you! Now he understood what he had to do. Because even after all this time, he was still the only one for you, the only one in charge of your heart ♥︎

Out of nowhere, Anaxagoras began putting more effort into his hair and appearance, carefully choosing the sexiest, most fashionable clothes ever to wear. Totally not him trying to seduce you or anything, he was just feeling it. Should he adorn himself with something tight enough to show off his body? Or super loose to play into the cute arch type? Perhaps a neat dress shirt, only to end up drenched in water by some ‘unlucky’ accident.

Of course he’d only pour water over himself when he’s certain that you are the only one around, otherwise it’d be way too embarrassing. You’ve seen his nude body before, so it’s different with you.

He’d also deliberately wear his corsets tighter than usual, accentuating his waist and curves. This was due to your endless compliments from the time you were still together. You used to obsess over how tiny his waist was and how attractive it apparently made him. So he played into that preference of yours even more, cheeks flushing a bright red hue the more he reminisced back on his relationship with you. Never would he have imagined he’d miss the endless touching and teasing, among other intimate things he shared with you.

The first few times he strolled around wearing that fancy fit, he made sure to pass right underneath your nose. He was feeling quite confident as well. You must have noticed him, right? Can’t take your eyes off of him? Oh he knew he looked quite good, probably like your wet dreams come true~ yet when you showed no notable reaction, he became a little self conscious. Since matter of fact, you didn’t approach him at all throughout the entire day! Not even a single glance!

Was he not being obvious enough…? You could be so oblivious sometimes, so annoyingly dense, tsk tsk. Next time, he tried something bolder, and bolder, and even more daring. No one could have predicted how much this situation would escalate. It’s gotten to the point where anaxa was no longer acting like himself. He was dressed in a rather feminine outfit, with frills and ribbons and a skirt. His face hidden behind a mask and hair tied up in a bow— most people would assume he was a girl.

Anaxa had never attempted crossdressing outside the bedroom and even then it was always due to your requests… so he had great troubles keeping a straight composure. His knees felt weak, his mind kept yelling at him to cut it out, that this was going too far, and that it was about time to let it go. Even so, his heart stayed stubborn like the scholar he was. This experiment will surely succeed, it has to. You’ll notice him this time and be surprised he ever willingly wore it. All for you, only for you.

In contrary to his expectations, this was a fail too, though he didn’t come back empty-handed this time. No, he learned something valueable. You were deliberately ignoring him.

Hah. Haha…! How laughable, oh he should have known. You’ve been conscious of him the whole time. Instead of listening to the tiny shred of reason left in him, he instead pondered over how often you must have thought of him. Over what’s got to be going through that pretty little head of yours when you saw him dressed all prettily just to catch your eye. If that was how you were going to play, then don’t blame him for not playing fair either.

Soon enough, you got to experience his stubbornness again. All the different ways he used to get your attention became increasingly more obvious and hard to ignore. As if his shame slowly got replaced with this competitive urge to win, to get you to acknowledge him. Which is why the scholar recently ‘tripped’ right into your arms, his hands fisting the clothes over your chest as he held onto you for dear life. He was clinging so much that one might think he’s made out of glass. Please forgive his clumsiness, won’t you?

Once you glanced down at him, you could barely believe it. He was wearing such a skimpy, slutty fit that your eyes began scanning over him without permission. The familiar coat from last time now gaping open from the front, revealing his bare skin layered behind thin fabrics. You didn’t want to act this insolent, yet it was getting harder and harder to not just grab his waist. It ended with you adapting a pretty uncomfortable position, where you were keeping your arms awkwardly next to his body without touching.

“Hey… are you alright, Anaxagoras? If you’re not hurt, could you let go…?” You mumbled as you glanced around, somehow feeling guilty. It was a truly strange sensation, to have your former boyfriend cling to you so tightly.

This sudden change in your ex was honestly very unexpected, you never could have imagined in your wildest dreams that you would have to deal with such an… emotional version of anaxa. Despite everything, you couldn’t deny seeming him acting all needy like this wasn’t getting under your skin. He was quite cute... ah, damn it, these arent thoughts you should be having now.

Instead of answering you in a normal manner, he just had to lean into the crook of your neck, whispering into your ear with his lips almost touching your skin, “I… I don’t feel so good, can’t you help me out…?” His voice was smooth, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You were about to argue that he seemed perfectly healthy, until you saw the intensity of his blush, and noticed how his legs were trembling. Was he cold? Maybe running a fever even? Why would he wear such short rags anyway? Of course it looked good on him, but still—!

A heavy sigh left your lips as you felt inclined to help him reach the nurse office, letting go to allow him to lay down on the bed while you called out for anyone who could be of help. No one replied. Of course you’d be completely alone in a room with your ex-lover, naturally, this universe loved these kinds of jokes.

When you shifted your attention back to the male, about to inform him of the nurse’s absence, you didn’t expect to catch him in a vulnerable position. Was this another one of his antics? To bend down right in front of your eyes, with no regards to the inappropriateness of the situation and acting as if he was grabbing something from a bottom shelf.

Now he was even shaking his hips! This was a clear sign, wasn’t it? Like a cheap whore begging to be taken…! You were left in a daze until anaxa glanced over his shoulder, his eyelashes thick above his sharp eyes, the intensity of his gaze snapping you out of it. He smirked at your dumbfounded and confused expression, chucking with a teasing undertone, “what are you staring at?”

You didn’t even respond to his provocations, only hurrying out of the nursing room before you could make an irrational decision. This isn’t right, you were supposed to have gotten over him, he was clearly only playing with you… though anaxa wasn’t that kind of petty person— nevertheless, you’ve begun pursuing someone else…! Get a grip!

Anaxa stared until the door closed, a faint smirk forming on his lips. This was a moment of success, you were definitely looking at him, affected by him and thinking about him. He has been watching you from the corner of his eye, like he always does, gauging your reactions to his looks and actions. And judging by that, you appeared to be still attracted to him~ ah, really, he was so much prettier than whoever that nobody was, wasn’t he? Besides, he already knows all about your dirtiest fantasies~

Gradually, even his actions became increasingly daring, until he was bold enough to actually grind his hips against yours and act as if nothing was out of tune. You weren’t even sure if you only imagined it, if that ever happened at all because of how composed he was. Though your doubts were quickly answered when you caught him doing it again.

Everything after passed in a flash and before you knew it, you had grabbed anaxa’s wrist and dragged him into some remote area at the back of the building. Once you came back to your senses, he was leaning against the wall, caged between your arms. He wore a confident and knowing smirk as he glanced at you all smugly, his hands slowly unbuttoning his coat as he hummed, “so predictable, I knew you would return to me once I push you sufficiently.”

…What? No, no. You were going to tell him to stop, to leave you alone. Not whatever his words implied. Your eyes followed the movements of his fingers, slowly unbuttoning his coat from the collar to the bottom. “Are you finally satisfied now? After making me work this hard?” He scoffed at you, even though his tone didn’t sound displeased in the slightest. “No, I- anaxa we aren’t—!” You wanted to set the record straight, to do what you should as someone who has decided to leave the past behind, yet nothing could have prepared you for what he did next.

The coat he wore gaped open, revealing what was hidden beneath. His eye locked onto you to observe your reaction, his rosy lips curling upwards into a barely restrained smile as he enjoyed having your attention on him again, “like what you are seeing? Why am I even asking, I know you do.” Slowly, the heavy piece of clothing slipped down his shoulders, pooling at his feet now. He reached out to trace along your jaw with one finger, tilting your head up as he lowered his voice, “seriously… I’m talking to you, eyes up here.”

Easier said than done. Your eyes had a mind of their own as they began tracing his outlines, raking over familiar body parts dressed in foreign clothes. You couldn’t even reply that was how flabbergasted you were. Sure, he has worn and done quite a few audacious things by now, but this definitely tops all of it. To think he’d willingly wear this in public— when he used to not do so even behind locked doors…!

Despite his efforts to seem unbothered, he couldn’t hide the fact that he was also embarrassed by this scandalous fit. His cheeks were burning as he observed how your eyes wandered over him like a hungry predator, taking in every detail like you were committing it to memory. Shudders coursed down his spine at the intensity of your stare, at how desire bloomed behind these pupils. If you believed he wouldn’t notice how your gaze lingered around his… let’s say assets, then you were so mistaken.

A million thoughts plagued your mind with the loudest one yelling, ‘who told him it’s a good idea to leave the house in nothing but baby doll lingerie…?!’ blood was rushing to your head, resulting in any remaining logic that used to anchor you to rot away. It’s not fair, you truly couldn’t help it. His skin looked so soft under the bright sunlight, his pink nipples all hard against the transparent ‘clothing’. The way the lace hugged his skin, defined his body and highlighted his curves was tantalising, a piece of art you couldn’t take your eyes off of.

And when he reached his arms out to wrap them around your neck, to pull you closer and whisper into your ear with that seductive voice of his, you knew resistance was futile.

—

“…Ah-ah— mhm… ha-haah..!! ♡ s-so rough… y-you aren’t- ah, gentle to me anymore, uh-ughMnhh~ ♥︎♡ is… is it b-because we aren’t dating…? Haha~” Anaxa taunted with an eager and arrogant smirk, his hands clawing at your back as he struggled to maintain his balance, mostly due to you holding one of his legs up and pinning it against the wall. With your other hand, you prepared him, stuffing two fingers inside his already stretched passage.

It appears he’s been expecting this, to think he’d come up to you and seduce you while all lubed up and ready… Seriously, how did you end up folding to his whims so badly…? You didn’t give him a reply and instead curled your fingers exactly the way he liked, still remembering his favourite spots. This earned you a high-pitched moan from the male, his face melting into something awfully lewd. “AhnnGhhh~♥︎♥︎♥︎ my, my… did you get better at this…? That’s so mea— huurGhkk, ahh… right t-there…♡♥︎”

It felt good, unbelievably so. As he thought, you two were meant to be. You still knew how to play his body like an instrument, hitting every note with scary accuracy. The way your digits moved inside him— curling against that cluster of nerves that had him arching his back like a common whore —forcing his tight walls to yield and make way for you. When you began putting pressure against that place with pinpoint accuracy, his eye rolled back as his nails dug another wound into your shoulder blades.

Anaxa threw his head back and moaned out loud, his toes curling as all these shameful noises escaped his throat with no signs of stopping, “uhhNhhmm~~ ah, ah! Right there…! Y-you really— urghh…!! ♥︎♡ s-so rough…~” It’s possible that he simply got very sensitive during the time apart from you, that could explain why he was feeling it so much today. But what if it’s because you’ve improved your skills by shared a bed with that per—

“AaanHGhh ♥︎♡♡ s-slow down… hngHh!!~ w-wait, oh-uhMngg〜♡ l-love, please…” And he forgot all about it after you began scissoring your fingers, the thoughts abandoned as sparks zapped up his spine, raw desire and ecstasy plaguing his willing body. You were breaking him, shattering his mind and body, then rebuilding him piece by piece. A feat only you could achieve, something he’d only allow you to do.

His rim was glistening around your digits, yielding so easily. Looks like someone has been touching himself fairly frequently. His neglected cock was weeping precum from its flushed tip, soiling the skimpy lingerie he wore. It twitched each time you brushed over a particularly sensitive spot inside him, hitting his own lower abdomen and leaving behind a sticky trail. Thin, filthy threads connected his belly to his dripping shaft, and the clear evidence of his debauchery alongside his erotic expressions was enough to hog your attention.

You couldn’t stop starring at him, as if you were mesmerized— absolutely hooked on this tingling sensation in your own lower body. Naturally, you were still attached to him. There was no need to beat around the bush, you didn’t need to lie to yourself. It’d be wrong to claim his sweet moans weren’t doing something to you. His high-pitched, eager whines that were like a sweet symphony composed only for you, made with the singleminded purpose of stirring your heart. Forcing it to move in rhythm to his beat.

Despite how much he was enjoying your fingers, it was about time to move onto something bigger. He wasn’t going to be satisfied without the main course today. “Mhmmff~ oh f-fuck… ah, e-enough…” He groaned one last time before demanding in a voice the sounded awfully similar to a plead, “t-that’s… I’m stretched enough, urgh~ ♥︎ n-no more… preparation.., b-beloved— won’t you, ngGHh…♡♡ won’t you put it in…?”

Again, he called you by an endearing pet-name he had never used before. To think the proud Anaxagoras would ever use such cutesy words of adoration, calling out for you with that intimate word ‘love’. How silly, your relationship has long ceased to exist, yet he was acting as if you were still lovers. And the worst part? Your heart fluttered at the sound, at how right it felt. At how much you wanted to act as if nothing happened between you two, that the wedge has been closed and that you could embrace him with the same carelessness as before. Even you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore.

“Beloved… don’t ignore me…” he sulked openly, voice trembling slightly. Something he never did before because he used to call it ‘juvenile’. “You know… beloved, you can just put it in… I can— ahhh~ I can take it…♡ it’s not like it’s my first time.” How awfully needy, it was making you want to tease him.

So you pulled your digits out and trailed a fingertip along his perineum, down his inner thighs, before digging into the soft flesh there. The sudden roughness making him gasp, his eye half-lidded and wet with unshed tears. “Not yet, you should learn some patience, anaxa.” He whined even louder, not even hiding his frustrations as he snapped, “but I want it now, urgh- hngh…!! I-I, please… want it, s’been so long— want it hic- so bad…”

He squirmed, the blood was running out of his holstered leg, leading to it cramping a little. You were still pinning him down though, not allowing him any leeway. Seeing how you weren’t going to comply anytime soon, he decided to take things into his own hands and reached down to cup your bulge through your trousers. A sharp hiss slipped from your lips, encouraging him to take it further.

Anaxa immediately noticed the way you were straining against the fabric, the realisation hanging over him. You could see that knowing, self-pleased grin of his returning as he teased, “what’s this…? I— hah..! I almost thought someone didn’t find me attractive anymore… but it seems my worries were unnecessary?” Damn it, you couldn’t even say anything as a come back.

Eventually, you gave in to his demands, now gripping his waist tightly with both hands. His legs wrapped around your waist, your bodies close enough to lift and pin his against the wall. Your composure crumbled when he began grinding down against your arousal, a deep in- and exhale as you mumbled, “anaxa, you really are determined to see this to the end…” he didn’t answer, though one look into his sultry, magenta and blue eyes told you everything you needed to know.

“You know I’m stubborn.” Was all he panted out in response. He didn’t waste any more time and pulled your zipper down, freeing your cock with singleminded focus. Your dick was already leaking onto his lower abdomen, adding onto the pool pf mess created by his precum. His smile turning sheepish when he whispered, arms gripping your shoulders loosely, “I’m always ready for you, beloved ♡”

Suddenly, anaxa cupped your face with both hands and stroked your cheeks, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. He missed seeing your face up close. His touch was surprisingly gentle, thumbs brushing over your bottom lip while making sure you were looking at nothing but him. Because you two were in such close proximity, you could basically feel his warm, shaky breath tickling your skin. The same goes to him, his skin prickling at each hot exhale.

It was difficult to put into words, but, the atmosphere— the way he looked and caressed you —all of it felt awfully saccharine. You could see every single detail on his face. His lashes clumping with his unshed tears, the blush resting high on his cheeks, the sliver of skin hidden behind his crooked eyepatch showing.

He was monopolising your attention as if it has always belonged to him, and, frankly enough, you were starting to get the impression that that is the case. You didn’t hinder him when he crossed his ankles over your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wanted to fuse with you and never part again. He slowly leaned forward until he bumped his nose with yours, giggling to himself at the silly gesture. Then, he pressed his forehead to your’s, whispering softly, “Beloved… you are so mean to me, don’t you know how much I missed you, missed this?”

You were like frozen in place, watching him do all this with your mouth slightly parted. Once you caught a glimpse of the tremble in his glistening eyes though, you faltered.

By now, you were absolutely confused and overwhelmed by your own mixed emotions, contradicting yourself with every passing second. You didn’t know what to say in reply to his confession, your heart leaping in your chest as breathing got increasingly difficult. It almost felt like you were falling in love all over again.

His hands reached back a little to tangle in your hair, your breaths mingling as he mumbled, “beloved, I- ah… I mean, wont you…” he stopped, his face tilting a little as he leaning in impossibly closer, his blush deepening into a bright crimson. It even spread to his ears, casting a red tint over his features. “Can’t you… kiss me?” Right after voicing this uncharacteristically pure request, he nuzzled into the crook of your neck, hiding his face from any form of scrutiny or ridicule.

You didn’t think he’d get this embarrassed over such an innocent question, especially when he’s been whoring himself out for you like there’s no tomorrow. His request wasn’t a difficult one to grant, there was but one thing left to do: make a choice on which path you wished to take. Because once you exchange that kiss with him, you don’t think you’ll be able to hold back much longer. Did you want to go back to your old love, or continue pursuing someoen new?

A seemingly simple question, yet you lost the answer to it somewhere along the way. Anaxagoras was still just as beautiful as the day you two parted, and the more you thought about it, the more you felt yourself drawn in by his whispers. His gentle caresses, pleasant scent, sweet voice and needy expressions. Besides, he wanted you too, you knew this much. So wouldn’t this be the safer option?

Before you could sort your thoughts out, anaxa grew impatient and groaned, “do you need to think that hard about it? Shouldn’t I be the only thing on your mind right now?” He smashed his lips against yours, tugging at your bottom lip with his teeth as punishment. A slight huff escaped him as he kissed you with no grace, only desperation, taking the initiative. Your brain blanked out for a moment, your body responding intuitively as you returned the kiss.

The grip around his slender waist tightened as if you were trying to trap him, to prevent him from escaping your grasps. It didn’t take long before the once light smooches turned into a full five course meal consisting of you two making out like wild beasts, trying to devour one another. Your tongues moving in tandem, exchanging heat and yearning, gradually exploring the other’s preferences.

It lasted longer than expected, you two had awfully good harmony and compatibility. Anaxa only broke the kiss to catch his breath, saliva strings connecting his mouth with yours as he heaved. His lungs slowly filling with air again. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, averting his gaze in meek embarrassment. To end up choking on a kiss because he was too eager… how humiliating, it’s not like he was some inexperienced virgin.

You glanced down at him while he was recovering, slowly coming to terms with this unexpected development. Some strands of his hair began sticking to his moist skin, his nipples hardening all lewdly, his arousal leaking with need consistently. The babydoll lingerie he wore was also clinging to him, its sheer fabric hugging his curves like some deadly temptation. Not only was it very revealing and perverted, it also enhanced his beauty.

“I have a question for you as well, anaxa.” You began, teasing him by kneading his waist with your thumbs. That caused him to squirm, his grip changing from holding to fisting the back of your clothes. What adorable reactions, and so you continued your taunt, “Tell me, where did you learn to act this slutty?”

The male glared at you due to your choice of words, his ears flushing as he sulked with fake anger, “obviously because you made me like this…” Putting the blame on you now, huh? You couldn’t help but subconsciously want to keep the banter going and chuckled, “How is it my fault?” To which he snarled, “you left me, all alone.”

Touché, you couldn’t argue with that. So instead, you moved lower with your kisses, leaving pecks along his jaw and neck. Your lips trailed across his throat, making him gasp softly. You quickly found that one particular spot you knew was especially sensitive, and teased it with sucks and kisses. You might have even thrown a bite in here and there, the onslaught of sensation making him gulp audibly. Soon enough, that spot reddened into a hickey. All satisfied now, you whispered, “will you forgive me then, anaxa?”

Shivers coursed down his spine, his skin prickling with goosebumps as he glared at you with no real anger behind it. You knew his body too well, he was playing and addicted to a losing game. “if you want my forgiveness… stop with this half-hearted nonsense…! Take me, like you did when we were—!” He stopped himself, frowning a little at what he almost said, before ending his sentence with a much quieter, “…just, do it. Put it in… show me you are serious.”

It was hard not to notice the way tears began collecting in the corners of his eyes again, and you found it hard to believe your once composed and serious lover could act so vulnerable. You tightened your grip around his waist even more, the strength behind it almost bruising now, making him whine as he crushed your head against his chest. His voice was barely audible as he finally began begging, “ah.. love, please, please—”

Even you were getting riled up to the point you couldn’t hold back anymore. So you rubbed your tip against his twitching entrance, feeling the way his rim fluttered and gasped, as if inviting you inside. You were so close to entering him, to finally giving him what he wanted— No. Why… why were you just hovering there like some amateur who didn’t know how to stick it in…!?!

He whined at the denial and cried out, “you— don’t tease…! I really need it, what more do you want…?! F-fill me and f-fuck me already...” You gawked at how sexy he sounded, and you ground against him some more, murmuring, “I’m on it. We have all the time in the world. What’s the rush?”

A bashful expression, one so uncharacteristic of him, now seen on that gorgeous face of his. With a heavy whine, that crooked eyepatch barely covering his eye socket, and a voice like a siren you couldn’t get enough of, he hissed, “havent I begged you enough?”

In a rebellious attempt to speed up the process, he tried to grind down onto your cock, gasping as the tip entered him by a fraction. Just the tiny stretch alone was better than what his fingers could ever achieve. Then he demanded in a tone that felt more like a desperate last resort, “stick it in now, fuck me up… or I-I’ll… I’ll find someone else— ah— MhmmFf...!” Before he could finish his threat, you kissed his lips.

The surprise was enough to make him forget to breath, choking on your tongue once more. The way you moved and teased him was all way too familiar. You were treating him just like before, and he couldn’t ask for more. He moaned into the kiss, his mouth tingling all over as warmth spread where you touched. All your eagerness, desire, and passion was still the same. You were still the same person who loved him to the end of the world and beyond the limits of the sky.

He choked and gasped while scratching red lines down your back, clawing at you until you broke the kiss. Fat tears were rolling down his face now as he whimpered, “ah… n-no, don’t stop… kiss me again.” Despite him almost passing out from no air, he didn’t want to stop the kiss. You smiled gently and kissed his tears away, muttering, “easy now.” At the same time, you felt you made him wait long enough and slowly began easing your way inside him.

“Ah- d-damn it… so good…♡” His tongue lolled out at the stretch, the sensation was so uniquely intense that he threw his head back. It’s been so long since you two last did this. Even though he prepared himself, his fingers just weren’t the real deal. He struggled to accommodate your size, heaving heavily to try and accommodate you. His nipples were hardened peaks underneath the transparent lingerie, and he was clinging to you like his life depended on it.

You took this chance to push your tongue into his mouth, kissing him passionately. This had his squishy walls clamping down around your cock, as if he was scared you’ll pull out. Since his insides were quite wet and sloppy already, it didn’t take long for you to bottom out inside him.

And once you did put it in he was moaning so loudly you’d think he was doing it on purpose. He was never this shameless before, especially not in public. But could you really blame him? You were so damn deep, your cock pressing against all the places where he’s been aching for you. His grunts came from the bottom of his chest, mirroring the ecstasy he was experiencing. “M-move…!” Was all he could snarl at your way before a series of whines echoed through this empty space.

You didn’t even move much, only grinding your tip slightly deeper into him and he was crying out from the pleasure already. The way he squeezed around you was enough to make you groan into his neck. His lower abdomen was also bulging from your size. You confirmed it when you pulled back until only the tip remained, then pushed it all~ the way back in. “Ah- Ahnngh…!” He’d whimper with each microscopic movement, hands going back to clawing at your already wounded back.

“Don’t forget to breath now, pretty boy.” You teased, one hand moving up to hold him by his torso. It was the perfect position for your thumb to rub his nipples through the lingerie, the feeling of the rough, transparent fabric against his rosy buds making him hiss. “You j-just focus on…! Urghh ♡♥︎ on f-fucking me properly…!” He scoffed, yet it was clear you didn’t need his reminder.

“Fuck you properly huh? Just don’t pass out first.” With that being said, you began moving your hips in a steady rhythm. Starting off slow and deep, hitting all these places that made him mewl and squeal before gradually accelerating. Your lips found his neck again, and pressed open-mouthed kissed to his heated skin. Once you found the junction of his throat and shoulder, you bit down. Hard enough to break skin, and for blood to seep to the surface.

“HmnnGhhh—a-ahh…! Hurts— fuck, dont s-stop…!” He wanted everything you could give him. The pain, the marks, and the pleasure. Oh he desperately needed those marks. He wanted everyone to see you were his as he was your’s. And you gave it to him, without a second thought. More and more inches of skin fell victim to your teeth, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

At the same time, those deep thrusts of yours were literally punching the breath out of him, forcing him to gasp with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Drool and sweat was leaking down his chin, his voice breaking as you found his prostate. “AhhNGhHHh〜~♥︎♡♥︎!!! T-there, right there…!! Keep hitting me the— nGHhGG~ oh- fuuuck…!! Love you, m’love you, love this♥︎♡”

He was making sure everyone could hear him. Would know he was getting pounded stupid on your terrifyingly amazing, marvelous cock, hitting all his favorite spots. Anaxa wanted those rumors and whispers, wanted them to know how good you were fucking him, and how he was moaning like a whore all because of you. Hopefully that’ll be enough to make them stop bothering what’s his.

Though you didnt know about his plan, and you weren’t going to let this become the death of your social life, so you sneered at him, “keep it down, anaxa… before we both get thrown out of campus for public indecency.” He clicked his tongue dismissively, refusing to listen— or perhaps his brain just hasn’t registered your words. As a result, you clasped a hand over his mouth to shut him up.

Anaxa instantly cried and lick your palm, hands clawing at you to try and peel you off. But your grip was too strong and firm for him, you didn’t budge even an inch. He was begging you to let go so that he can get some pretty rumours going~

You let go once you noticed he was having a harder time breathing. But only after making him promise he’ll at least try to be quieter. Due to that promise, he had to listen to your command and bit your shoulder in return. If he wasn’t allowed to be vocal, he’ll be showy then, marking you just as you marked him. His voice muffled into your skin as your thrusts shifted into something more primal and aggressive.

You were no longer using those precise, deep pounds that could be felt like a bone-deep ache. Instead, you were snapping your hips against his in a wild abandon, uncaring about the accuracy, just roughly rutting into him like some mindless animal. He cried out at the intensity, at the ruthless pace you set. The feeling of your dick rubbing and hitting his walls in this quick succession was enough to make him lose his mind, making him babble absentmindedly, “annGhh…!! Ah- ahhh~♥︎♡ s-stop, n-no..!! Don’t stop, h-harder, more, deeper ♡♥︎♡”

His brain was short circulating, practically melting beneath your demonstrations. His body was like endless nerve endings, reacting so strongly to every single one of your touches. Was it even possible to feel this much all at once? Has sex with you have always been so ecstatic? If so, he might just get cock-drunk on you, he might never want this to end ♥︎

And when he looked down, discovering the belly bulge in his lower body, he absolutely lost it. Legs tightening around your waist as he clung to you even more, moaning right into your ear, “you are f-fucking my stomach… ah-, ahhh…! Cum inside me, p-please cum inside… I wanna feel you dripping out, wanna get filled and pregnant.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now? I can’t believe this.” You chuckled, you never imagined you’d hear such filth coming out of that pristine mouth of his. Yet you weren’t one to ruin the fun and joined in on this little fantasy, one hand now digging into the tent in his tummy, “i’m… right below this part, arent I? Say, anaxa, if I fill you up enough, you think I can actually breed you~?”

The thought alone was intoxicating. That would surely be the most public way to claim you, to tell everyone else to get lost, because you were bound to him forever. By flesh, by blood, by a child. Even if it’s not possible, the thought alone was enough to push him closer to his high, his thighs spasming as he sobbed, “don’t just tease…. Do it, ah— fill me up, i’m c-close… oOuhhHnn cummin’, c-cumming mHhhh~♥︎♡♥︎…!!”

“Isnt this a little too soon, anaxa?” You smirked, seemingly amused at how quickly you’ve got him spilling over the edge. You knew he gets extra vocal when climaxing, so you shut him up with a kiss. The sensory overload of having every single part of his body be on fire was too much, and he came untouched, moaning straight into the kiss, pupil turning into a cute little heart as the all pleasure he’s build up crashed down on him, “mmHHhfff— ngHH-uuHHNNM…♡~~!”

Hot white ropes of cum shot out of his neglected cock, coating his pelvis and shaft in this sticky layer of his bodily fluids. It was dripping down his thighs and perineum, all the way to where you two were still connected. His poor, poor sex was all swollen red with unfulfilled desire. His body shaking and twitching like crazy, eye rolling into the back of his head as he forgot how to breath, again. And his face— oh what a mess it was..!— heck, that was an understatement to how debauched and disheveled he looked.

You pulled back from the kiss just to groan into his chest, snickering in a low pitch, “Damn anaxa… do you know you always tighten up when you cum?” You were panting yourself now, getting closer and closer to your own peak. He was still basking in the aftershocks of his orgasm, yet you were moving inside him again, causing him to weep in overstimulation. The sight of him falling apart on your dick was just way too erotic, turning your once steady thrusts into sloppy, animalistic rutting. Ones where you were chasing your own pleasure.

How were you supposed to stop yourself, when he looked this ready and delicious, sprawled out in front of you, waiting to be taken again and again? You latched your lips around his nipple, biting down as you mumbled into his chest, “your walls… they are— so wet and hot… it’s like they adapted to the shape of my cock,,, fuck I’m close too…”

Anaxa couldnt say anything without interrupting himself with a sob or whine, so all he did was hold onto you as his second, even faster approaching orgasm washed over him. “AhnGHHHh— oh l-lovee mHGhhgg, I-i cant, s’too gooodd~ too muuuchhh ♡♥︎♡ ah—NGHhn, uHhnn-ahhnnngg♡—” it was just as intense as the first one, making his toes curl as more scratch lines joined your back. Anyone would assume you got attacked by a pack of wild animals at the sight, not knowing the animals in question was the you two’s nasty coupling.

His second release was a little less in amount and more watery in consistency, but he was nowhere near dry yet. You came with him simultaneously, spilling so deep inside him he could feel you filling his guts. It soon dripped out of him from around your still buried but softening shaft, soiling the ground below with a toxic cocktail of your shared fluids.

Both of you needed a long moment to recover from what just transpired, slowly coming down from your respective highs. He hugged your head close to his chest, allowing you to listen to his frantic heartbeat. After a while, he whispered, still stuttering slightly, the grumbles of his voice echoing from his chest into your cheek, “so… are…are we going for… ngh, for round two or…?”

You let out an exasperated laugh, still catching your breath. “Sure, but not here.” To which he huffed, “what are you waiting for then? Let’s go home.”