glimmer fics

2. What is a "Turn"?

A: When playing a Glimmer story, you'll notice that you're able to choose how you want the story to progress!

Every time you're given options to move the story along, that is considered a Turn. When you make a choice, it consumes a Turn. As a reader, you're given 100 free Turns daily!

3. How can I mark a story as completed?

A: To mark your fic as completed, ensure that ALL conclusions you've made for the last episode of that story are set to Story type conclusions, instead of Episode type conclusions.

You can find the option to change the conclusion from an Episode to a Story end in the drop down menu at the bottom of the conclusion box.

Once, set to story end, the conclusions will look like this in your visual map:

4. How can I filter specific ships, fandoms, story types, etc?

A: In the Browse tab of Glimmer, you can see a "Filter" button next to the fandom tags at the top:

Once selecting it, you can then filter fics, fandoms, tropes and warnings that you would like to see.

5. What are the rules of what you can/can’t write on Glimmer?

A: We do not have strict content rules on Glimmer, and you are free to write whatever you'd like. However, we may take down stories with: - Sexual content that we consider extreme or excessive, - NSFW stories of minors or NSFW content involving minors in general, - and stories that are meant to harass real life people, including other users. If you would like to know more about our Content Policy in more detail, you can read it here: https://glimmerfics.com/content-policy

6. I want to report a bug/have feedback on the site…

A: Feel free to reach out to us on our socials (such as here on our Tumblr or Reddit) or join our Discord server! We will get to you as soon as we can.

7. How do I private stories?/Can I make stories so that only some people can read it?

A: To private stories, you can simply unpublish them. To unpublish your entire story, go to your Author Portal and click on Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the Unpublish Story button at the bottom.

To unpublish only one or two episodes, click on the Publish Episode toggle, which you can also find in the Author Portal, below the Test button.

If you would like to let only a select amount of people read your fic when it's unpublished, you can add them as Beta Readers. This will allow them to look at your Author Portal (but cannot edit it) and test the fic as if reading the story.

To add Beta Readers, go to the Author Portal > Overview, then scroll down. You will then see the option to add Beta Readers by their email associated with their account or their Glimmer username.

Note: you must be an Approved Author to be able to add Betas.

8. I got this message: “Whoa there, slow down! You have free turns left, but you've played as much as you can for the day. You'll have to wait a bit before you can continue playing. You can wait 24 hours to continue playing. Or, buy Paid Turns to play right now." What does it mean?

A: This is a message you receive when you've reached an IP limit. We have it set to prevent people from getting free turns on multiple accounts. If this is not the case, this might be due to other people in the same household as you who are also using Glimmer.

If it's the latter, we apologize as we currently can't exactly distinguish between the two, but we are working on a solution. Stay tuned!

If neither are the case, do let us know your email associated with the account as you might be experiencing a bug.

9. How do we add fandom tags that aren’t already there? 

A: For now, you can request for new fandom tags via our socials (our Tumblr, Reddit or Discord). We will soon implement a way to do this seamlessly!

10. What’s the threshold for becoming an approved author?/How do you become an approved author?

A: To become an Approved Author, you just have to keep on writing stories and publishing them! You can get the Approved Author title based on the collective engagement of all your fics over time, so you may become an Approved Author even sooner than you think!

11. Can other people/can you read my playthroughs without my permission?

A: No, other Glimmer users nor staff members can read your playthroughs unless you directly send them to us. We might ask you to send these playthroughs when reporting bugs for clarity on why the issue is occurring.

As staff, however, we can look into your Author Portal and see your stories even when they are unpublished (in the same way Beta Readers can view them). We typically do not take a look into your story unless requested, or if there is something in the content of the story that we need to check.

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Again, if you need help/require more clarification, you're always free to DM us or send over an Inbox :)

"Then stop being patient."

The words come out steadier than you feel, your hand fisted in the damp fabric of his practice shirt. You watch the effect of them move through him like a current, his jaw tightening, his breath catching, the already hard press of him against your hip twitching at the permission.

"Yeah?" he says, a rough edge to his voice. "You sure?"

Instead of answering, you reach down and catch his wrist, guiding his hand to the waistband of your leggings. His fingers curl there, but he doesn't move yet, watching you with dark, searching eyes. The mark on your hip burns like a brand, and you know he feels it too, the answering heat through the thin cloth.

"I've been sure since I was fifteen," you say. "I've just been waiting to get this lucky."

Something breaks behind his eyes. His arms lock around you, one hand sliding low to grip your hip, the other splaying against your lower back, pulling you so flush against him that there's no space between your bodies. He ducks his head, mouth brushing your ear.

"Then let me take care of you," he says. "Like I should've done the second you said yes."

"Then don't," he finishes, voice gone rough, "And let me have you."

He doesn't ask again. One arm hooks under your knees and he lifts you like you weigh nothing at all, the counter pressing cool against your back for a fleeting second before he's holding you entirely, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows it, kissing you deep and thorough, the taste of him mint and something darker now. His palm slides up under your sweater, over your ribs, cupping your breast through the fabric of your bra, thumb dragging over the nipple until you arch into him.

"I've got you," he says between kisses, carrying you out of the kitchen, down the hallway. "So good, baby. So ready for me."

His hip knocks the bedroom door open, and the light changes—softer, warmer, the golden hour bleeding through the curtains. He lowers you onto the bed with a care that contrasts sharply with the hunger in his eyes, and then he stands over you, drinking you in.

You reach up, fingers curling into the front of his practice shirt, and pull. He comes down willingly, catching himself on one forearm beside your head, his weight settling over you so the whole world narrows to the warm cage of him. His mouth finds yours, and he kisses you slow and deep, like he's relearning the shape of you.

"Hi," you say against his lips, breathless and a little giddy.

A laugh escapes him, soft and fond, and he drops his forehead to yours. "Hi yourself." His thumb traces your cheekbone, slides along your jaw. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. Wanted you, like this."

The mark on your hip pulses, and you feel the answering warmth in him pressing above you, the hard line of his want. His hand drags down your side, over the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, thumb catching the waistband of your leggings.

"Tell me what you want," he says, and there's no rush in it now, only a reverent sort of ache. "Tell me and I'll give it to you."

His body is a shelter above you, heat and sandalwood, and your heart hammers against your ribs, not with fear, but with the enormity of what's already been said between you. Ready. All of it. A baby.

"Make love to me," you say, the words soft but certain. "And go slow."

Something in his face cracks open, tenderness breaking through the hunger. He presses his forehead to yours, breathes you in, and for a moment he just holds you there, unmoving, like he's promising himself that.

"Okay," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Okay, sweetheart. We'll take all the time in the world."

His mouth finds yours again, but softer now, a slow, deep kiss that feels less like taking and more like worship. His hand slides under the hem of your sweater, trailing reverent fingers up your stomach, over your ribs, and you feel the fine tremor in him, the restraint he's holding so carefully.

He draws the sweater up, inch by inch, pausing to press a kiss to the newly bared skin of your belly, warm and open-mouthed. It makes you shiver, makes your hips shift beneath him, and he hums against your skin, low and pleased.

"Beautiful," Tooru murmurs against your stomach, hands sliding low over your thighs, slow and gentle. "Everything about you."

"I love you," you say, the words slipping out with a quiet certainty, your hand rising to cup the side of his jaw.

Tooru stills above you, and for a long moment he just looks at you, his gaze soft and searching, like he's catching something he wants to keep. The pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, tender.

"I love you too," he says, and his voice cracks a little on it. "More than I know how to say."

He lowers his head and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheekbone, your temple, his breath warm against your skin. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underswell of your breasts through the fabric of your bra, and when you shiver he rewards you with a low, pleased hum.

"It's not going to hurt," he says against your throat. "I'm going to make it so good for you. You just have to let me."

His fingers find the clasp of your bra, and he draws it off slow, reverent, his breath catching when you're bared to him. The evening light spills golden across your skin, and Tooru looks at you like a man at prayer.

"God," he breathes. "Look at you."

Your fingers find the hem of his practice shirt, and you tug at it, the thin damp fabric sliding up over the lean planes of his back. Tooru goes still above you, then lets out a slow breath, sitting back just enough to pull it over his head and toss it aside.

You've seen him shirtless a thousand times, but there's something different about this. The golden light carving the definition of his chest, the sheen of sweat still ghosting his skin from practice, the way his eyes never leave your face as he bares himself to you. You reach up and trace the line of the scar above his brow, the one from the volleyball incident, and he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"You're nervous," he says softly. It isn't a question.

"A little," you admit. "Just—say it again. That it's okay."

"Hey." His voice gentles, his hand sliding to cradle your face. "Mina. Look at me. I'm right here. Nothing's going to happen you don't want."

The mark on your hip pulses warm, answering his, and you feel the flutter in your chest ease a fraction. His thumb strokes your cheek, and he leans down, kissing you slow, letting you set the pace.

"Whenever you're ready," he says against your mouth. "I've got you."

"What's your mark saying right now?" you ask, fingers tracing the edge of the scar above his brow.

Tooru's breath catches. His hand slides to his hip, palm pressing flat over the matching crescent and star, and when he looks at you again his eyes are dark, reverent, a little undone.

"It's burning," he says, voice low. "Been burning all week, every time I looked at you. Every time you laughed at something dumb I said, every time you walked past me in your little socks." A soft, breathless laugh escapes him. "It knows. It knew before I did, that you were ready."

He takes your hand and presses it flat over his mark, and through the thin fabric of his shorts you feel it—not the heat of skin, but the answering hum of it, electric and alive, pulsing in time with your own.

"Does it feel that to you?" he asks. "Mine. Every time you're near."

You nod, throat tight. The whole world narrows to the palm of your hand against his hip, two marks speaking a language you've both known since you were fifteen.

He lowers his mouth to yours, slow, and his hand slides to the waistband of your leggings.

His mouth finds yours as his fingers work the waistband of your leggings down over your hips, slow, the fabric peeling away inch by inch. He breaks the kiss only to pull them down your legs, pressing his lips to your ankle, your calf, the inside of your knee as he goes, each kiss a brand of reverence.

The evening light has faded to amber lamplight by the time you're bare before him, and he sits back on his heels, drinking you in. His eyes trace every curve, every softness, and the mark on his hip burns so bright you swear you can see it glowing through his shorts.

"Look at you," Tooru breathes. "My perfect little wife. So soft. So pretty." His hand slides up your calf, over your thigh, calloused fingers dragging featherlight along the tender skin. "You have any idea what you do to me?"

He lowers his mouth to your hip, lips brushing the edge of your mark, and the touch makes your whole body shiver.

You arch into his hand, hips lifting off the mattress, chasing the warmth of his calloused fingers. Tooru makes a sound low in his throat, something between a laugh and a groan, and his hand settles on the curve of your thigh, thumb stroking in slow, maddening circles that creep higher with each pass.

"There she is," he murmurs. "Look at you. Already so needy for me."

His thumb drags along your inner thigh, featherlight, close but never quite where you want it. You whimper, and his eyes flash with something dark and delighted. He leans down, pressing his mouth to your hipbone, teeth grazing the skin just above your mark.

"You're going to have to ask me, sweetheart," he says against your skin, voice honeyed and patient. "I waited all week for you. The least you can do is tell me what you want."

His fingertip ghosts over the lace of your underwear, barely a touch, and your whole body shudders. The heat of him is everywhere, the scent of sandalwood and sweat, the weight of his gaze as he watches you come apart under the barest pressure.

"Use your words, my love." His thumb hooks the edge of your underwear, dragging it down a single inch. "Tell me."

The words come out in a whisper against his ear, hot and trembling, and you feel him shudder, his whole body going rigid above you.

"Mouth on you?" Tooru repeats, and his voice has gone rough, almost strangled. His hand slides from your thigh to your hip, thumb pressing into the soft skin there. "Baby, you have no idea what that does to me."

He kisses you then, deep and slow, stealing your breath until you're gasping against his lips. But when his mouth trails down your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone, he doesn't keep going. Instead he stops at your ribs, lips brushing the underside of your breast, and lets out a shaky laugh.

"Not yet," he says. "I want to, God, I want to. But I'm not done watching you fall apart first."

His hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace of your underwear, and you buck against him with a whimper. He holds you there, unmoving, just the pressure, just the heat of his palm.

"You asked so pretty," he says. "Ask me again. Tell me what you need, and I'll give it to you." His thumb drags along the seam of you, featherlight, teasing. "But first, I want to hear you beg."

"Please, Daddy, I need you."

The words fall from your lips before you can think, and you feel the effect of them ripple through him. Tooru's hand stills against you, his breath catching, and when he lifts his head his eyes are dark, blown wide, the flush on his cheekbones deepening.

"Say that again," he says, and his voice is wrecked, barely a whisper. "Say it again, baby."

"Daddy," you repeat, heat flooding your cheeks, but you don't look away. "Please. I need you."

He makes a sound like he's been struck, and his mouth finds yours, hard and hungry, swallowing the whimper you make when his hand finally slides beneath the lace of your underwear. His fingers drag through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, and he groans against your lips.

"God, look at you," he breathes, drawing back to watch his own fingers work. "So wet for me. All this, just from me telling you to ask." His thumb circles your clit, featherlight, and your hips buck. "You're gonna come apart for me, aren't you? Let me take care of you."

His middle finger slides inside you, thick and slow, curling to find the spot that makes you gasp, and he watches your face with hungry focus, drinking in every flicker of pleasure.

"That's it," he says. "Take it, sweetheart. You're being so good."

"Kiss me," you breathe, reaching for him. "Kiss me while you touch me."

Tooru's eyes soften, and he leans down without a word, his mouth meeting yours slow and deep, his tongue sliding against yours as his fingers keep moving between your legs. He kisses like he's savoring you, unhurried, his thumb circling your clit in the same lazy rhythm as his tongue, and the sync of it makes you moan into his mouth.

"There you go," he says against your lips. "Feel good, sweetheart?"

You nod, gasping, your fingers curling into his hair. He adds a second finger, stretching you slow, and the curl of them against that spot makes your hips buck off the mattress. He swallows every sound you make, patient, unhurried, his mouth trailing to your jaw, your throat, his breath hot against your pulse.

"That's it," he says, low and honeyed. "So good for me. Taking me so well."

He curls his fingers again, dragging against you just right, and the heat in your belly coils tight, climbing toward something bright. Tooru feels the tension in your thighs, the way your breath quickens against his mouth, and he slows, easing off, his thumb softening to a maddening tease.

"Not yet," he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'm not done with you yet. You're gonna ask me for it first."

"Please, Daddy, I'm so close."

The words tumble out of you, desperate and trembling, your hips rolling against his hand. Tooru's eyes darken, and for a heartbeat you think he'll let you have it, his fingers curling deeper, faster—

And then he stops.

"Shhh, shhh," he says, easing his fingers out of you entirely, leaving you empty and aching and wet. You make a sound of protest, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists in one hand, pinning them to the mattress above your head with humiliating ease.

"I know you're close, sweetheart." He presses a kiss to your shoulder, his voice honeyed, unhurried. "I know. You're being so good for me, so close." His thumb drags through your slick folds, featherlight, making you jerk and whimper. "But you're not going to come until I say you can. Understand?"

"Tooru," you plead, and your voice comes out broken, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Your hips twist against nothing, seeking his hand. "Please. Please, I need—"

"I know what you need." His mouth trails down your chest, hot and open-mouthed, teeth grazing your nipple before he soothes it with his tongue. "I know exactly what you need, baby. I've been thinking about it all week." He lifts his head, meeting your eyes, and his voice drops. "But you have to ask me for it properly. Tell Daddy exactly what you want."

His hand hovers over your cunt, not quite touching, and you're so empty, so close, so desperate you'd say anything.

"Please, Daddy, I need you inside me. Please fill me up—I want you to put a baby in me."

The words come out in a sob, tears spilling down your cheeks, your whole body trembling and open beneath him. And Tooru breaks.

The sound he makes is low and wrecked, almost pained, and his forehead drops to yours, breath ragged against your lips. "God," he groans. "That's it. That's my good girl. So perfect. So perfect for me."

He lets go of your wrists, and his hands come to your face, cradling you like something precious, thumbs brushing away the tears. Then he's moving, sitting back on his heels, and you watch him shed the rest of his clothes with rough, urgent hands, his practice shorts and boxers joining the tangle of fabric on the floor.

He's hard, thick and flushed, and your breath catches at the sight of him. He takes your hand, guiding it to wrap around him, and he shudders at the contact, jaw tightening.

"Touch me," he says, voice strained. "Just for a moment. Let me feel your hand."

The weight of him fills your palm, hot and silken, and he watches you with dark, hungry eyes, his own control hanging by a thread.

Your fingers tighten around him, and Tooru's breath stutters, his hand coming to cradle the back of your head. "Come here," he says, voice rough. "On your knees for me, sweetheart."

He helps you shift to the floor before him, the lamplight spilling over the broad planes of his chest, the hard line of his jaw. He tilts your chin up, thumb brushing your lower lip, and looks down at you with something that's half worship, half hunger.

"Look at you," he says. "So pretty like this. You're going to take me so good, aren't you?"

You answer by parting your lips and taking the head of him into your mouth, and Tooru's head falls back, a low groan tearing from his throat. His hand stays gentle in your hair, not pushing, just holding, as you learn the weight and taste of him, salt and heat on your tongue.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's my good girl."

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Yours Completely" by FireflyOfLove

Your eyelids lift—heavy, slow, weighted with sleep. The world swims into focus in pieces: the amber glow of the lamp, the dark shape blocking it out, the familiar line of his jaw smeared with something you don't want to name.

"Satoru," you breathe, the word barely more than air. Sleep still drags at your limbs, your thoughts thick and syrupy. Your body knows him before your mind catches up—the warmth of him, the weight of him pressed against your side.

He doesn't answer.

His eyes are on you, pale and unblinking, ringed with something that isn't quite exhaustion. He looks down at you like you're the only real thing in the room, like the rest of the world has dissolved into rain and shadow. His hand on your thigh tightens, fingers digging into the denim with a slow pressure.

You blink, trying to surface. "You're home—" you start, your voice cracking with sleep, but the words die in your throat.

He leans down, and the lamplight vanishes entirely behind his shoulders. His forehead presses against yours, the contact sudden and rough, his breath warm against your lips. It's not tender. It's desperate, a man anchoring himself to something solid after a night of drowning.

His thumb traces the line of your hip bone through the jeans, once, twice, before his fingers curl into the fabric and pull you closer, until there's no space left between you.

"Don't," he says, the word low and rough, and you don't know if he's telling you to stop talking or to stop looking at him like that. His hand slides up your side, beneath the rumpled gray sweater, finding the bare skin of your waist.

The rain drums against the windows. His palm is warm and calloused against your stomach, and he still hasn't blinked.

Your eyes fall closed, and you lean into him.

It's instinct—the same gravity that's always pulled you toward him, even before you knew what it meant. Your forehead presses against his, your nose brushing his, and you let the weight of him settle over you like a blanket you've missed for days. The warmth of his palm against your stomach, the rough denim of his thigh against yours, the smell of rain and something sharp and metallic clinging to his uniform.

You feel him exhale. It's not a sigh. It's a release, a shudder that runs through his whole body, his forehead dropping to press harder against yours as if he's trying to crawl inside your skull and hide there.

"Satoru," you say again, your voice still thick with sleep, your hand finding his arm. Your fingers brush over the damp fabric of his sleeve, over the muscle beneath, and you feel him flinch—a tiny, barely-there twitch that he swallows almost instantly.

His hand slides higher beneath your sweater, palm flat against your ribs, his thumb pressing into the space between them. The touch isn't gentle. It's hungry, a man reclaiming something he thought he'd lost.

"Don't," he says again, the word a low rasp against your lips. "Don't ask."

You don't know what you were going to ask. You don't know if you were going to ask anything at all. But his mouth finds yours before you can speak, hard and desperate, kissing you like you're the only air he's had in hours.

The rain hammers against the windows. His hand slides from your ribs to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater, and he pulls you against him with a roughness that steals the breath from your lungs.

Your fingers find his temple before your mind catches up with your hand. The touch is featherlight—the barest brush of your fingertips over skin that isn't quite his own anymore, crusted with something dark and dried.

He goes still.

The kiss breaks, his mouth hovering a breath from yours, and you feel the change in him instantly. The hunger in his grip doesn't ease—it hardens, his hand flattening against your waist, fingers pressing into your ribs like he's bracing himself. His eyes open, pale and unblinking, watching you from inches away.

You feel it beneath your fingertips: a gash, shallow but raw, the edges of it tacky with half-dried blood. His blood. You don't know whose else might be mixed into it. You don't want to know.

"Satoru." Your voice cracks on his name, sleep burned out of it now. "You're bleeding."

He catches your wrist. His grip is not gentle—it's a vise, stopping your hand before you can pull it back, holding your fingers against the wound as if daring you to feel it. His thumb presses against your pulse, feeling it jump.

"It's not mine," he says, and the lie sits wrong in the air between you. His eyes don't move from yours. The rain hammers. The lamp gutters. And his free hand slides beneath your sweater, palm dragging up your stomach, slow and deliberate, mapping the warmth of your skin like he's memorizing it.

"Don't look at me like that," he murmurs, his voice low and hollow. "Like I'm something to be saved."

"Then let me hold you."

The words fall from your lips like a prayer, soft and fragile in the space between you. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen at first. His thumb stays pressed against your pulse, feeling it skip, his eyes searching yours for something you can't name.

Then something in him gives. Not all at once—just a fraction, a crack of light in a shuttered window. His hand releases your wrist, and before you can lower it, he's moving.

He shifts his weight, turning until he's no longer looming over you but settling beside you, dragging you against his chest with an arm banded around your waist. His face buries into the curve of your neck, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your skin.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't explain. He just holds you, or lets you hold him—it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. His fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater at your back, gripping like you might dissolve if he lets go.

The rain hammers against the windows. The lamp sputters.

You feel the tremble run through him—barely there, a tremor he'd deny if you called it fear. Your arms come up around him, one hand threading into his damp white hair, the other pressed flat between his shoulder blades, feeling the tension knotted there.

He exhales against your neck, a sound that's almost a word, almost your name, but he swallows it before it takes shape.

For a long moment, there's only the rain, and his weight against yours, and the slow, steady beat of his heart—faster than he'd ever admit.

"Safe," you whisper against his hair. "You're safe now. You're home."

The words hang in the air, soft and certain, the kind of promise you'd give a child after a nightmare. You feel him stop breathing.

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then a sound escapes him—low, broken, nothing like a laugh and nothing like a sob. His grip on your waist tightens, fingers digging into the fabric of your sweater like he's trying to hold himself together through you.

"Safe," he repeats, the word coming out warped. His face lifts from your neck, and when his eyes meet yours, they're pale and glassy, ringed with red. "You think that word means anything anymore?"

His thumb traces your jaw, featherlight, almost reverent. Then his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back against the cushion.

"I watched a city burn tonight," he says, quiet, measured. "I couldn't save any of it. I couldn't save—" He stops. Swallows. The hand on your neck tightens just enough to make your pulse jump. "And you're lying here, telling me I'm safe."

He kisses you then. It's not like the first one—this is slower, heavier, a man pouring everything he can't say into the press of his mouth against yours. His body settles over you, his weight pinning you into the couch, and his hand slides from your neck down your side, palm dragging over your ribs, your hip, the curve of your thigh.

The rain hammers. The lamp sputters. He pulls back just enough to breathe your name against your lips—the first time he's said it all night—and there's nothing gentle in the way it sounds.

Your hands find the back of his neck, and you pull him closer.

He comes willingly, a man who's been drowning finally given permission to sink. His body covers yours, knees settling on either side of your hips, his weight pressing you deep into the couch cushions. The kiss deepens, and there's nothing careful in it anymore—his mouth moves against yours like he's trying to consume you, like if he holds you close enough and hard enough, the night might not exist.

His hand slides beneath the rumpled gray sweater, palm dragging up your stomach, fingers splaying across your ribs. His thumb brushes the underside of your breast and he feels you arch into him, and something in his chest makes a sound that's half groan, half relief.

"Satoru." Your voice breaks on his name, sleep and want tangled together.

He doesn't answer. He pulls the sweater up, over your ribs, and you let him—lifting your arms, letting the fabric whisper past your face and disappear somewhere beyond the couch. His eyes drop to your chest, pale and unblinking, and the look in them is not reverence. It's hunger, flat and absolute, the look of a man who's been empty for too long to remember what full felt like.

His mouth finds your collarbone, then lower, dragging down the center of your chest. His breath is hot and uneven against your skin. One hand pins your hip to the cushion while the other traces the lace of the garment you'd put on for him hours ago, fingers hooking beneath the strap.

The rain hammers. The lamp sputters. He takes what you've offered and demands more.

"Satoru."

Your voice catches on the word, soft and breathless, the sound of it swallowed by the rain hammering against the windows. It's not a question. It's not a plea. It's just his name, falling from your lips like the only prayer you know.

He stops.

His mouth hovers against your sternum, breath hot and uneven against your skin. For a moment, the only sound is the rain and the shallow rhythm of his breathing. Then he lifts his head, and when his eyes find yours, they're pale and glassy, ringed with something that isn't quite exhaustion.

He looks at you like you're the last thing he'll ever see.

His hand leaves your hip, sliding up your side, fingers tracing the ladder of your ribs until they reach your jaw. He cups your face, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, and the touch is almost tender—almost. The tremor in his fingers betrays him.

"Say it again," he says, his voice low and rough, scraped clean of everything that made it bright.

"Satoru."

The word breaks on the second syllable as his hand tightens against your jaw, tilting your head back, exposing your throat to the dim light. He watches the pulse jump in your neck, watches you surrender to his grip, and something dark and satisfied flickers across his face.

He lowers his mouth to your throat, teeth grazing the skin just below your ear. His hand slides down your body, over your breast, your stomach, the jut of your hip, until his fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans.

"Say it again," he says against your pulse, and the command is soft, but there's nothing soft in the way his fingers work the button free.

"Satoru."

The name falls from your lips again, softer this time, almost a gasp as his teeth graze the pulse in your throat. His fingers still against the button of your jeans, and you feel the low, rough sound he makes against your skin—not a word, not a warning, just the vibration of a man barely holding himself together.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are pale, ringed with red, and the lamplight carves hollows beneath his cheekbones that weren't there before tonight. He looks at you like he's memorizing the shape of your face, like he's afraid it'll be gone by morning.

"Say it one more time," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word, splintering through the careful mask he's worn all night. "And I'll give you everything I have left."

Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading into his white hair, and you pull him down until his forehead rests against yours.

"Satoru."

He breaks.

His mouth crashes into yours, and there's nothing measured in it now—no restraint, no gentleness, just the desperate weight of a man pouring every unspoken thing into the press of his lips. His hands work the button of your jeans free, the zipper a harsh rasp in the quiet room, and he drags the denim down your hips with an urgency that leaves your skin burning where it scrapes.

The rain hammers. The couch groans beneath you both.

His mouth trails down your throat, your chest, leaving wet heat in its wake until his breath ghosts over your stomach. His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pauses, looking up at you from beneath pale lashes—waiting, not for permission, but watching the way you look at him like he's still the man you fell in love with.

"Keep saying it," he says against your skin, the words rough and scraped clean. "I want to hear it when you fall apart."

His hand slides between your bodies, palm flat against your stomach, dragging down slow and deliberate until his fingers find you again. You gasp into his mouth, your hips tilting up into his touch, and he swallows the sound like a man starved.

The rain hammers. The lamp sputters. His fingers move against you with a rhythm born of knowing exactly what you need, and his forehead presses to yours, pale eyes boring into you from inches away.

"Look at me," he says, the words rough and uneven. "I need you to look at me."

His thumb circles you, wet and insistent, and your voice breaks on his name again. His grip on your hip tightens, holding you steady as his fingers work you toward the edge, his gaze never leaving yours—watching every flicker of your face, every gasp, every tremor, like he's trying to memorize the exact shape of you coming undone.

"Let go," he says, low and quiet against your mouth. "Let go. I've got you."

Your arms lock around him as the wave crests, fingers digging into the damp fabric of his uniform, nails biting through to the muscle beneath. Your body arches into his, a sound torn from your throat—his name, broken and desperate, swallowed by the rain hammering against the windows.

He watches you fall apart. His eyes never leave your face, pale and unblinking, drinking in every tremor, every gasp, every flutter of your lashes. His fingers keep moving, working you through it until you shudder beneath him, until your grip on his shoulders goes slack and your chest heaves against his.

Then he stops. The rain keeps falling. The lamp sputters once, twice, and steadies.

He pulls his hand away slowly, and you feel him shift above you, his weight settling over yours. His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged and warm against your lips. When he speaks, his voice is hollow, scraped clean of everything that made it bright.

"Stay," he says. "Just stay."

His hand finds your face, thumb brushing the tear you didn't realize had escaped down your cheek. He looks at you with those pale, ringed eyes, and for a moment something flickers behind them—not warmth, not relief, but a man clinging to the only thing that still feels real.

He lowers his mouth to yours, slow and heavy, and lets himself sink into you like a man finally allowed to drown.

The kiss is soft for exactly one breath. Then his mouth turns hard against yours, his hand sliding into your hair, tilting your head back until your throat is bared to the dim light. Something in him snaps—you feel it in the way his grip tightens, the way his breathing roughens.

"I'm not done with you," he says against your mouth, and there's nothing gentle left in it.

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic ". ݁₊ GOJO SATORU ⊹ : Hollow" by bleed