Being A Child Is Not A Sin

older-bf!nanami who loves the way you whine and beg. he’ll hold your hips down so you can’t chase your own pleasure, looking at you with that calm face while you tremble and plead. “shh… be good for me,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead even as he denies you again. “i’ll let you cum when i think you’ve earned it.”

older-bf!nanami who has gotten noticeably more veiny with age. his hands, forearms, and especially his cock are heavily veined. when he’s fully hard, the thick veins running along his length are so visible, and you can feel every single one dragging against your walls when he slowly pushes inside you.

older-bf!nanami whose dick is thick, heavy, and slightly curved upward. even when he’s soft, it’s impressive. when he’s hard, it’s almost intimidating—fat head, those veins, and always leaking for you. he loves how you struggle to take all of him, enjoying the way your pussy stretches around his girth.

older-bf!nanami who is constantly teased by satoru about your age gap. gojo never misses an opportunity to poke at him. but nanami has grown completely used to the teasing. he doesn’t get visibly annoyed anymore. instead, he just sighs, adjusts his glasses, and replies something like, “at least my girlfriend doesn’t run away when i speak, gojo.”

older-bf!nanami who tolerates the jokes but draws the line when they go too far. if anyone ever implies you’re “just a phase” or “with him for the money,” nanami’s expression turns icy cold in an instant that makes everyone shut up immediately.

older-bf!nanami who sometimes gets mistaken for your father in public. waiters, store clerks, or strangers often say things like “it’s so nice to see a daughter spending time with her dad” or “your daughter is beautiful, sir.” he stays perfectly polite on the outside, offering only a small smile, but you can feel the way his hand tightens on your waist.

older-bf!nanami who acts unfazed in the moment, simply correcting them calmly with “she’s my girlfriend, actually.” but the moment you’re alone, especially in the car or back home, he feels stupidly lucky, almost greedy, that someone as young and beautiful as you is his. and it always leaves him with a sudden urge to claim you right away.

older-bf!nanami who often ends up fucking you in the car shortly after. the second you’re both inside, doors barely closed, he’s already pulling you into his lap or pushing your seat back. his hands are impatient as he tugs your clothes aside, breathing rough against your neck while he pushes inside.

older-bf!nanami who gets especially talkative during these quick, needy car fucks. between deep thrusts he’ll whisper things like “let them think i’m too old for you… as long as you keep moaning for this old man’s cock.” he loves making you cum fast and hard, one hand covering your mouth so people walking by won’t hear you.

older-bf!nanami who, after cumming deep inside you, stays buried in you for a while, gently stroking your hair and kissing your temple. he’ll softly say, “i don’t care what anyone thinks… you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

older-bf!nanami who has started getting a few silver strands in his hair. you sometimes find them when you’re playing with his hair, especially at his temples. he used to be a little self-conscious about it, but now whenever you touch the grey hairs he smiles.

older-bf!nanami who especially loves when you kiss the grey hairs at his temple or run your fingers through them while he’s inside you. it makes something possessive and soft twist in his chest at the same time. he’ll press you deeper into the mattress and whisper, “these grey hairs are because of years of waiting for someone like you.”

older-bf!nanami who secretly worries that he’s too old for you. sometimes when he sees you laughing with people your age, a fear settles in his chest. he never says it directly, but he makes up for it by being even more attentive—spoiling you more, fucking you harder, reminding you with every touch that no one else could ever take care of you the way he does.

Kento looked at the man side-long, thin eyes narrowing as he fought the urge to flick the pencil from under his nose and leave him without a writing utencil - after all, Satoru had forgotten to bring his pencil case, mentioning as such as heaving a comical sigh when he complained he could imagine exactly where it was on his desk back at his studio apartment. 

He shook his head, though, deciding that doing such a thing would only draw attention to himself and he wanted to focus. 

Another piece of information was offered and Kento diligently wrote it down in his notebook, eyes settled on his page and ignoring the shifting body next to him. Trust me, he really tried, but after a moment of seeing Satoru's face slowly encroach in his peripherals, eyes wide and idiotically playful, Kento ceased his writing and stared headlong into the wall of the lecture hall. They focused on the small fire alarm button, red and angry in colour. 

"Psst." 

Ignore him. Focus on the lecturer. 

"Hey." 

Don't let him distract you. 

"Helloooooooo~" 

"What?" 

Kento turned to look at the taller man fully, frowning at him as he waited for whatever excuse he was going to use as to why he felt the need to be a bother. Satoru offered a lazy smile, sunglasses dipped low on the bridge of his nose as he regarded the blond with bright eyes. His tone was quiet, "are you going to bring your girl out tonight?" 

A sigh passed his lips, because Kento didn't really have an answer. If he was honest, he was certain he could find better things to do with his time than go to the local student social night and get drunk, but he knew there was always the need to let your hair down, if you will. There was the faintest shrug of his shoulder, as Satoru nudged him, and Kento offered, "I'll ask her." 

"Sweet, it's been ages since she last came out with everyone. Shoko is worried about her. Says she's real quiet." Satoru began and the two let their gazes fall to the lecturer in front. Unfortunately at this time, the lecturer gave out a terrible sneeze, which shook his entire moustache, and the wiggling motion seemed to tickle something in Satoru. There was a stilled smile on his face, the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he remained unblinkingly resistant to the laugh in his chest. 

Kento kneed him under the desk, very firmly chiding, "don't you dare." 

A nod from the other was followed by him leaning back in the bench and forcing his gaze upwards. From that position, Satoru took a second to gather himself before he continued to talk, "you think she's alright? Last time I saw her she seemed to blank me." 

"She's been tired." Kento replied, shortly, eyes flicking to the clock. 

Tictictick… tock. 

"Huh, makes sense. Anyway, bring her out tonight, she could do with having some fun," Satoru stated, "in the wise words of Jack, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." 

"My girlfriend is not dull," Kento defended. 

A hand rested on his shoulder as Satoru quickly entered his personal space, wide eyed and looking a little put out, "what? No- pfft, not what I meant." 

"Hmm." 

"Seriously, though, get her out of that flat. Shoko is planning on kicking down the door if one more message gets left on read." 

She's not been replying to people? 

He knew she could get entranced with her studies, but she usually always took time to respond to her friends. The pen in his hand started to tap against the page of his notebook, measured, contemplative. 

"Shoko will pay for the door if she does that." Was all Kento said about it, though he had banked the conversation for later scrutiny. 

Outside the lecture hall led to an open plan space, where the floors were that velcro-like carpet in a faded blue hue, the walls white and bare but spottled with years of bluetack keeping up posters and against every other corner were small water fountains. Between the back entrance and the reception, enclosed booths allowed for waiting students to gather and work in their study groups, hushed talk over echoing footsteps creating that usual university hum that Kento had gotten used to. It was at one of these water fountains that he stood, hands in his pockets as he looked outward towards the booths; Satoru was hunched over next to him, trying his best to fill the tiny plastic cup but looking like an adult using a child's toy with how tall he was. 

He looked ridiculous. 

"You should grow smaller," came a feminine voice, followed by a good-natured scoff, and the two young men looked over to their right. Shoko stood with a couple books in her arms, all medical journals, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the seminar room she'd just escaped from. Another comment, this time a little more rough, "wish they'd get the aircon sorted in this place." 

"You know they won't," another voice, smooth, charming, and another male appeared in the mix. Suguru offered a lazy wave, eyebrow raised at the awkward 90 degree angle Satoru was still bent at, "your water is spilling." 

"Shit-" Satoru looked down, realising that, indeed, his water was spilling. Everywhere. Fuck it was on the floor. Oh well, no one will notice the puddle, right? 

"He's making a lake," Shoko added, "he was too busy staring at you, why don't you leave so he can function." 

"Nah, it's more amusing this way." Suguru shrugged, before he turned his attention to Kento, "where's your better half?" 

Kento frowned, pulling his phone from his pocket to check whether she had seen his message. 

The read reciept was double ticked, but she'd yet to respond. 

"Ignoring you, too?" Shoko huffed, though her eyes were warmed with worry. 

He didn't reply or he didn't hear her comment, as he was typing. 

"He's gonna try and get her to come out," Satoru stated, bright, cheery, as he began to sip from his little plastic cup. In bent in his grip, sending another dribble of water down his hand and to his sleeve. He thinned his lips as the feel of wet cloth against his pulse made him regret bothering to quench his thirst. 

"Really?" Shoko also brightened up at this, "it's been too long. I need a fellow girl to tag along with on our night's out. No offense to you guys, but you're just not her. I need my dance partner back." 

"His dance partner, Shoko, don't be stealing his lady, now," Satoru teased, bumping shoulders with Kento, who shot him a half-hearted glare. 

"I said I'll try," Kento offered, "no promises." 

"Well, if she comes, it saves me commiting a crime." Shoko laughed, "I really am worried about her. She's… been distant lately. I get that we're in the last semester, but she's not normally this absent." 

"Yeeeah, she's probably underneath a pile of books or something, or lost in the library," another chuckle from the tallest male, "should we be sending a search team?" 

A ding from Kento's phone had them all go quiet. 

"I'll see you later," Kento offered, turning away and leaving them behind, phone still in hand. 

"Drag her out if you have to! Just call me, I'll get cuffs-" Shoko yelled. 

"I don't even want to know why you have cuffs or where they've been…" Satoru. 

A slap sounded and a quick 'ah, sorry sorry joke, joke-' as Shoko hissed, "shut up, pervert." 

The library was a quiet reprieve. It smelled of old books, vending machine coffee and the occasional waft of disinfectant when the cleaners eased through the multiple floors. While each floor's perimeter was lined with computers, the main body was methodically sectioned with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that practically heaved with masses upon masses of academic books. The overhead lights were dimmed and sunlight beamed through the windows. In the air, there were ambient particles that swirled with the movements of the studious bodies that weaved between the cases. 

Spotted in between certain bookshelves were pockets of isolated desks and comfortable office chairs, spaces where students could become nestled and hide while working. It was in one of these nooks that a figure sat, laptop and multiple opened books splayed out before her while her hands danced frantically across the keyboard. She had chosen the furthest corner, far away from any wandering eyes or chatty minds so that she could completely drown in the deepest depths of study. There was the slightest of trembles to her hands, only noticeable when they paused over the keys and the aesthetic clacks silenced. Their wavering would be urged away by occasional clenching and released of her fists, before they'd set to work typing again. 

Between the clacks of keys and clicks of the mousepad, there was the soft hum of pages being turned over and the scribbling of a pen to paper, though the handwriting was fatigued and messing, barely legible. 

After a brief moment of silence, where her hands remained stagnant in the air, a deep sigh filled the space around her with the dip of her head. Placing her head in her hands, she pressed against her features firmly, the heel of her palms resting in the sockets of her eyes until stars exploded across her vision. 

I just can't figure out this sentence. She thought, as she felt her face grow hot, there was an itch at her fingertips before she jostled herself upright and stared at the screen once more. She attempted to type again, but sluggish movements caused her to catch on multiple keys and splurge nonsense across the documents page. 

What is wrong with me? I just can't seem to focus. 

There was no way around it, no way to argue against fact, where the proof was the lack of words for the dissertation she had once been ecstatic to write. The ferverent interest had slowly dwindled into a small pit of smouldering ashes, the heat barely there as a wind of fatigue and helplessness worked to cease it's warmth. If she was to be honest, the apathy that seeped into her mind numbed the irritation, though anxiety worked hard to remind her that she was slowly running out of time to get things completed. 

How long have I been here? She wondered, did I reply to Kento? 

Unable to bring herself to look at the screen again, she moved to pull her phone from her rucksack, which was placed on the chair beside her. She rummaged through and found it, a light buzz in her hand as another message came through. When she unlocked the screen she was surprised to see the time. 

Text: From Kento♥️♥️, 10:45am. 

Heading to the lecture. Meet after?

No… I didn't reply. I forgot to. 

Text: From Kento♥️♥️, 13:10pm. 

Lecture is finished. Are you at the library? 

As she read over the messages, she blinked heavily, a sudden soreness ebbing over the surface of her eyes as though grit had pooled in her waterline. 

I've been here for four hours and I haven't even gotten through the first page of this draft. It was hard not to chide herself, brows furrowing as the lack of progression left her feeling bitter. A puff of air shot through her nose, the sigh soft but with an anxiety nipping at its heels. The dissertation was due within the next week and the final draft had been nothing but an uphill battle. Normally, she could whizz through essays, writing and redrafting with ease as her analytical mind worked brilliantly and efficiently; her ability was effortless. She loved to dive deep, dig around and study the bare bones of a topic and then lay it all bare in an intelligently worded discussion. 

Normally being the key word. 

She was supposed to be good at this, at being a student, an intellectual, but lately she seemed to be slipping up. It hurt, in a way, made her feel useless, inadequate, as it was her ability, her prowess in her academic studies that had her under the pleased scrutiny of her lecturers. Of course, being in the line of sight of the established professionals brought a sense of pride, of reassurance that she would do well, but she'd started to feel hot under the collar. 

On the one hand, it was nice to have your lecturers be so involved, so excited, their interest and encouragement palpable. They saw in you a potential they wanted to nurture and they had done over the three years of you attending university. But now you were in your last year, in that final stretch, seemingly at your limit? In the other hand was a feeling of dread. 

I'm going to fail, aren't I? Everything I've worked hard for, all the high grades in the last two years, in last semester, it's all going to be for nothing. I can't write for shit. I can't do this dissertation. I haven't even started studying for the finals- 

I'm going to fail. 

I'm not good enough. 

Why can't you be good enou-

Another buzz. 

Text: From Kento♥️♥️, 13:15pm. 

Sweetheart, is everything alright?

Oh, yeah, she was replying to her boyfriend. 

She began typing away. Pressed backspace. Typed away. Backspaced. Typed. Back. 

You can't even word a simple reply to Kento, what the fuck. 

A groan filled her throat and her body slumped against the wall at her side, head thudding lightly against the painted breezeblocks. Eyes slipped closed, stinging, then opened to refocus on the task at hand. 

Text: To Kento♥️♥️, 13:17pm. 

Yeah, I'm at the library. 4th floor, back corner by the fire escape. 

A second passed and she closed her laptop and pushed it away. Her body was heavy, tired, achy, and there was a small pit in her stomach that flipped and screamed nauseatingly. Flattening herself against the table's surface, her arms crossed underneath her head before she let herself rest. It wasn't true rest, just the hollow feeling of her eyes closed and the acute awareness of uncoordinated sounds around her, ears vibrating weirdly as her mind struggled to place directions. 

Maybe the lack of sleep is catching up with me… 

Spoiler: it was. 

Her phone was still in her hand and when it buzzed against her palm, her eyes sluggishly opened to peer at the message pop-up. The preview made her inwardly groan. 

Text: From Kento♥️♥️, 13:20pm.

Have you eaten today?

Why did he have to be so… intuitive about her. 

It was… 

A warmth swelled in her throat, nose tingling slightly, before she forced herself to become steel. The only inclination that she had become emotional was the small patch of wetness at the corner of her eyes where tears had filled her waterline and she blinked them away. 

The truth was that he knew her well, inside and out, and had done for two and a half years now. It wouldn't surprise her that he could have sensed something wrong, that he was silently observing how she was barely holding herself together. But he never made a show of it, of his care, not in the sense that he wanted her to know about it. It was just there, solid, offered because it was natural. He didn't need or want theatrics and he had once told her as such. 

Her screen went black and she found herself unable to find the motivation to reply. Instead, she just sat there, head on her arms, feeling something but unable to describe it. It was somewhere in that space between feeling irritable, trapped and guilt, hollow and heavy. 

Using his Student ID, Kento pushed through the rotating barrier and moved towards the starewell. His palmed pushed against the handle and as he passed through he came across a familiar face. The tall, thinning man politely moved aside to allow Kento through and they nodded respectfully at each other. 

"Ichiji." 

"Kento." 

They hovered momentarily, before Ichiji nervously adjusted the tie at his throat, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he spoke, "I've not seen you in a while. How are things?" 

"Good. Yourself?" 

Ichiji nodded, then pointed upwards, "I was wondering, is everything alright with-" 

"Yeah," Kento offered a small nod, reassuring, but not willing to give too much out, "she's alright." 

"Right, it's just," Ichiji scratched the back of his neck before offering a sheepish smile, "I think she was asleep on her desk. I didn't want to disturb her." 

As those words reached him, Kento began to walk up the stairs, steps echoing in the stairwell. His gaze moved upwards, brows furrowing slightly, before he decided on a reply, "hm, thanks. I'm sure she's okay." 

"Oh, yeah, sure!" Ichiji nodded again, ever polite, then waved Kento off, "see you both around, then." 

Ichiji only got a hum in response. 

Entering the fourth floor was like entering a restricted area of library - there was hardly anyone there and if there was, they were huddled away in corners silently working. It seemed most students had filtered out to head towards their afternoon lectures or seminars. Kento followed down the main open corridor created by the ends of bookshelves, only veering left when he reach the second to last case that narrowly opened up towards the fire exit. Beside that door, slumped on the desk was his girlfriend. 

There was a single slither of sunlight that broke through the blinded windows nearby and that beam was gently illuminating her features. Her brows were pinched together, lips parted and squished against her forearm as soft breaths passed through them. Her hair was askew and despite how soundly asleep she was, he was certain she'd regret the uncomfortable position. He couldn't bring himself to wake her, though, not yet, simply watching from where he stood between the bookshelves; his hands were in his pockets, head tilted at an observant angle and the slightest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

It was a smile that was only ever reserved for her. 

As he stepped closer, he noticed how there was a slight discolouration under her eyes and he inwardly made note to ask about her sleeping habits. A frown flickered his brows, only briefly, before he forced himself to relax and had she been awake, she would have called him out for the fleeting look.

For now, though, he tentatively reached a hand out. He used the tips of his fingers to trace along her jawline, featherlight, until they rested at her temple and gave a light tap. The flicker of her eyelids proved that she was stirring and as she began to flutter them open, Kento had already moved her bag to the floor. He filled the seat next to her, knee bumping against hers accidentally, as his satchel bag slipped from his shoulder. A soft groan sounded, body stiff and aching as she unfurled - stretching did little to disparage the ache, but she supposed that was her fault for drifting asleep on a desk. 

"Kento? What time is it?" Her voice was heavy, slurred, and her hands rubbed at her tired eyes until they finally began to find focus. Her pupils were large, cheeks flushed with a single red stripe from where her sleeve had left an indent. Kento checked his watch, then answered, "twenty-to." 

"Oh…" 

She ducked her head down, fingers kneading at the knot between her brows as a headache started to cling at her temples. When she spoke next, her voice was laced with a slowness only ever present when she was running on empty, "sorry I didn't reply." 

He was quiet for a moment, simply regarding her, how she held herself. Then, he tenderly took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head to the side to expose the red indent, "to say you only napped, it was a deep sleep." 

A hand moved to soothe against her cheek, his palm warm and rough in comparison to hers. It was a much needed sensation, though, and she melted into his touch with closed eyes, her body moving so that she could face him properly. One hand moved to cover his, while the other gently clutched at his wrist, her face turning inward to press a kiss to his palm. 

"And yet, I am still so very tired." She offered, a sleepy smile forming on her face. 

Lightly, his thumb ran a small path on her cheek back and forth, as the hand that held her chin dropped to her knees that were now set between his legs. He patted lightly, then murmured, "you've not been sleeping have you." 

A shake of her head confirmed it. 

A sigh filled his chest, quiet, and he leant forward to press a kiss to her forehead. It was featherlight, fleeting, just enough to reassure her that he was there, to listen, to help, whatever she needed. 

As she was about to speak, the buzzing of her phone signalled multiple incoming messages. The two of them turned to stare at the upturned screen. 

"Does he ever think to type everything into one message?" She grumbled, releasing Kento's hand to pluck her phone from the table. When it unlocked, she opened up the messages app to Satoru's thread. 

Kento was already rolling his eyes at the formatting. 

Text: From Shades🕶️, 13:55pm.

yo is the love of your life with u 👀  yo bro if u leave me on read i will cry 😢  u want me to cry don't u did he ask u yet 👞  oops  didn't mean to send that

"That man is a menace." She commented. 

"Tell him you want proof he cried." Kento said, deadpan, though she could see the teasing lilt in his eyes. She batted his arm lightly, then muttered, "no, that's mean." 

"He's annoying." 

"He's excitable," she laughed, though it quickly died down. 

Her thumbs hovered over the the letters. 

In turn, Kento decided to watch you and he had loved you long enough now that he could read your weariness like an open book. 

That usual light in her eyes was dimmer, coloured blue with the consequences of sleepless nights; the edges of her words weren't as sharp. She didn't smile as much, either, and her brows were knitted so closely together that he was certain your frown was becoming a permanent feature. 

Another buzz. 

The phone in her hand slipped slightly, as your fingers twitched from aching. Mindlessly, she counted for it, subsconsciously readjusting her grip before she could lose the phone altogether. 

He noticed. 

The rolling of her shoulders, stiff and tense, swallowing past the pain as she felt muscle click over knots and her foot had been tapping anxiously against the floor from the moment she woke up. 

He noticed. 

Of course he did. 

Running a hand through his hair, his fingers tapped at his freshly shaved undercut, lips pursed as he continued to silently observe. The taps were his unnoticed ire, his manifestation of his dislike for seeing her pushed to her physical limit - sure, she had high expectations for herself, worked hard and her determination to succeed was admirable, but he couldn't agree with the sacrifices she clearly been making on her own. 

Eventually, she had typed a response. 

Text: To Shades🕶️, 14:04pm

I'm changing your name in my contacts to 👞  also kento says pics or it didn't happen  better hope your cry like a model or he'll use it as blackmail

Almost immediately another drift of messages came through. 

Text: From 👞 , 14:04pm. 

boo hes mean  n i do cry like a model thx 💅  if i check ur phone n my contact is just the 👞 emoji  i'm throwin it into the sun 💪 

Another message. 

Text: From Shoko🥼, 14:05pm.

Hey, heads up. The rest of us are heading out later tonight and we want you to come along. Kento was supposed to ask but I'm also asking. It would be nice to see you. Get dressed up, let's have some fun. It's overdue Please tell me you changed his name to the shoe emoji. 

"So," she began, offering a small smile, "going out, huh?" 

Kento nodded, "I was going to ask." 

"I've just kept saying no… or forgetting to reply," her tone was edged with guilt, as she reacted to Shoko's message with a heart. Then, a large hand covered her screen and guided her hands down to her lap. When her gaze met his, unwavering, solid, reassuring, she felt a sudden weight lift off her. She added, "they really want me to come?" 

She let out a breath, tight, hard, then bumped her knees against his, as a slither of anxiety coiled around her confidence and choked out it's belief - were they sure they wanted her around? 

His voice filled the short space between them, soft, "they wouldn't have asked if they didn't. You don't have to if you don't feel up for it." 

"That's the thing," she began, "I do want to. I just…."

A thick swallow throbbed in her throat and she quickly offered an apology for struggling to find the right words, but it was immediately shut down. Kento shook his head, a flash of firmness to his tone, "sweetheart, don't do that. You don't need to." 

Taking a deep, measured breath, she adjusted her position in her seat, her eyes setting on the undone buttons of his shirt. She grounded herself to that spot, calming, the shift of his clothes as they followed the rise and fall of Kento's own relaxed breathing helped to keep steady. Only after did she find the right words to say, "I'm tired. All the time. I want to do things, but I can't. I've been slipping up, doing less work, forgetting to reply to messages. I want to do well, expected to do well but I can't even redraft this stupid dissertation."

She shoved at the books on the desk, as her eyes welled up, "it's just stringing 26 letters together in different ways, it shouldn't even be that hard. Then there's the fact I can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't do shit, apparently."

She let out a frustrated huff, pushing her features into her hands, adding, "and I want to go out with you, with our friendsand just have fun. But what if half way through I'm done? I can't just leave part way through dancing at the club to go home like I'm… I'm old." 

True to his nature towards her, he sat and listened, took in every word, swallowed every emotion and he processed it, banked it, and decided that it didn't matter what anyone else thought about what you did or why. He stated as such, offering that reasurance that she could do whatever she wanted, when she wanted, and if anyone had a problem he'd politely take them aside and tell them, just as politely, where they could shove their opinion. 

It was all about balance. Work, rest, recover. 

"How long have you felt like this?" He asked eventually, voice hushed, tender, as his hands rubbed her thighs soothingly. 

"Few weeks…" 

"And you've not taken a break yet?" he started to rise out of his seat and the shift had her peering up at him through her fingers. There was the soft pressure against her crown as he rested his hand there, lightly scratching twice as a non-verbal urge for her to stand with him. She did, if a little wobbly, but his arm was there as support the second he saw her unsteadiness. 

"Let's get home," he finally said, as he packed up her things and collected their bags; she'd gone to take hers from him, but he rufused, decidedly carrying both over one shoulder.

"Don't you want to go out with them tonight?" She asked, after a moment of standing in a daze. Kento shrugged, holding out his hand for her to take, interlocking their fingers once her palm was against his. With a reassuring squeeze, he said, "I do if you do. I'm not swayed one way or another." 

"It might be nice, though…"

Kento smiled, though she didn't catch it; yeah, it would be nice, but he wouldn't push her. If she wanted to get dressed up, go out, have fun, he'd be there with her, but if she wanted to relax on the sofa in her pyjamas watching poorly acted drama series, then he'd do that with her too. 

Just as long as she was ok, that was the current priority. 

The heavy bass vibrated the floor in waves, the suface of the black laminate sticky from spilt drinks and covered in abandoned straws and lost coins, all sorts of things that would probably be missed from club-goers pockets. The room was thick with sweat, with heat, as the cramped dancefloor buzzed with movement and voices that sang along with the next biggest hit that was on the playlist. 

At the edges of the room where the masses faded out, leaving room to breathe, she stood with her back against the wall and a plastic cup in her hand, straw swirling as she swilled the mixed soda and alcohol. As her head cocked to the side, her eyes were hazed with mirth as her attention was on her three friends. For the most part, she had remained on the outskirts, smiling at her friends as they tried their best to get her to join them, a bashful refusal accompanied by the wave of her hand apologetically. 

From where she stood, there was a small gap of people that opened up a path to the three, their antics fully in view. Satoru was throwing out some shapes, awkward and lanky, but entirely fuelled by the drinks he'd consumed and a wide, ecstatic smile on his face. Shoko was pushing him away with a silly grin on her face, as Suguru danced with a little more grace. Satoru's round sunglasses were on the tip of his nose and he bent down to whisper something into Shoko's ear. Then their eyes settled on her from across that space, locking with hers as devilish, plotting grins filled their faces. Suguru was the only one who looked like he wasn't part of it, but she knew better than to underestimate him. 

Satoru waved her over, shouting her name, then Shoko did the same. Suguru shook his head, amused. 

"Do you want to join them?" 

Her head moved to the side, eyes wide as Kento leant further in, his body blocking her from the others. With a drink in one hand, his other nestled at her nape, the space between their bodies less and less as he strained to hear her over the music. 

"What?" she laughed, loud, hoping she could be heard over the pumping pulse of screeching electro. Kento bowed his head so it was by her ear, nose brushing the shell of it as his voice suddenly became the one thing she could hear. 

"Do you want to join them?" 

A beat. 

She turned into him, eyes presently gracing his lips as their noses bumped, and an open-mouth smile warmed her face. Cheeks were hazed pink, enjoying the closeness, the smell of him, how his heated touches sent electric across her skin. When she spoke, her sparkling eyes finally met his, as strobe lights started to flash and switch between multiple colours, "only if you will. I'm not dancing on my own." 

He cast his gaze over his shoulder, a strand of his slicked hair falling over his forehead, and you absentmindedly brushed it back into place with your fingertips. He sighed, then saw how Satoru was making kissy faces at him, arms wrapped around himself before Shoko slapped his shoulder. Only when he felt her presence shift, her hand tracing lazily from his shoulder, down his arm and to his hand, fingers curling into his, did he let his attention fall back on her. 

"Dance with me, Kento?" 

"Only because you asked." But the words were swallowed by the music. The two of them moved into the crowd, into the heat of the party, and let the music take them. 

The night was cool, streets dark and occasionally illuminated by flickering streelights. There was one set of footsteps. They echoed, as a delightfully drunk voice sung the wrong words to a song she'd heard at a club. They were slurred and jolly, interrupted by giggles as she forgot the next set of words, replacing them with something incredibly silly. 

In the arms of Kento, held tightly against his chest was the woman who had been struggling, the world heavy on her shoulders as expectations fuelled an oncoming fatigue. But then, in that moment, he'd gotten a slither of light, of fun, and he was happy she'd let loose and found some enjoyment. Her arms were around his neck, and her legs kicked gently, giddy. Her heels were in his hands and part of the reason he was now carrying her back home. 

"Kentooooooo~" 

"Yes, love?" 

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?" 

"…" 

"If I was-" hiccup "-a worm?" 

He felt her forehead against his shoulder and then her light giggle filled his ears. 

"Or maybe… not a worm. Worms are yucky. I wouldn't be able to kiss you as a worm." 

"I'd take care of you. Give you worm food." He finally said, tone edged with a dry humour. 

"Eeeeeeewwwww, Kento likes worms!" She laughed, flinging an arm in a wide motion which almost made him lose grip. 

He adjusted quickly, then tutted, "any other burning questions?" 

A beat. 

"Yeah. When we get in, can we cuddle?" 

A soft puff of air through his nose, an amused scoff, filled with nothing but adoration, "I can't say no to you." 

"Wheeee~" She squealed with glee, nuzzling into him, pressing kisses to his cheek, "love you." 

As she said this, they arrived at their front door, and Kento only placed her down once he kicked the door open. When it closed behind them, her arms were around his neck again and she was placing a small, chaste kiss to his lips. 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, gentle, tender, and he murmured, "I love you, too." 

Lips were against hers again, reverent, adoring, and the kiss was sweet with the love he held for her. It didn't seek passion or lust, it didn't require fervour or escalation. It simply was, a marker, a reassurance and a physical evidence. 

"Come on, let's get you sorted," he whispered, leading her to their shared room where he intended to help her get into pyjamas. Where he intended to take care of her, however she needed it. 

Inside the room, a singular lonely soul remained seated in the centre, waiting patiently as her hands braced against the firm tatami mats. She focused on the sensation, as she breathed slow and calm. Behind her, the moonlight glowed the pale paper of the shoji doors, casting a faint hue of silver over her figure. Immediately to her right, where her elbow brushed against it, was a plain cedar table, and atop it was a teaset with gradually waning heat. 

In front of her were fusuma doors, intricately painted with the story of a beautiful woman and her lover, with picturesque canopies of trees and nature surrounding them. They had not been opened in some time, she noted, and nor could she hear the oncoming footsteps of Okaasan or other Geisha's. It seemed, yet again, she was to have a night entirely in her own company. 

The Geisha couldn't help but wonder when they would grow tired of her. When would they find that keeping her there was more hassle than it was worth? After all, she had done nothing to earn her spot there for a long while, most patrons seemingly growing unnerved and seeking other company once they entered her room. 

A melodic hum filled her chest, as she quietly recited the tune of an old lullaby, the tones gentle and serene. If only they would listen to her voice, they might find her enticing, entertaining, and she would find herself with no need to worry over the safety of her position at the teahouse. Her mind stuttered, pausing as the last part of the lullaby's tune suddenly evaded her memory, and the room once again fell silent. 

Taking a deep breath, she tentatively shifted her position to seek a comfort that she had lost to the amount of time seated in one position; she winced at the tingling in her feet, wiggling her toes to urge the sensation to return quickly, before she settled back into a different seated position. This time, she leant against the table, arms crossed over themselves as she languidly stretched over its surface. She was careful not to knock the tea set, the skin of her scalp sensing its closeness once she rested her head into the crook of her elbow. 

A sigh passed her lips, eyes closing as she returned to humming another tune. 

In this time, the moonlit sliding doors behind her was swallowed by a shadow, the figure imposing and eerily still. Their silent arrival went unnoticed and the hand of the shadow moved to grasp the edge of the door. With ease and composed quiet, the figure opened the sliding door. 

It was at this gesture that her head perked up, turning slightly in the direction of the sound, the hum in her throat dying out. 

"Hello?" She called out, remaining still, calm. A moment of silence and then she was sighing, ever so gently. Her tone was quiet, timidly ethereal, as her giggle sounds like the tinkling of glass bells, "if that's you, Sachiko, you know you shouldn't be here. Okaasan will be very upset with you for sneaking around at night." 

Met with silence again, the woman heaved a sigh, but didn't move. Instead, she resettled, her head falling into the crook of her elbow as she pitifully murmured, "it can't be Sachiko…" 

A beat. 

Red eyes remained steadfast on the small frame of the young woman, narrowed and contemplative. They glowed against the shadows on his features, a unreadable emotion dancing within the crimson hues. 

Was it curiosity? 

Or a disbelief laced with the markings of resentment? 

One could be sure of one thing, only that they glowed and they were on her, in such a way that implied nothing would be enough to entice them off her. The figure's features were stoic, cold, and upon stepping further into the room, his presence filling the space to the brim, he found himself unable to enjoy the lack of reaction. There was the lightest twitch to his eye, as annoyance flickered through his gaze. 

Tilting his head, he regarded the woman for a moment longer, hands hanging at his side and limber, ready for when he decided to devour her. 

Then, she spoke again.

"You're still here?" 

Quiet. 

He narrowed his eyes, unsure of why he wasn't ending her miserable life within seconds and consuming ever last bit of her. He couldn't place the reasoning for his hesitation, nor why the trill of her voice chipped at the ice in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he decided to respond, voice tempered and deep, "I am." 

A soft hum of recognition resounded in her chest, head rising as she suddenly became rigid. There was the taste of anxiety in the air and the figure finally thought he was receiving the attention his presence usually wrought. Instead, he found himself stilling in the waters of contemplation once again, as he watched deft hands reach and feel for the tea set. 

With attentive decision, he urged himself further into the room, though kept himself distant from the woman. A small purse of his lips, somewhat in mild disgust towards his own confusion, came about his face as he watched the woman's fingers tap away at the surface of the table. Eventually, her fingertips brushed against the side of a cup, and she picked it up. 

Her voice reached him again, his eyes darting to the side of her face, searching her figure, "please accept my apology, I didn't think my company was requested tonight. Though, I don't understand why they sent you through the gardens. It's quicker through the teahouse." 

There it was, the anxiety he thought would have been over him was simply over her own failed etiquette. He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, his curiosity becoming something warmer, less irritable. 

"If I may," she continued to speak, as she began to search for the teapot, "I would like to invite you to sit, I'll pour you a drink of tea and we can get to know each other." 

There was shuffling behind her and she tried to put on a unwavering smile, hoping that, this time, someone decided to stay and keep her company. 

Just once, she would like that. 

"No," came the short response. There was a dejected sensation filling her gut, as her grip on the teapot wavered. She placed it down, as gently as she could, though she still caused a little haphazard thud against the table's surface.

"Could I ask your name?" She added, once she realised silence was threatening to hang in the air again. Movement could still be heard behind her, as the figure moved into the small alcove that she was granted; there wasn't much there, only simple paintings, dusted over instruments and a singular, broken hairpin.

It was dismal, he thought, pathetic even. This woman was supposed to be one of the most beautiful Geisha recorded at that teahouse and yet it seemed she was shoved away into the darkest corner and forgotten about. He would liken her to nothing but a discarded doll, one that had lost the love of its owner and tossed aside for greater things. If he were able, he was sure he would find a slither of himself pitying her; whether it was genuine, he wouldn't be able to say. 

When she asked, though, he brought his attention back from her lack of personal belongings, ruby eyes settled on her form once again, in that stilled, predatory way. He pondered, if only for a moment, whether offering his name to a human with only moments left to live was even worth the breath he would use. Then, when he found himself stepping closer, hand reaching for the long, silken locks of hair, his voice betrayed him. 

"Muzan." 

He quickly regained himself, hand freezing mere centimetres from running his fingers through her hair, and snapped upright. He grimaced at himself, detesting the allure that keenly soaked into his senses. 

Muzan's lips parted in a silent gasp when a thoughtfully delighted hum filled her chest, that same, featherlight laugh chipping at more of the ice within him. He gritted his teeth, fangs crunching slightly at the strength, before he forced himself to relax his jaw. 

"That is a strong name," came her response, "I wonder if a strong man bears it." 

Much to Muzan's surprise, the small woman tentatively rose to her feet, as her hands wiped out any creases from her nemaki. Even at her full height, his engulfed her, crowding her like a wolf about to savage a rabbit. But he hung back, remained still, simply watching. 

Always just watching her. 

"Can I see you?" 

What? 

He frowned, about to speak, but the words were snatched from the tip of his poison tongue; the woman turned and when he assumed her eyes would lock on his form, they didn't. Even in the dim light of the room, there was no escaping how her the colour of her eyes was frosted over with a cloudiness, the echo of sight long-gone as her eyes continually searched. Searching, searching, but unable to settle on anything, met with nothing, not even dark. The ever-present flicker of movement was joined with the slight inability to level her gaze exactly where he was, just venturing off to his left. 

He noted, though, that she was beautiful. 

"Are you…" 

"I'm still here." He offered, quietly. 

"Then, may I?" Her question was accompanied by the raising of her hands, her palms angled upwards to the ceiling and reaching out in the direction she had heard him speak from. 

There was a slither of amusement in his voice when he next spoke, the smallest of upturns to his lips as agreed. The hum of his voice guided her, small steps taken to ensure she didn't trip, though Muzan made no move to shorten the gap between them. He wanted to watch her seek him out. 

Eventually, he found his skin aflame with anticipation when the heat of her right palm radiated through the fabric on his chest. She pressed the palm flat, left hand hovering slightly as she tilted her head in thought, it seemed. Muzan could practically see her mind working, how she mulled over the feeling of him beneath her skin. As her hand glided over his chest, fingertips danced over the small area of exposed skin in the dip of his fastened robes, tracing to the inner edge of his collar bone and up. 

Instinctively, his eyes closed, savouring the warmth of her touches as the path ventured over his throat, hesitating at his jawline. When her movements stopped, his eyes opened and levelled her with a halfhearted glare, only to realise she was bringing her left hand to mirror the opposite side. Her palms cupped his cheeks, thumbs gently caressing under his eyes before they moved upwards. Her tender touches, featherlight, dancing over his brow, his eyes, cascaded until she had mapped out what she thought his face looked like. 

Eventually, her left hand dropped down to her side, but her right remained, finger tips of her forefinger and middle finger gracing the soft skin of his lips. 

Muzan's eyes were half-lidded, hazed, drunk almost, and unwaveringly glued to her. 

"I don't believe I have before me a man," she whispered, brows furrowing. 

Muzan grew rigid, a cool anger beginning to colour his features as his hands grew tense. The muscle in his jaw twitched, eyes widening as his entire regard of the woman teetered on the edge of dangerous. But she leant up, fingertips brushing to the corner of his mouth, and he fought against his instincts to grant him one more second to simply watch. 

Her furrowed look melted into one of reverence, as though she were suddenly someone at the centre of a shrine and beckoned by a deity. Sightless gaze flickered, lips quivering as a pious feeling came about her, the feeling etching deep into her bones as her heart fluttered. 

"Perfection," she was almost breathless, as her hand retreated from his form, features laced with the unbidden horror that she had sullied the image of someone beyond her. Her voice shook, the fragility of those glass bell tones almost shattering under the weight of whatever realisation she was having. Her hand clutched at the lapel of her nemaki, fingers tracing over the fabric to soothe her quickening heart rate. She spoke once more, afraid that she had done wrong, "perfection like this, it's reserved for deities." 

Muzan felt himself bristle with anticipation, the anger lending the space it had taken to something much more vibrantly aggressive. 

His pride. 

A mean smile formed on his face, fangs harsh as a deep laugh rattled in his chest. Without a second thought spared, he closed the distance between them, hands reaching for her wrists and gripping them tightly. His sharp movements caused a yelp to stir from her, but he disregarded her discomfort, pulling her closer. He leant down to her height, eyes level with hers, as his fingers crowded around hers, thumbs pressing into her palms as he forced her hold his face again. 

"Again." 

"I-"

"Say it again." He demanded. 

Muzan felt her hands twitch against his grip and he held tightly until he realised she was trying to hold him properly. With a worried whimper, she shakily graced his skin with her tentative touches, their breaths mixing in the minimal space between them. He could feel the heat of her skin, hear how her blood rushed to her face in embarrassment from how close she was to her perceived deity. He enjoyed every second of seeing her squirm, seeing how she fought against the need to dive to the level she belonged to as a human and the will to fulfil his desire. 

"You look perfect," she breathed, as she felt him tower over her, his nose against hers and his hands moving to encase her body against his. 

"You called me a God," he murmured, as he felt a hunger surge to his core, lustful, possessive, his mind wishing simply to cage her and keep her. If he did, would she bow to him, revere him, love him as a devout soul would love a God? 

Oh, he was drunk on that thought alone. To be seen as perfection, reminded, branded a God even before he had truly reached such heights. It was like he was being vindicated, offered the truth that, yes, you will be eternal. 

His comment received no response, only a quiet worry that the woman was doing something she shouldn't. 

"Why show yourself to me?" She eventually asked, as Muzan felt her body slowly relax, her fingertips lightly tapping against his jawline. The mean smile on his face softened, but only marginally, as he lowered his head to the crook of her neck. He inhaled her scent, the smell of her faint perfume, and he gently brushed his lips against her pulse. The curve of his lips didn't go unnoticed by her, a woman who simply allowed herself to be moulded, guided, unwilling to deny this otherworldly being his desires. 

"I don't need a reason," he stated, as he remained focused on the sensation of the throb of blood against his lips. It would be so easy to bite down, to tear out her throat and let her blood fill his mouth. 

He wondered if she would taste sweet, like honey. 

He wondered if he could get that taste simply by kissing her.

"A human like me," she began, body beginning to tremble against the growing heat that threatened to course through her. Her knees felt like they could buckle. Her chest was rising and falling in deeper motions the deeper her breathing got. Heart burst against her chest as a slickness pooled between her legs, causing her to squirm and whine silently. She barely achieved the next words, voice working past a sigh as she felt sharp teeth edge into her skin, "I shouldn't be with you in this way- I-I don't deserve-" 

There was a hum, deep, warning, a bid for her to be silent and compliant. The notes vibrated against the skin of her neck, as the bite stilled; she felt the pain, the ebb of sour heat searing across the wounded skin, before the wetness of a tongue danced over the wound. There was a slight dribble of warmth as small beads of blood escaped the deepest punctures, the coolness of the night air icy against the damp stripe of saliva left behind in the wake of Muzan moving away. 

His tongue was bloodied, thick with the scent of her honeyed blood, as his eyes grew feral. In that moment, he decided he needed to keep her, mark her, ensure that such sweet affirmations would only ever be spoken to him, the man who would ascend to godhood and become eternal. 

The metallic taste filled her mouth, pungent and overbearing, but sickening intoxicating as his tongue worked against hers. His lips were punishing, kisses greedy and devouring, as a hand came up to entangle in her hair and grip tightly. Muzan angled her to his liking, low growls of desire rumbling through his chest. Though she yelped against him, voice muffled by his mouth against hers, swallowing each sound, her body spoke for her. Her hands shakily reached to grab onto his sleeves, anchoring herself to him, willing him to shape her however he wished. 

The hand that remained at her waist soon travelled upward, fingers sneaking beneath the hem at her shoulder and pushing the cotton fabric down, palm gliding over the parts of her exposed skin, nails threateningly close to marring the unblemished surface. Muzan moved from her lips, to her jaw, to her shoulder, feverishly kissing and nibbling. Between each movement, he spoke with clarity, "I can offer you a place at my side." 

A beat. 

With a deep inhale, he quickly returned to her swollen lips, wet with their shared saliva, biting at her bottom lip sharply. The pain caused her to whine, tears forming in her waterline before he soothed in with another kiss. 

"You just need to say yes." He added, slowly his fervent kisses to a singular, gentle one. 

There was the sound of unwanted voices growing louder on the other side of the fusuma doors, a faint flow of lantern light spilling over the outer corridor. Muzan straightened up to his full height, hands still possessively holding the woman to him, lips red with the stain of her blood; his eyes glowed with a crimson rage, as he cast them to the two encroaching shadows upon the sliding door. 

Of course they would want to interrupt him now, right when he was getting what he wanted. 

How convenient, though, that they would step right into the lair of the beast; all she had to do was say yes, yes and then the two stains could her first devour for strength, for power. 

"Muzan…" the breathy utterance of his name sobered him, drawing his gaze back to the woman in his hold. His name on her tongue, his perfect name like sweet liqour pouring down her throat, he wanted her to swallow it, for his name to be the only one that ever dared dance behind her teeth. 

The sliding door began to open and that mean smile returned to his lips, his breath fanning over the shell of her ear as he whispered, low and tempting, "your answer." 

She wasn't entirely certain if the arms around her belonged to a deity or a devil, but the seal was spoke from her lips, hushed and bruised from his heated touches, "yes." 

Muzan's smiled widened, knowing the night would have always ended up in blood.

But this addition? Oh, he couldn't have accounted for that. 

And corrupting innocent things tasted so sweet.