Gllimz

Im planning on only writing for:

Gachiakuta

Blue lock

Mha(maybe)

Jjk

What im comfortable with:

Smut

Fluff

Platonic

Nothing hardcore

What im not comfortable with:

Anything non consensual

Rape

Incest

Like genuinely any bodily liquids

His long, vibrant crimson hair spilled like a luxurious waterfall across your lap and down his shoulders, the silky strands catching the TV light in subtle ruby highlights. The faint, sweet scent of his cherry blossom shampoo lingered in the air, a signature he maintained with almost ritualistic care. One of his hands rested casually on your ankle, thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin, while the other draped over his own thigh. As a professional soccer player, these rare off-days were sacred to him, no grueling training sessions, no pressure of matches, just the two of you in your shared apartment, wrapped in comfortable domesticity.

The movie had lost its grip on your attention long ago. Your eyes kept drifting down to the beautiful man nestled between your legs, his relaxed posture and the way his broad shoulders brushed against your inner thighs sending a quiet warmth through you. Your fingers, which had been idly resting on the couch cushion, moved of their own accord.

“Hyoma?” you murmured softly, voice barely audible over the film.

“Hmm?” He tilted his head back further, crimson eyes half-lidded with contentment as he looked up at you. A small, affectionate smile curved his lips.

“Can I play with your hair?”

He let out a low, velvety chuckle that vibrated pleasantly against your legs. “You never have to ask baby, of course.” He shifted slightly to give you even better access, his long hair pooling heavier in your lap. “It’s all yours.”

Your heart fluttered at his easy trust. Chigiri’s hair was his pride; flowing, eye-catching, a key part of his striking appearance on and off the field. Yet with you, he surrendered it completely. You slid your fingers into the thick, silky strands at his scalp, starting slow. The texture was heavenly: smooth, warm from his body heat, and impossibly soft. You began with gentle carding motions, then progressed to firm, massaging circles along his hairline, temples, and the base of his skull.

Chigiri hummed deeply in approval, his body melting further against the couch and your legs. “That feels so good,” he sighed, eyes fluttering closed. The tension from his athletic lifestyle seemed to drain away under your touch. “Keep going… please.”

Emboldened, you dug your fingertips deeper, nails lightly scraping in soothing patterns that made him shiver. You gathered a generous section of his crimson locks near the crown of his head, letting the strands glide through your fingers like liquid fire. Then, playfully, you wrapped them around your fist and gave a light, experimental tug.

A soft, breathy whimper escaped Chigiri’s lips: high, needy, and utterly unexpected.

The sound hung in the air between you. Both of you stilled. His eyes flew open wide, a deep flush blooming across his sharp cheekbones and down the elegant column of his neck. You felt the subtle tension ripple through his shoulders and back where they pressed against your legs. Then, unmistakably, you sensed him growing hard. The front of his gray sweatpants tented as his cock stirred and thickened, the heat of it radiating against the rug.

“Hyoma…?” you whispered, a thrill of arousal shooting through you.

He swallowed thickly, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I… wasn’t expecting that at all,” he admitted, voice strained and quieter than usual. His breathing had already hitched, growing slightly uneven. You could see the faint outline of his hardening length twitching against the fabric.

Heat pooled low in your belly. Ignoring the movie entirely now, you returned to massaging his scalp with deliberate intent. Your fingers twisted deeper into the luxurious red hair, and you tugged again—firmer this time, a steady pull that lifted his head slightly from its resting position.

Another whimper slipped out, louder and more desperate. Chigiri’s hands gripped your ankles tightly, fingers digging into your skin as he fought to stay composed. His breathing turned rougher, chest rising and falling more noticeably with each inhale. From your vantage point above him, you watched in fascination as his long lashes fluttered, those piercing crimson eyes rolling back slightly in waves of unexpected bliss. His hips shifted minutely on the floor, seeking friction that wasn’t there.

He had never realized how intensely he liked having his hair pulled.

You continued the teasing rhythm, matching the low pulse of the movie’s forgotten soundtrack. Long, sensual strokes through his mane followed by rhythmic tugs, some quick and sharp to elicit those pretty whimpers, others slow and prolonged, holding tension at the roots until he trembled. Each pull drew fresh, broken sounds from him: soft gasps melting into low, guttural groans he tried (and failed) to suppress. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, a few stray crimson strands sticking to his flushed skin. His cock was now fully hard, straining obscenely against his sweatpants and leaving a small, damp spot of precum.

“Baby… fuck,” he breathed, voice husky and wrecked. “That feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

You didn’t. Your own arousal built steadily, panties growing slick as you watched him unravel from such a simple act. You tugged harder, twisting the hair around your fist and pulling his head back firmly against your thighs. Chigiri moaned openly, eyes rolling back further, mouth parting on a silent cry of pleasure. His body arched beautifully, the lean muscles of his torso flexing under his black tank top.

By the time the credits rolled across the screen, Chigiri was a flushed, trembling wreck. His once-pristine hair was slightly tangled from your ministrations, lips swollen from where he’d bitten them, breathing ragged. He turned slowly on the floor, twisting to face you with dark, lust-blown eyes. The pretty blush on his face made him look almost ethereal.

“Bedroom,” he whispered, voice low and begging. “Right now.”

He rose fluidly, athletic grace evident even in his aroused state, and pulled you up with strong hands on your waist. His mouth crashed against yours in a hungry kiss the moment you stood, tongues sliding hotly as he backed you down the hallway. The bedroom door clicked shut, and clothes came off in a frantic blur. Your shirt was yanked over your head, his tank top discarded, sweatpants and underwear shoved down until you were both bare. Chigiri’s body was sculpted perfection; lean, powerful muscle from endless training, and his cock stood proud and heavy, flushed deep red at the tip and leaking steadily.

He lifted you onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. One hand stroked his thick length as he positioned himself at your soaked entrance. “I need you pulling my hair while I’m inside you,” he whispered desperately against your lips. “Please, baby.”

You sank your fingers deep into his crimson mane at the roots. As he pushed in, slow and deep, stretching you perfectly around his girth, you yanked hard.

Chigiri’s reaction was explosive. A broken, high-pitched cry tore from his throat. His head snapped back violently, the long red hair fanning out as his eyes rolled back in pure ecstasy. The overwhelming pleasure made his hips stutter. He thrust deep once, twice—burying himself to the hilt—and then he was cumming hard and prematurely. Thick, hot ropes of cum spilled deep inside you as his body shuddered violently, cock pulsing rhythmically with each wave. Whimpers continued to spill from his parted lips, his face a masterpiece of overwhelmed bliss.

“Shit- I’m sorry,” he panted moments later, collapsing partially over you, still buried deep and twitching with aftershocks. His face burned with a mix of embarrassment and lingering pleasure, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to finish that fast… your hands in my hair just hit something I didn’t even know about. It’s too good.”

You laughed breathlessly, stroking his back while gently tugging the strands to soothe him. “It was so fucking hot, Hyoma. Don’t apologize for a second.”

He stayed inside you for a long while, catching his breath and kissing your neck, breasts, and collarbone with reverent affection. Then, determination gleaming in his eyes, he slid down your body. Kisses trailed wetly between your breasts, over the soft curve of your stomach, until his face hovered over your dripping core. His own release was leaking out of you, but Chigiri didn’t hesitate. He glanced up at you, crimson eyes dark and hungry.

“Let me make it up to you.”

His tongue dragged slowly, filthily through your folds, savoring the mingled taste of both of you. He licked broad, languid stripes from your entrance to your clit, then sealed his lips around the sensitive bundle, sucking gently while two long fingers slid inside you, curling expertly against your g-spot. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room as he devoured you.

You moaned loudly, thighs clamping around his head. Your hands flew back into his hair, yanking him closer, using the long crimson locks like reins to guide his mouth exactly where you needed. Chigiri groaned deeply into your pussy, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your core. Each firm tug made him work harder—tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping deeper, his own hips grinding desperately against the mattress as he hardened again.

“Yes-! right there, Hyoma,” you gasped, twisting the strands tighter around your fist and pulling rhythmically. His eyes rolled back once more, lashes fluttering as waves of bliss washed over his flushed features. The sight of him, messy red hair gripped in your hands, pretty face buried between your thighs, completely lost in pleasuring you, was intoxicating.

He ate you out with devoted intensity, alternating between long licks and focused suction on your clit. Your orgasm built fast, coiling tight in your belly. You yanked harder, holding his face flush against you as it crashed over you. Your back arched off the bed, thighs trembling violently as you came with a loud cry, flooding his mouth and chin. Chigiri licked you through every pulsing wave, gentler now, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you sagged against the sheets.

He crawled back up, kissing you deeply so you could taste the mix of both of you on his tongue. His cock was rock hard again, pressing insistently against your thigh.

“Round two?” he murmured, nuzzling your neck, voice rough with need. “I’m already addicted to this.”

You grinned, fingers threading back into his tangled hair. “Good. I’m just getting started with you.”

The night stretched into a haze of heat, sweat, and discovery. Chigiri took you again on your back, this time with slower, deeper thrusts that let you feel every inch of him. You kept one hand buried in his hair the entire time, pulling in time with his movements. Each tug made his rhythm falter beautifully, hips snapping harder, moans turning high and needy. You wrapped the long strands around your fist, using them to arch his back while he drove into you, hitting that perfect spot repeatedly until another orgasm ripped through you, clenching tightly around his cock.

Later, you pushed him onto his back and straddled him. Sinking down onto his thick length, you took him to the hilt, moaning at the fullness. Chigiri’s hands gripped your hips, but his head fell back in ecstasy as you tugged his hair, forcing his gaze up to you. His eyes were glazed, mouth open in a constant stream of whimpers and praises. You rode him hard, bouncing and grinding while yanking his crimson locks like reins.

“Pull harder—please, baby,” he begged, voice breaking. “It feels so fucking good.”

You obliged, twisting and pulling firmly as you ground down. He came with a shattered shout, filling you once more, body convulsing beautifully beneath you.

Exhausted but insatiable, you shifted to spooning position. He entered you from behind, one arm wrapped around your waist as he thrust deep and grinding. You reached back constantly, keeping a hand fisted in his hair, tugging with every stroke. The position allowed intimate closeness and constant access to those sensitive strands. He whispered filthy, loving praises against your ear-“You’re so wet for me… love how you control me with my hair”-until you both tumbled over the edge again.

By the early morning hours, you were tangled together under the sheets, sweaty and thoroughly sated. Chigiri’s once-flawless crimson hair was a wild, tangled mess, but he wore it proudly, head resting on your chest as you played with the strands gently now.

From the moment you two started dating, Bakugo made it his personal mission to anticipate your clumsiness. He’d walk slightly behind you or keep one hand hovering near your waist, ready to snag your arm the second your foot caught on an uneven sidewalk or a stray hero training mat. “Tch, watch where you’re fucking going, dumbass,” he’d grumble, but his grip was always firm and warm, pulling you upright before you could even register the fall. Deep down, he loved the excuse to stay close, his sharp crimson eyes scanning every path ahead like it was a battlefield.

Your tendency to fumble everything from textbooks to grocery bags never failed to trigger his reflexes. One afternoon you were juggling a stack of notes while rushing to class, and the papers went flying everywhere. Bakugo was there in a flash, explosions popping at his palms to propel him forward, catching most mid-air while the rest scattered. He’d shove the recovered pile into your arms with a scowl, cheeks faintly pink. “Can’t even hold shit properly. Here—next time just give it to me before you make a mess.” Yet he’d secretly organize your things later, making sure nothing important got lost because of your butterfingers.

When you inevitably faceplanted during a casual walk through the park, Bakugo burst out laughing first—a loud, genuine bark that echoed around you. “Hah! Look at you eating dirt, clumsy idiot!” But the laughter died quickly as he crouched down, hands gentle despite his rough tone, brushing dirt from your cheeks and checking for scrapes. He’d haul you up against his chest, muttering, “Stop scaring me like that… dumbass heart can’t take it.” The way he held you a little longer than necessary told you everything his words didn’t.

During joint training sessions, your clumsiness turned the field into comedy central for him. You’d trip over your own feet mid-spar, landing in a heap, and Bakugo would pause his explosions just to smirk down at you. “What the hell was that? You trying to surrender already?” He’d extend a gloved hand, yanking you back to your feet with ease, then adjust your stance himself—fingers lingering on your shoulders, his voice dropping to a rare soft growl. “Stay focused. I’ve got your back, so don’t go breaking anything on me.”

Cooking dates were chaotic bliss. You’d drop utensils constantly, spill ingredients, or nearly knock over hot pans, and Bakugo would swoop in like a grumpy guardian. “Oi, move before you burn the whole damn place!” He’d take over stirring while keeping you tucked safely at his side, one arm looped around your waist to steady you. Every time you apologized, he’d flick your forehead lightly. “Shut up. Makes it more fun having you here, even if you’re a walking hazard.” Later he’d feed you the finished meal, blowing on each bite with surprising tenderness.

In crowded hero agency hallways, your accidental stumbles drew stares, but Bakugo didn’t care. He’d laugh loudly at first “Again? Seriously?!” drawing even more attention, only to pull you flush against him and glare at anyone who dared chuckle too long. Back in private, he’d press a rare kiss to the top of your head, his voice gruff but warm. “You’re a pain in the ass… but you’re my pain. Don’t change.” Those quiet moments after the chaos made your heart race more than any fall ever could.

On stormy days when puddles turned sidewalks treacherous, you slipped more than usual. Bakugo would scoop you up without warning, carrying you bridal-style under one arm while explosions kept you both dry-ish. “Quit squirming, I’m not letting your clumsy ass drown in a damn puddle.” His heart pounded against you the whole way, a silent promise that no matter how many times you fell, he’d always be there to catch you—laughing, complaining, and loving you fiercely through every clumsy second.

Movie nights at the dorms were another battlefield of your clumsiness. You would reach for the popcorn bowl and somehow send it flying across the couch, kernels raining down everywhere. Bakugo would explode in laughter before grabbing the bowl mid-tumble with one hand and pulling you into his lap with the other. “You’re hopeless, extra,” he’d say while picking pieces out of your hair, but his arms stayed wrapped around you the rest of the film, chin resting on your shoulder as he pretended to focus on the screen instead of how perfectly you fit against him.

Shopping trips turned into mini adventures where Bakugo played constant bodyguard. You’d accidentally knock over a display of canned goods in the grocery aisle, creating a loud clattering avalanche. He’d sigh dramatically, explosions crackling at his fingertips to steady the last few cans, then drag you away by the hand. “Stick close before you destroy the whole store, idiot.” Later he’d carry all the bags himself, one arm free just in case you tripped on the way out, his usual scowl softening into something almost fond when no one else was looking.

When you got tired after long days, your clumsiness hit peak levels, leading to stubbed toes and bumped elbows everywhere. Bakugo noticed immediately and would scoop you up without a word, tossing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Tch, can’t even walk straight when you’re sleepy. Bed. Now.” Once there he’d be surprisingly gentle, tucking you in and rubbing the sore spots with careful fingers, grumbling complaints the entire time but never leaving your side until you drifted off safely.

Even during hero patrols together, he stayed hyper-aware. You might fumble your support gear or trip while dodging debris from a minor villain fight. Bakugo would blast the threat away first, then immediately circle back to steady you, wiping sweat and dirt from your face. “Don’t you dare get hurt because of your stupid feet,” he’d growl, but the worry in his eyes was real, followed by a quick, fierce kiss to your forehead once the area was clear. He thrived on protecting you, turning every clumsy mishap into another reason to keep you close.

It had been an impulsive buy, marketed as an irresistible blend of warm vanilla, soft musk, and something faintly sweet and floral that promised to drive anyone wild. You’d spritzed it generously across your pulse points: the delicate skin of your neck, the insides of your wrists, just behind your ears, and even a light mist down the valley between your breasts and along the hem of your shirt. The scent bloomed on your skin, subtle at first but growing warmer and more intoxicating with every passing minute.

When Megumi opened the door, his usual stoic expression softened into a small, genuine smile. “Hey. Come in.” Without hesitation, he pulled you into a tight hug, arms wrapping firmly around your waist as he buried his face against the crook of your neck like he always did when you first arrived.

The effect was immediate.

Megumi inhaled deeply, and the pheromone-laced scent slammed into him like a tidal wave. It was rich, heady—sweet vanilla melting into a sultry musk that clung to his senses and sent a bolt of raw heat straight to his groin. His cock twitched violently in his loose sweatpants, swelling rapidly from soft to half-hard in seconds. Blood rushed south, making him throb against your hip. The smell was everywhere now, seeping into his lungs with every breath, fogging his mind with sudden, vivid flashes of you underneath him, legs spread, moaning his name while he buried himself deep inside your tight heat.

He pulled back sharply, cheeks faintly flushed, trying to play it cool. “You… smell really good today,” he muttered, voice already lower and rougher than usual. His dark blue eyes flicked over you, lingering a second too long on the curve of your neck. He swallowed hard, forcing down the dirty thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. Not now. It’s just a movie night. Control yourself.

Before you could respond with your teasing smile, he gently but firmly pushed you toward his bed. “Movie’s starting. Get comfortable.” You let him guide you, heart racing with excitement at how quickly it was working. You settled back against the pillows, and Megumi climbed in behind you, pulling your body flush against his chest in a spooning position. His strong arm draped possessively over your waist, hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing the warm skin of your stomach. The TV flickered to life with an action movie you’d both picked, explosions lighting up the dim room.

But Megumi couldn’t focus. Not even a little.

Every small shift of your body wafted more of that pheromone perfume toward him. It filled the small space between you, wrapping around his head like invisible silk. His nose kept brushing the nape of your neck, inhaling involuntarily. The scent was addictive—sweet and warm, with an underlying note that screamed fuckable. His cock, already fully erect, pressed insistently against the curve of your ass through his sweatpants. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, leaking steadily into his boxers and creating a growing wet spot. He could feel the heat of you through your clothes, and his mind spiraled.

God, she smells so fucking good… I want to bury my face between her thighs and breathe her in. Taste how wet she gets for me. Flip her over right here and fuck her slow while she’s dripping all over my cock. His hand tightened on your stomach, thumb stroking absentmindedly. He tried to watch the screen, but the images blurred. All he could think about was peeling your clothes off, sucking marks into that scented skin, hearing you whimper as he pushed inside you.

You pressed back against him innocently, grinding just a little. Megumi bit back a groan, his cock jumping hard. Pre-cum oozed from the tip, slicking the inside of his boxers. His breathing grew heavier, chest rising and falling against your back. Sweat beaded at his temples.

“You okay, Megumi?” you asked softly, voice laced with fake innocence as you tilted your head slightly, giving him another wave of that maddening scent.

“Fine,” he rasped, throat tight. “Just… need the bathroom for a minute.” He pulled away abruptly, climbing off the bed with his back turned so you wouldn’t immediately see the massive bulge tenting his pants. He slipped into the attached bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him, leaning against it for a second as his hand palmed his aching erection through the fabric.

“Fuck…” he whispered, shoving his sweatpants and boxers down in one rough motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and flushed a deep, angry red. It curved slightly upward, veins prominent along the thick shaft, the swollen head glistening with a steady flow of pre-cum. At full hardness, it looked almost painfully needy, twitching in the cool air. Megumi wrapped his long fingers around the base, squeezing tightly as he began to stroke.

His hand moved slowly at first, savoring the slick glide as more pre-cum coated his palm. But the pheromone perfume still clung to him—on his shirt from the hug, in his nose, driving him insane. He pumped faster, twisting his wrist over the sensitive head on every upstroke. Lewd, wet sounds filled the small bathroom: shlick, shlick, shlick. His free hand braced against the door as his hips jerked forward into his fist.

Dirty fantasies flooded his mind. He pictured you on your knees, looking up at him with those teasing eyes while you sucked him down, your tongue swirling around that same scented skin. Then you bent over his bed, ass up, pussy dripping as he slammed into you from behind, breathing in that perfume with every brutal thrust. “You smell so fucking good,” he muttered under his breath, stroking harder. “Gonna fill you up… make you scream my name while you’re soaked in it…”

His balls tightened, drawing up close to his body. Pleasure coiled hot and tight at the base of his spine. He was so close—right on the edge, cock pulsing wildly in his grip, a thick bead of pre-cum rolling down the shaft.

A soft knock on the door made his entire body jolt.

“Megumi~” Your voice was playful, dripping with knowing amusement right outside. “You’ve been in there a while. Need any help with that?”

His hand froze mid-stroke, fingers still wrapped tightly around his throbbing cock. He was leaking profusely now, the head shiny and swollen, just seconds from exploding. His chest heaved, cheeks burning with a mix of humiliation and overwhelming arousal. The scent of the perfume still haunted him, making his cock twitch desperately in his hand.

He knew he was completely fucked.

“You… planned this, didn’t you?” he growled through the door, voice hoarse and strained with lust. “That perfume… fuck, it’s everywhere.”

You laughed softly, the sound sending another jolt straight to his dick. “Maybe I did. Are you gonna keep stroking that pretty cock all by yourself, or are you going to let me in and help you finish?”

Megumi’s breath hitched. His grip tightened involuntarily, drawing a low groan from his throat. For a long second, he hesitated—embarrassment warring with raw need. Then he reached out with his free hand and twisted the lock, cracking the door open just enough.

• He remains composed and refined on the surface, but his tail betrays him—lashing when frustrated after missions or family pressure, or wrapping around you protectively in crowds, ears perking up at the sound of your voice.

• Private affection comes easily: he pulls you close so his tail can drape over your lap or shoulders, letting you scratch behind his sensitive ears until a low, rumbling purr vibrates from his chest and his ears relax.

• Protective by nature, he uses his heightened hearing to detect threats early and keeps you close, tail gently guiding you behind him while his sharp eyes scan the area.

• After tough days carrying Nijiku expectations, he seeks you out silently—ears slightly flattened, tail dragging low—melting when you run fingers through his hair or stroke his ears, opening up about his inner turmoil in a soft, trusting voice.

• Playful moments include teasing chases where his tail flicks invitingly as he “hunts” you, or him batting lightly at your hair with a smirk before pulling you into a warm embrace.

• He brings small thoughtful gifts from the surface, presenting them with a subtle tail wag and a rare genuine smile when you light up.

• Cold nights are spent with you tucked against his body, his thick tail wrapped around you like an extra blanket while his ears twitch contentedly at your heartbeat.

• Jealousy shows quietly—a low growl, ears pinning back, and his tail coiling more possessively around you until he can pull you away for private reassurance.

• He loves when you groom or play with his ears and tail; these vulnerable touches make him feel truly seen beyond his “young master” status, strengthening your bond through quiet intimacy.

NSFW Headcanons:

• Zanka leans more submissive in bed, his snow leopard ears flattening and tail thrashing or curling submissively as he melts under your touch and control, purring desperately while still capable of switching when his instincts flare.

• He becomes beautifully vocal and pliant when you take charge—ears pinned back, breath hitching as he begs softly in that velvety voice for more, his thick tail wrapping around your wrist or waist to pull you closer while he yields.

• Foreplay leaves him trembling: teasing his sensitive ears and tail base makes his knees weaken and draws deep, broken purrs; he submits eagerly to your mouth and hands, hips bucking helplessly as his tail coils submissively.

• When you dominate him, he’s incredibly responsive—arching into your touch, whispering pleas like “Please… don’t stop” while his ears twitch with every wave of pleasure and his tail squeezes around you in surrender.

• Even when he tops, there’s a submissive edge: he lets you guide the pace, eyes locked on yours with blown pupils, following your commands as his tail strokes you obediently and his ears stay attuned to your moans.

• His stamina remains high, but after you push him he becomes extra clingy and submissive in aftercare—curling into you with his tail wrapped tightly around your body, ears relaxed and purring continuously while seeking praise and gentle touches.

• Light marking and scenting happen when he’s overwhelmed: he nips at your skin while submitting, then soothes the spots with his tongue, tail never letting go as he gives himself over completely.

• Favorite positions let you stay in control—riding him while he grips the sheets, ears flat and tail lashing, or taking him from behind so you can tug his tail and watch his strong back arch submissively.

• He craves the contrast between his usual composed Cleaner demeanor and how easily you unravel him, becoming a needy, purring mess who trusts you with his vulnerability and begs for release.

• Bonded intimacy feels deeper because of his submissiveness: every twitch of his ears and curl of his tail shows how completely he surrenders to you, turning every encounter into a passionate mix of trust, pleasure, and quiet devotion.

Your fingers idly played with his spiky blond hair, twisting the shorter strands at the nape of his neck. It was softer than it looked, still slightly damp from his post-training shower. You combed through it gently, smiling when he let out a small grunt of approval and tilted his head back into your touch.

“Feels good, huh?” you murmured, nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

“Tch. Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. His eyes slipped closed.

You kept going, enjoying the way he melted under your hands. Then your fingers caught on a tangle. Without thinking, you gave a small tug to work it free.

A low, throaty moan slipped from Katsuki’s lips.

Your hand froze. His eyes snapped open, wide with surprise, cheeks already flushing pink. “What the fuck was that?” he growled, voice rough.

You blinked, heart picking up speed. “I… tugged your hair. By accident.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “Didn’t mean shit. Ignore it.”

But you couldn’t ignore it. That sound had gone straight between your legs, hot and unexpected. Katsuki, who always tried to stay in control, had moaned from something so simple. You filed it away, pressing a kiss to his temple and continuing to stroke his hair more carefully this time. He didn’t stop you.

Katsuki’s mind was a chaotic mess as he lay there pretending to focus on the movie. What the hell was that? The sharp tug on his hair had sent a jolt straight down his spine, heat pooling low in his gut before he could even process it. He had moaned. Actually moaned like some weak extra. The sensation lingered, a tingling pull at his scalp that made his cock twitch traitorously in his sweatpants. He was shocked, pissed at himself for letting it slip out, but fuck if it hadn’t turned him on more than he wanted to admit. No one had ever pulled his hair like that. It felt good. Too good. Dangerous. He shifted slightly, hoping you wouldn’t notice the growing hardness against your thigh. He was already imagining your fingers doing it again, yanking harder while he was buried inside you. The thought made his pulse race. He shoved it down, burying his face in your hair and growling something about you being annoying, but the spark was already lit. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

A few nights later, the tension between you had only grown. The memory of that moan replayed in your head constantly. You’d been teasing him all evening with light touches and lingering kisses, until he finally snapped and hauled you into the bedroom, slamming the door behind you.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush. Katsuki was on you immediately, hands rough and possessive as he pinned you to the bed. His mouth claimed yours in a searing kiss, tongue demanding entry while his fingers dug into your hips. You arched up into him, feeling the hard length of his cock pressing against your thigh, already leaking at the tip.

“Fuck, you’re soaked already,” he groaned, sliding two thick fingers through your slick folds before pushing them inside you. He curled them just right, stroking that spongy spot that made your toes curl and pleasure spark up your spine. Wet sounds filled the room as he pumped them steadily, his calloused thumb circling your swollen clit until your thighs trembled. “Gonna make you scream my name.”

You moaned loudly, legs wrapping around his waist, but your mind was focused on something else. When he finally withdrew his fingers and positioned the blunt head of his cock at your entrance, you reached up and threaded your fingers through his hair.

He thrust in deep in one smooth, powerful motion, stretching your walls around his thick length. The burn was delicious, pleasure blooming hot and intense as he bottomed out, his heavy balls pressed against you. You gasped at the fullness, nails digging into his shoulders.

Katsuki set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward hard and fast. Each thrust drove him deep, the head of his cock dragging along your inner walls and hitting that perfect spot over and over. The slap of skin on skin mixed with your shared moans. Sweat glistened on his chest and shoulders, dripping down onto your breasts as he leaned over you. His muscles flexed with every movement, abs tightening as he fucked you relentlessly.

You let him have control for a while, meeting every powerful thrust with rolls of your own hips, clenching around him to pull him deeper. But then you tightened your grip in his spiky blond hair.

You tugged firmly, yanking his head back to expose the strong column of his throat.

Katsuki’s rhythm faltered sharply. A raw, broken whimper tore from his throat, high and needy, his crimson eyes fluttering shut for a moment as his cock throbbed violently inside you. His hips stuttered, pace turning messy.

“Oh,” you breathed, a thrill shooting through you. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Shut… ah, fuck,” he tried to snarl, voice cracking, but you tugged again, harder this time, pulling his head back further while you clenched your pussy tight around his pulsing length.

His thrusts grew erratic and desperate, short and frantic as he chased the overwhelming sensation. The whimper turned into a continuous string of low, desperate sounds he couldn’t hold back no matter how hard he tried. His face was flushed deep red, lips parted, sweat beading on his forehead. The tough, dominant hero was unraveling right in front of you, reduced to whimpers by your fingers in his hair.

You kept the pressure on, nails scraping his scalp as you pulled and twisted the blond strands. “Cum for me, Katsuki,” you whispered hotly against his ear.

Katsuki came with a choked, guttural groan, his entire body seizing up. His cock swelled and pulsed hard inside you as thick ropes of cum spilled deep, filling you with hot spurts. His hips jerked uncontrollably through it, grinding against you as the orgasm hit him harder and earlier than ever before. The sight and feel of him like this, whimpering and shaking, pushed you over the edge too. Pleasure crashed through you in intense waves, your walls fluttering and squeezing around him, milking every last drop as your thighs shook and your back arched off the bed.

He collapsed on top of you, breathing ragged and heavy, face buried in the crook of your neck. You kept your fingers in his hair, stroking gently now, soothing the sting you’d caused while his cock continued to twitch with aftershocks inside you.

After a long moment, he mumbled against your skin, voice hoarse. “Didn’t know… fuck. Don’t tell anyone.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Your secret’s safe. But I am definitely doing that again.”

Zanka first encounters her during Rudo’s early training days with Team Akuta. Enjin assigns Zanka as the mentor because he’s the best at teaching the fundamentals of Vital Instruments and “Giver” techniques. Rudo is already being his usual stubborn, hot-headed self — clashing with Zanka’s more refined, analytical style.

YN shows up at the training grounds or the base after a rough session, checking on her brother with that signature mix of worry and no-nonsense attitude. She’s patching Rudo up or scolding him for being reckless (“You’re not invincible, idiot. I didn’t come down here just to watch you get yourself killed.”).

Zanka notices her immediately. She carries herself with quiet strength — not flashy like some of the elite families he knows, but grounded and resilient in a way that cuts through his usual arrogance. He tries to introduce himself professionally (“Your brother has raw talent, but he lacks discipline. I’ll make sure he doesn’t waste it.”), but there’s an instant spark. YN sees right through his polished Nijiku demeanor and teases him lightly about being the “spoiled rich kid trainer” everyone whispers about. Zanka, who rarely gets flustered, finds himself off-balance for the first time in a while.

Rudo clocks the lingering eye contact instantly and becomes an overprotective barrier. Every time Zanka tries to get even a moment alone with YN — offering extra training advice, asking about her instrument, or just being nearby — Rudo magically appears, glaring daggers and dragging his sister away with some excuse. It’s peak “and your friend Steve” energy. Zanka grows increasingly frustrated but also intrigued; he respects how deeply YN and Rudo care for each other.

How They Became a Couple

The slow burn builds through shared hardships. Missions against Trash Beasts force them to work together — YN’s steady, protective style meshes well with Zanka’s precise analysis and Vital Instrument expertise. Late nights repairing gear or debriefing turn into real conversations. Zanka opens up about the pressure of his prestigious family (and his complicated feelings toward his older sister Kyouka), while YN talks about her fear of losing Rudo, the only family she has left.

Zanka’s crush becomes obvious to everyone except (maybe) Rudo at first — extra careful when she’s in danger, subtle compliments on her tactics, finding reasons to linger around her. Rudo’s interruptions keep derailing moments, but they also push Zanka to prove himself. He earns Rudo’s reluctant respect by consistently having both siblings’ backs in fights and showing he’s not just another arrogant elite.

The turning point comes after a particularly dangerous encounter (perhaps during a big raid or Trash Storm aftermath). YN gets hurt protecting Rudo, or the siblings face a situation where Zanka has to choose between protocol and saving them. His mask cracks — he fights fiercely for them, then stays by YN’s side while she recovers, finally admitting his feelings in a raw, straightforward way.

YN, who has grown to see the real Zanka beneath the pride — the dedicated, insightful guy who’s learning to value found family — reciprocates. Their relationship starts quietly: stolen moments between missions, soft reassurance after battles, and Zanka’s surprisingly gentle side reserved just for her.

Rudo eventually comes around (after some dramatic brotherly threats and a heart-to-heart). He still glares at Zanka when he gets too close, but he trusts him to protect YN. The trio dynamic becomes stronger for it — bickering brothers-in-law with YN as the steady center.

Their relationship is equal parts fluff, banter, and deep loyalty: Zanka helps YN feel less alone in her protectiveness, and YN grounds Zanka, reminding him that strength isn’t just about talent or status. In the chaos of the Pit, they become each other’s anchor.

The Pit never gave anyone time to breathe, but somehow YN had carved out a small corner of it for her and Rudo. She was the one who had shoved through the terrified crowd on the Sphere that day, refusing to let her little brother fall alone. Now, months into their life among the Cleaners, she watched him train under Zanka Nijiku with the same fierce worry that had kept them alive this long.

Zanka was everything the rumors said: talented, analytical, and carrying the polished arrogance of the Nijiku family like a second skin. He moved like he was born to command Vital Instruments, correcting Rudo’s wild swings with sharp, precise instructions. But YN noticed the cracks — the way his eyes lingered on Rudo with a mix of frustration and reluctant respect, the subtle jealousy toward those who made power look effortless.

Their first real meeting happened after a brutal training session. Rudo had stormed off, covered in dirt and muttering curses. YN approached with a cloth and a water canteen, ready to tend to the scrapes on her brother’s arms like she always did.

“You’re his sister,” Zanka said, stepping closer than she expected. His voice was calm, almost clinical, but there was something warmer underneath. “He fights like he has nothing to lose. That’s dangerous.”

YN looked up at him, wiping sweat from her brow. She was no delicate Sphereite anymore — scars marked her hands from makeshift weapons and desperate nights. “He has me. That’s why he fights so hard. And I won’t let anyone treat him like just another recruit.”

Zanka’s gaze held hers a second too long. For the first time in a while, the composed mentor seemed slightly off-balance. “Admirable. Most people down here only look after themselves.” He offered a small, genuine nod before turning away, but YN caught the faint flush at the tips of his ears.

From then on, Zanka found excuses. Extra training “observations” that somehow included advice for her own defensive instrument. Quiet conversations by the flickering lights of the base after missions, where he’d share fragments of his privileged but suffocating upbringing. YN listened, teasing him gently about being a “spoiled strategist” while sharing stories of raising Rudo through the worst days on the Sphere. Rudo hated it.

Every single time Zanka tried to get closer — a shared meal, a walk through the safer edges of Canvas Town, even just handing her a repaired tool — Rudo would appear like a grumpy shadow. “Hey, sis. Training. Now.” He’d drag her away, shooting death glares over his shoulder. Zanka’s frustration was visible, but he never pushed. Instead, he worked harder to earn the kid’s trust.

Love crept in during the quiet dangers.

It was after a messy raid on a Trash Beast nest. The creature had cornered Rudo, its grotesque form lashing out with corrosive sludge. YN dove in without hesitation, her instrument flaring to deflect the worst of the attack. She took a hit to her side — burning pain that made her vision blur — but it bought Rudo the opening he needed.

Zanka was there in an instant. His precise strikes dismantled the beast’s weak points while he barked orders that kept the rest of the team coordinated. When the fight ended, he dropped to his knees beside YN, pressing a cloth to her wound with surprising gentleness.

“You idiot,” he muttered, voice tight. “You’re supposed to let the fighters take the hits.”

YN managed a weak laugh, gripping his arm. “He’s my brother. I’d fall into a hundred Pits for him.” Her eyes met Zanka’s, exhausted but steady. “But… thank you for having our backs.”

That night, as the team patched up and rested, Zanka stayed by her side longer than necessary. Rudo hovered nearby at first, but eventually gave them space after seeing the genuine concern on the older boy’s face. For the first time, Zanka let his guard down completely.

“I’ve spent my life chasing perfection because that’s what my family demanded,” he admitted quietly, staring at the dim lights above. “But watching you and Rudo… it’s different. You fight for each other without expecting anything back. It makes me want to be better. Not for status. For this.” His hand brushed hers. “For you, YN.”

The confession came weeks later, under a rare clear sky near the edge of their territory. The air still smelled of rust and distant smoke, but it felt peaceful. Zanka had finally gotten a moment alone with her after helping Rudo with a particularly stubborn Vital Instrument technique.

“I didn’t plan on this,” Zanka said, his usual confidence softened by nerves. He was taller than her, but in that moment he seemed almost vulnerable. “I came here to train a reckless kid. Instead I found his sister — someone stronger and kinder than this hell deserves. I love you, YN. Not as a distraction from the Pit, but as the reason it feels worth surviving.”

YN’s heart ached in the best way. She had spent so long being the protector that letting someone protect her felt foreign. But Zanka had proven himself again and again — not with grand gestures, but with steady presence, respect for her bond with Rudo, and the quiet way he made her feel seen.

She stepped forward, resting her forehead against his. “I love you too, Zanka. You make the chaos feel a little less lonely.”

Their first kiss was tentative, then deeper — tasting of sweat, relief, and the metallic tang of the Ground. When they pulled apart, Rudo was standing a respectful distance away, arms crossed but without his usual glare. He gave a single, reluctant nod before walking off. Approval, in his own grumpy way.

The curtain rustled. You looked up just as Zanka Nijiku stepped in, wiping dust and grime from his cheek with the back of his hand. His jacket was torn at the shoulder, and a nasty-looking scratch ran down his forearm, still seeping a little.

“Yo,” he greeted with that familiar crooked grin. “Got a minute? Need this patched before my next drop.”

You waved him over without hesitation. “Sit. What happened this time?”

“Same old trash business,” he said, dropping into the chair and offering his arm. As you activated your vital instrument, the soft light blooming across his skin, he launched into the story. “Ran into a nasty Abberation swarm near the boundary. Had to kite ‘em away from the rookies. You know how it is—lotta trash, lotta teeth.”

You nodded along, fingers moving with practiced precision. The healing energy knit the wound together cleanly. But Zanka’s sharp eyes were on you the whole time.

Your instrument made your eyes shine with that telltale glow, but he could see the exhaustion underneath—the way your shoulders sagged, the faint dark circles, and especially the subtle tremble in your hands as you finished the last pass.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly once the light faded.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, flexing your fingers. “Just… busy. A lot of teams came back rough today.”

Zanka didn’t argue then. He thanked you, ruffled your hair lightly, and left for his next mission. But the worry in his gaze lingered long after he was gone.

Later that night, after yet another endless shift, you finally stumbled back to your small quarters. The door opened before you could even reach for it.

Zanka was already inside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He’d clearly waited for you. Without a word, he pulled you into a hug, then guided you toward the bed. Exhaustion won out quickly. You barely remembered changing before the two of you ended up tangled together under the thin blanket—his chest pressed to your back, one arm securely around your waist.

Sunlight (or what passed for it in the regulated habitat) filtered through the small reinforced window. You woke slowly, warm and heavy. Too heavy.

Zanka had shifted in his sleep and was now half-draped over you like a living weighted blanket. His head rested on your chest, one leg thrown over yours, arms loosely caging you in. His breathing was deep and relaxed—rare for a cleaner who lived on the edge.

“Zanka…” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “I need to get up. The bay’s probably backed up again.”

He made a low, disapproving hum against your collarbone, not even opening his eyes. His hold tightened just enough to keep you pinned.

“Zanka, come on. Work—”

Another hum, this one grumpier. He finally cracked one eye open, amber and stubborn. “Nah.”

You tried to shift, but he simply adjusted his weight, effectively trapping you more comfortably beneath him.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he muttered, voice still husky from sleep. “Saw it yesterday—hands shaking, eyes dead tired even when your instrument’s blazing. You’re gonna burn out if you keep this up.” His fingers traced lazy circles on your side. “And today’s my free day. Means you’re taking one too. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m the healer here,” you protested weakly, though the fight was already leaving you. The warmth of him, the solid safety of his presence, made the idea of leaving the bed feel impossible.

“Exactly. So heal yourself for once.” He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. “Stay. That’s an order from your favorite cleaner.”

You lasted maybe two more minutes—lightly pushing at his shoulder, murmuring half-hearted complaints—before the exhaustion pulled you under again. With a defeated little sigh, you let your arms wrap around him instead, fingers threading through his messy hair.

Zanka let out a satisfied sound, settling heavier on top of you like he planned to stay there all day.

“Good choice,” he whispered, already drifting back off with you.

You remembered the first time they dragged you into it. You were maybe six, clutching your teddy bear backpack—a ridiculous thing your grandmother had scavenged from some upper-level discard pile before she passed. It was shaped like a bear, worn brown fur matted from years of love and neglect, with a small compartment hidden around the head where you could stuff tiny treasures: a shiny button, a crumpled note with a child’s drawing, or later, scraps of food pilfered when meals became scarce. That bear was your anchor. When the yelling started—your father’s voice booming like thunder, your mother’s sharp and cutting like broken glass—you’d bury your face in its fur, the synthetic stuffing muffling the world just enough to let you pretend you were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

“See what you’ve done? The kid’s crying again because of you!” your father would roar, his hand gesturing wildly, knocking over a chair that clattered too close to your hiding spot under the table.

“You think I wanted this life? Trapped with you and your failures?” your mother would shriek back, her eyes wild, sometimes flinging whatever was in reach—a plate, a shoe, once even a half-empty bottle that shattered near your feet, glass nicking your ankle.

You’d flinch, curl tighter around the bear, whispering promises to it that you’d be good, that you’d make it stop somehow. School was no sanctuary. The other kids in the overcrowded classrooms of the Pit’s underbelly sensed weakness like predators. “Trash baby,” they’d sneer, tripping you in the hallways or stealing your meager lunch while you clung to the straps of your bear-backpack. Combat training in the rudimentary programs they called “preparation for life” was the worst. You were never strong, never fast enough. The instructors barked orders, but your body froze under pressure, memories of home invading every dodge, every attempted strike. Punches from peers landed harder because you hesitated, always expecting the next blow to come with words that cut deeper than fists.

The Hell’s Guard recruitment pipelines scooped up strays like you eventually. At twelve, you were funneled into the lower academies—not the prestigious ones like Zanka’s family attended, but the grinding meat grinders where rejects learned to swing weapons at trash beasts or die trying. You never crossed paths with him there; he was elite, top of his class, destined for glory. You were the shadow in the back row, the one who got picked on relentlessly. “Dead weight,” the cadets called you. “Clumsy bear girl.” You’d retreat to your bunk after sessions, tears soaking the bear’s head compartment, its fur absorbing the salt of your failures.

Running away at sixteen was your first real act of agency. The streets of the Pit swallowed you for weeks—scavenging, hiding, surviving on the kindness of strangers who had none to spare. Until the Cleaners found you. Or rather, until Semiu’s glasses did.

Semiu Grier had eyed you skeptically at first during intake. “Support role, probably,” she’d muttered, adjusting those peculiar lenses that seemed to peer into souls. But when she focused them on you—and on the bear-backpack you refused to part with—her expression shifted. “Interesting resonance. That thing’s got history with you. Vital Instrument potential? Or something deeper.” She didn’t push, but she kept you around. Life at Cleaner HQ became the first fragile thread of stability. Missions were terrifying but purposeful. You learned slowly: how to read trash beast patterns, how to support the frontline without becoming a liability, how to breathe through the panic that still clawed at your throat.

And then there was Zanka Nijiku.

He was a storm wrapped in precision—sharp features, intense eyes that had seen the same institutional hell you had, but from the opposite side. Former Hell Guard trainee, son of prestige, who had walked away from it all. Your first real conversation happened after a grueling cleanup op. You were both nursing bruises in the common area, the bear-backpack slung over your shoulder like always.

“Hate what it does to you, doesn’t it?” he’d said quietly, staring at the floor. “The Guard. Turns kids into weapons or breaks them trying.”

You nodded, fingers tracing the bear’s ear. “Never even met the good ones. Just the yelling, the pressure. The feeling like you’re never enough.”

He glanced at you then, really looked. A shared understanding bloomed—love-hate for the system that had scarred you both differently. From there, bonds formed in stolen moments: late-night talks about dropping out, about finding purpose in the Cleaners’ ragtag family. He teased you gently about the bear (“Still hauling that furball everywhere?”), but never mocked. You saw the cracks in his armor too—the weight of family expectations, the isolation of being the “disappointment” who chose junk over legacy. Slowly, missions together felt less like duty and more like partnership. Your mistakes were fewer; his guidance patient. Life was… good. For once.

Until that day.

Zanka’s morning had been a disaster. First mission with a squad of overeager supports—they meant well, but their positioning threw off his rhythm. A trash beast nearly clipped him because of a mistimed distraction. He bit back the frustration, swallowing it like bitter medicine. Bad day, he told himself. It’ll pass. No yelling. He was better than that. Or so he thought.

The second mission paired him with you. You were still green, eager to prove yourself. The op started fine—routine sweep in a mid-level trash sector. But nerves built. You fumbled a support tether, delaying a reposition. Minor. Then, while assisting the backline with evac protocols, the beast lunged unexpectedly. Your reaction was a split-second too slow; instincts from years of freezing under fire kicked in. Zanka dove in, his Lovely Assistaff (that cherished junk stick turned weapon) flashing in a desperate arc. He saved you, but the beast’s claw raked his side—shallow, but burning pain that fueled the fire he’d been tamping down all day.

The ride back to HQ was silent. Tense. You fidgeted with the bear’s strap, heart pounding. I messed up. Again.

At headquarters, as the team dispersed, you approached him in the main hall near Semiu’s desk. The air smelled of oil, metal, and faint ozone from recent gear charges. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows on the scuffed floors.

“Zanka, I’m really sorry about out there,” you started, voice small but sincere. “I didn’t mean to—”

He whirled, the dam breaking. His face, usually composed with that cool intensity, twisted with exhaustion and pent-up rage. “Sorry? That’s all you’ve got? You were sloppy out there—dead weight dragging everyone down! How many times do I have to cover for your mistakes? You’re not cut out for this, [Reader]. Should’ve quit before you got someone killed. Or worse, yourself. What, you gonna hide behind that stupid bear forever? Grow up!”

The words hit like physical blows. Your vision tunneled. The yelling echoed—not Zanka’s voice anymore, but the layered screams of your parents. See what you’ve done? Plates shattering. Trapped with your failures! A bottle whistling past your ear. The bear’s fur under your fingers felt the same as it did back then, a pathetic shield against the storm. Your mind replayed it all in vivid, unwanted detail: the way your father’s hands would fly up in gestures of fury, objects following; your mother’s accusations piercing like needles. You spaced out completely, body locking into that old survival mode—muscles rigid, breath shallow, world reduced to a distant roar.

Zanka kept going, frustration pouring out. “This isn’t the Academy playground where you can just freeze up! Cleaners die because of—”

He threw his hands up in exasperation, a broad gesture to emphasize his point.

You flinched. Hard. Instinctively, your arms came up, shielding your head, body curling slightly as if expecting impact. A small, involuntary whimper escaped. Tremors ran through you, visible even under the dim lighting. The bear-backpack shifted on your back, its weight a familiar comfort you leaned into subconsciously.

Zanka’s voice died mid-sentence. Shock painted his features—eyes widening, mouth slack. The anger drained instantly, replaced by dawning horror as he registered your posture, the way you shook like a leaf in a gale. This wasn’t just a rookie overwhelmed. This was deeper. Broken.

Semiu, who had been observing silently from her desk (those glasses of hers probably picking up every emotional undercurrent), rose smoothly. She stepped between you, her presence calm but firm. “Zanka. Enough. Go clean up. Get some food. Cool off.” Her tone left no room for argument, but her eyes flicked to you with quiet concern.

He stared at you a moment longer, guilt crashing over him like a wave. He hadn’t known—how could he?—but that didn’t erase the damage. Without a word, he turned and stalked off toward the dorms, shoulders tense.

You didn’t wait. The second his back was turned, you bolted. Feet pounding on the metal grating of the hallways, tears blurring your vision. You burst into your small room—a sparse Cleaner quarters with a cot, a locker, and the faint hum of ventilation. The door slammed shut behind you. The bear-backpack slid from your shoulders into your arms as you collapsed onto the bed, burying your face in its fur. Silent tears soaked the fabric, body wracked with quiet sobs that echoed the child you’d never fully escaped. Why can’t I be better? Why does it always end like this?

Zanka’s room was a mirror of controlled chaos. Weapons leaned neatly against one wall, but his mind was anything but. He stripped off his gear, wincing at the sting in his side, and stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded over him, but it did little to wash away the replay looping in his head.

Sloppy. Dead weight. Quit.

Her flinch. That protective curl, arms over head, shaking. The way her eyes had glazed, like she wasn’t even there anymore. He’d seen trauma in the Pit—plenty of it. But this… this was personal. Intimate. He’d hurt her, not with a weapon, but with words that mirrored whatever hell she’d crawled from. The bear. She’d mentioned bits of her past in their talks, but he’d never pressed. Family fights. School bullies. Hell Guard rejects. He cursed himself, fist slamming lightly against the tile. Guilt gnawed deep, sharper than the claw wound.

You kneel before Fu in the dim, cluttered safehouse, the faint glow of a single lantern casting long shadows across the cracked walls. The air is heavy with the scent of rain-soaked ruins outside and the warm, intimate musk rising between you. Fu sits on the edge of the old mattress, his legs spread slightly, pants shoved down just enough. His cheeks are already flushed, that shy, almost boyish expression on his face as he looks down at you with wide, affectionate eyes. Hii—the cursed doll, his vital instrument—rests nearby on the floor, its raccoon-like face frozen in that eerie grin, but for now, it’s dormant. This is Fu, your gentle boyfriend, the one who follows orders and blushes at praise. And all you want is to please him, to make him feel utterly loved and taken care of after another brutal day in the Pit.

“You really don’t have to…” Fu starts softly, his voice hesitant, one hand hovering near your hair like he’s afraid to impose. But his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward against his stomach, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You smile up at him, eyes full of warmth and hunger. “I want to. I love this. I love making you feel good, Fu. Just let me take care of you.” Your fingers wrap gently around the base, feeling the heat and the way it twitches at your touch. You lean in slowly, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to the head before dragging your tongue along the underside in one long, slow stripe. Fu gasps, his hips jerking once before he steadies himself, fingers finally threading into your hair with the lightest pressure.

You take your time, savoring every inch. Your lips part and slide down over him, enveloping the head in wet heat. You suck gently at first, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge, tasting the salty-sweet precum as it leaks onto your tongue. Inch by inch, you sink lower, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes the dark hair at his base. The fullness of him in your mouth makes you moan softly, the vibration pulling a shaky whimper from Fu’s throat.

“F-fuck… your mouth feels so good,” he breathes, voice cracking. His free hand grips the edge of the mattress, knuckles whitening. You bob your head in a steady rhythm, hollowing your cheeks for that perfect tight suction. Your tongue works relentlessly along the veined underside, flicking and pressing against every sensitive spot you know drives him crazy. Saliva drips down your chin, slicking his balls as you cup and gently massage them with one hand. The wet, obscene sounds echo softly in the quiet room—slow, devoted slurps and swallows as you worship him completely.

Fu’s breathing grows ragged, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him throbbing heavier against your tongue, the head swelling as he nears the edge. His hips start making tiny, involuntary thrusts, chasing the pleasure. “I’m… I’m getting close,” he warns, voice high and needy, eyes squeezed shut in bliss.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you take him even deeper, throat constricting around him in rhythmic swallows, determined to bring him over. Your gaze stays locked on his face, drinking in every twitch of ecstasy, every bitten lip. This is your Fu—soft, vulnerable, trusting you completely.

Right as his body coils tight, a sudden surge of anima crackles through him. The vital instrument activates unintentionally, triggered by the overwhelming pleasure and lack of external orders. In a disorienting flash, Fu’s demeanor shifts completely. His posture changes, shoulders squaring with cocky confidence, that shy expression melting into Hii’s manic, predatory grin. The same body, but now controlled by the bolder, more volatile personality of his cursed doll.

Hii lets out a low, rough laugh that vibrates through his chest. “Heh—well, shit. Didn’t plan on switching right now, but look at you… still going like the eager little pleaser you are.” His hand tightens in your hair, not painfully, but with a firm, guiding grip. The cock in your mouth feels the same—thick, hot, familiar—yet the energy behind it is electric, more demanding.

You don’t miss a beat. Your devotion doesn’t falter; if anything, it burns hotter. You suck harder, faster, pouring the same love into pleasing this side of him. Your tongue laps greedily, lips stretched wide as you deepthroat him with practiced ease. Drool spills messily down your chin and onto his balls as you work him over, hollowing your cheeks and twisting your hand in time with every bob of your head. The wet glucking sounds grow louder, filthier.

Hii groans deeply, hips rolling up to meet your mouth. “That’s it—fuck, keep swallowing me down just like that. You love this cock no matter who’s driving, don’t you?” His voice is rougher, laced with that wild edge, but there’s still underlying affection in the way his fingers stroke through your hair between tugs. You moan around him in agreement, eyes watering but sparkling with adoration. You relax your throat fully, taking him to the hilt again and again, nose buried against his pelvis as you breathe through it and hum.

Hii’s thrusts grow more insistent, fucking into your willing mouth with controlled power. His balls draw up tight, cock pulsing thickly on your tongue. “Shit—gonna fill that pretty throat. Don’t you dare spill a drop.” With a guttural growl, Hii cums hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flood your mouth and slide straight down your throat as you swallow convulsively around him, milking every powerful spurt. You keep sucking through it, tongue soothing the underside, drawing out every tremor until he’s panting and spent.

The moment his orgasm crests and begins to ebb, the vital instrument pulses again. The swap reverses. Hii’s cocky energy vanishes, replaced instantly by Fu’s trembling, overwhelmed body. Fu’s eyes fly open wide, a broken whimper escaping his lips as the pent-up release—held suspended through the swap—crashes over him with full force.

“Ah—! W-wait, it’s—it’s still—!” Fu’s voice cracks into a high, desperate whine. His cock, still buried deep in your mouth and hypersensitive from Hii’s climax, erupts again almost immediately. Fresh, intense spurts of cum flood your throat while the previous high hasn’t even fully faded for his body. He shakes uncontrollably, hips stuttering in shallow, helpless thrusts as overwhelming pleasure borders on overstimulation. Whimpers and soft, needy cries spill from him nonstop— so raw and vulnerable compared to Hii’s growl. His fingers clutch your hair tightly, not pushing you away but holding on like you’re his lifeline.

You swallow it all greedily, humming soothingly around his pulsing length. Your hands stroke his trembling thighs, grounding him as you continue gentle, loving sucks to ease him through the prolonged release. Tears of overwhelming sensation prick at the corners of his eyes, his face flushed crimson as he rides out the intense waves. “Too much… feels so good—thank you, thank you…” he babbles between whimpers, body quaking until the last weak spurts coat your tongue.

Only when he’s fully spent do you slowly pull off, licking your swollen lips clean and pressing soft, affectionate kisses along his softening cock and thighs. You rest your cheek against his hip, gazing up at him with pure adoration as he slumps back, chest heaving, a dazed, blissed-out smile on his face.

Fu reaches down shakily, pulling you up into his lap and burying his face in your neck. “You’re… incredible,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and full of love. “Both of us… we don’t deserve how much you give.” The doll Hii sits silent nearby, but you know that part of him feels it too through their shared bond.

Riyo Reaper wasn’t one to complain. She was the one who used to kill for a living. Pain was just background noise. But tonight, every step felt like dragging lead, and her usual chaotic grin was nowhere to be found.

You looked up from where you’d been waiting, a towel and some oil you’d scavenged already laid out. “Rough one?”

She grunted, shrugging off her jacket with a hiss. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Those things were extra trashy today.” Her voice was lighter than usual, trying for that signature teasing lilt, but it came out tired. Her messy red hair, still half-tied in that sideways loop, stuck to her pale neck with sweat. The skinny frame that hid surprising strength looked smaller tonight, shoulders slumped.

“Come here,” you said softly, patting the edge of the cot.

Riyo eyed you for a second, green eyes narrowing like she was debating whether to brush it off with a joke. But something in your expression made her cave. She shuffled over and dropped down, letting out a long breath as she sat with her back to you.

Your hands found her shoulders first — tense as coiled springs, knotted from swinging those massive scissors all day. She jolted at the contact but didn’t pull away. Slowly, you worked your thumbs into the tight muscles, pressing firmly but gently, feeling the way she gradually melted under the touch.

“…You don’t have to,” she muttered after a minute, voice unusually quiet. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“I know you have,” you replied, sliding your hands down her arms, careful around the fresh bruises. “Doesn’t mean you always have to carry it alone. Let me take some of it tonight.”

She was silent for a while, only the occasional soft sigh or tiny involuntary hum escaping as you found a particularly sore spot. You moved to her back, working along her spine, the oil helping your palms glide over pale skin marked by old scars and new welts. Riyo’s breathing evened out, the sharp edges she always carried softening in the quiet lamplight.

After a few minutes, she leaned back into you slightly, head tipping forward so her red hair curtained her face. “You’re too nice to me,” she whispered, almost like an accusation. “I used to… y’know. Do bad things. I don’t deserve this kinda softness.”

Your hands paused, then resumed even gentler. You leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the back of her neck. “You deserve it more than anyone, Riyo. You fight like hell every day for this place, for the team… for a better version of yourself. That counts.”

She let out a shaky little laugh that sounded suspiciously wet. “Sap.”

“Yeah, well. You like it.”

Another quiet laugh, this one warmer. She turned just enough to glance at you over her shoulder, those vivid green eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. The chaotic, scissors-wielding grim reaper of Team Akuta looked almost fragile like this — trusting, letting herself be cared for.

You kept going until her body felt loose and heavy with exhaustion, the worst of the tension worked out. When you finally stopped, she caught one of your hands and tugged you down onto the cot beside her, curling into your side with surprising clinginess for someone so usually hyper and independent.

“Stay,” she mumbled against your shoulder, already half-asleep. “Just… stay a bit.”

You wrapped your arms around her skinny frame, holding her close. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You’d watched him spar with Enjin earlier—easy, fluid movements, that calm mask he wore like armor. When Riyo clapped him on the shoulder afterward, something vicious twisted in your chest. She gets to touch him so casually. Your brain supplied a hundred worst-case scenarios in seconds: what if he realized how much easier it would be with someone stable? Someone who didn’t swing from “I need you more than air” to “I hate how much I need you” in the same breath.

By the time he found you sitting on the edge of a ruined rooftop, knees pulled to your chest, the mood had already flipped twice.

“…You’re upset,” Zanka said quietly, lowering himself beside you. His voice was even, almost gentle, the way it always was when he tried to navigate your storms. His navy eyes flicked over your face, reading the tension there like a battlefield map.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, then immediately regretted it. Your fingers dug into your arms hard enough to leave marks. Attachment issues were a bitch—you wanted him closer, wanted him to prove he wouldn’t leave, but the second he got too close you pushed. “Actually, no. I’m not. You looked like you were having fun with them.”

He didn’t flinch. Zanka rarely did. That composed exterior of his was both a comfort and a trigger; it made you feel safe and terrified all at once, because what if underneath it he was tired of this? Of you?

“I was training,” he answered simply. “You know that.”

“Yeah, well, training looked a lot like flirting from where I was standing.” The words tasted bitter. Jealousy burned hot behind your eyes. You knew it was irrational. You knew, but knowing didn’t stop the spiral. “Riyo gets to laugh with you. Touch you. And I’m just… here. Waiting for the day you realize I’m too much.”

Silence stretched. You hated the quiet almost as much as you hated the noise in your head.

Zanka shifted closer until his shoulder brushed yours. He didn’t crowd you—he’d learned that much after the last blow-up—but he stayed within reach. “You’re not ‘too much.’ You’re… intense. Like the currents down here. They pull hard, sometimes they drag you under. But they’re real.”

Your throat tightened. Mood swing incoming—you could feel the crash from anger into desperate longing. Tears pricked your eyes. “I hate this. I hate feeling like if you even look at someone else I’m going to fall apart. I hate clinging to you one second and wanting to run the next. What if you get sick of it? What if one day you just… leave like everyone else?”

His hand found yours. Long fingers, calloused from the Lovely Assistaff, wrapped around your trembling ones with careful strength. “I’m not leaving.”

“You say that now.” Your voice cracked. Attachment fears clawed up your throat. “But I push people away. I test them. I get jealous and mean and then I hate myself and—god, Zanka, why do you even put up with me?”

He turned to face you fully, that slicked-back mullet catching the dim light, blond streaks glowing faintly. For once, the calm cracked just enough for you to see the turmoil underneath—the same internal chaos he carried from his family expectations, the pressure of being the “perfect” Nijiku who chose the Cleaners instead. He understood fractured pieces better than most.

“Because I see you,” he said. “All of it. The swings. The fear. The way you light up when things are good and burn everything when they’re not. It’s not easy. But it’s you. And I chose you.”

You surged forward without thinking, burying your face in his chest. Arms wrapped around him too tight—too much—but he let you. One hand rubbed slow circles on your back while the other stayed laced with yours.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin this,” you whispered against his uniform.

“You might try.” There was the faintest hint of a smile in his voice. “But I’ve survived worse than your storms. And I’ll still be here when the rain stops.”

Later, when the swing settled and the exhaustion hit, you curled against him on the rooftop, head on his shoulder. He didn’t move, even when your grip on his shirt stayed white-knuckled. Jealousy still simmered low, attachment issues whispered that this was temporary, but for now his steady heartbeat drowned them out.

Zanka Nijiku—calm on the surface, turbulent beneath—had chosen the chaos of loving you.

And for as long as he kept choosing it, you’d keep fighting to believe him.

Bonus scene

You woke up at 3 a.m. convinced he was pulling away. He wasn’t even awake—just breathing evenly beside you in the safehouse bunk.

You shook his shoulder. “Zanka.”

He stirred instantly, alert even half-asleep. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t know. I just needed to hear your voice. Tell me you’re not tired of me yet.”

You stormed down the corridor still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, pushed open the door to his quarters without knocking, and stepped inside. The room was dimly lit, just a single lamp on the bedside table casting warm, low light across the modest space. Zanka sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees, staring down at the floor like it held answers. His shoulders were tense, hair slightly disheveled from training.

“Zanka,” you said firmly, closing the door behind you with a soft click. “What the hell was that today? You’ve been acting like a complete asshole to me for no reason.”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes meeting yours. For a brief moment, something vulnerable flickered across his face—wide-eyed surprise mixed with heat—before he schooled it back into a neutral mask. He stood up, tall and broad in the confined room, and ran a hand through his hair.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, turning slightly away. “Just drop it.”

“No.” You crossed the space between you, stopping just inches from him. The air felt thick, charged. You could smell the faint trace of his sweat mixed with soap, see the faint sheen on his collarbone where his shirt clung. “You’ve been dodging me, snapping at every little thing. If I pissed you off somehow, tell me. Don’t shut me out like this.”

Zanka’s jaw tightened. He looked down at you, then away, then back again. His breathing had grown a little heavier. The flush started at his neck and crept upward, coloring his cheeks. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said finally, voice rough and low. “It’s me. I’ve been… distracted. By you. All fucking day.”

You tilted your head, waiting. The admission seemed to cost him something, because he groaned softly and dragged both hands down his face, hiding behind them in clear embarrassment. His shoulders hunched inward. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About touching you. It was driving me insane and I got pissed at myself for not being able to focus. Acted like an idiot instead of just dealing with it. Sorry.”

The raw honesty hit you like a spark to dry tinder. Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading outward. You reached up and gently pulled his hands away from his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want, but that embarrassed flush remained.

“You should have said something earlier,” you whispered, stepping even closer until your bodies nearly touched. Your hand slid down his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.

Before he could respond, you sank slowly to your knees in front of him, maintaining eye contact the entire way down. Zanka’s breath caught sharply. You tugged his pants down just enough to free him, his cock already half-hard and twitching under your attention. You wrapped one hand around the thick base, stroking slowly, feeling him swell and harden fully in your grip—hot, velvety skin over rigid length.

Leaning in, you pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum that had gathered there. Zanka let out a low, shaky groan, one hand coming to rest lightly in your hair. You took your time, dragging your tongue along the underside from base to head in long, deliberate strokes, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding your lips down over him. The wet heat of your mouth enveloped him inch by inch until he bumped the back of your throat.

“Fuck…” he breathed, fingers tightening gently in your hair. You hummed around him, the vibration pulling another deep moan from his chest. You bobbed slowly, savoring every inch, hollowing your cheeks on the upstroke and relaxing your throat to take him deeper. Saliva coated him, making each glide slick and noisy in the quiet room. You alternated between long, slow sucks and quicker, shallower movements, your free hand cupping and massaging his balls with careful pressure.

Zanka’s thighs trembled. He kept his gaze locked on you, watching every movement with rapt intensity, but he didn’t thrust or rush you. Instead, soft, broken sounds escaped him—quiet gasps turning into whimpers when you swirled your tongue just right. “That feels… so good. You’re incredible,” he murmured, voice hoarse. Minutes stretched out as you lavished him with attention, drawing it out, edging him closer and closer without letting him tip over. His hips gave tiny, involuntary jerks, but he held back, letting you set the pace, lost in the sensation.

Eventually, his breathing grew ragged. “Wait—stop,” he rasped, gently easing you off him. His cock glistened with your saliva, flushed dark and throbbing. He pulled you up to your feet and captured your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, tongues sliding together as his hands roamed over your body. The kiss went on and on, slow and thorough, until you were both breathless.

He guided you back toward the bed, laying you down with surprising gentleness. There, the urgency softened into something more tender. Zanka hovered over you, kissing down your neck, across your collarbone, and lower, taking his time to explore every inch of skin with his lips and tongue. He peeled away the rest of your clothing piece by piece, hands reverent and slow, as if memorizing you. Cool air met heated skin, but his mouth followed immediately after—sucking lightly at your nipples until they pebbled, trailing kisses down your stomach, nipping at your hips.

When he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you with dark, glassy eyes. He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your inner thighs, then higher, his tongue tracing through your folds with deliberate care. He licked and sucked at your clit in unhurried strokes, two fingers sliding inside you, curling gently to find that perfect spot. Pleasure built in slow waves as he devoured you, moaning softly against your skin like he couldn’t get enough of your taste. You arched into his mouth, fingers tangled in his hair, riding the rising tide until your first orgasm crashed over you—long and shuddering, thighs trembling around his head.

Only then did he rise up, positioning himself. His cock nudged against your slick entrance, rubbing teasingly before he pushed in—slow, thick, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as he bottomed out, forehead dropping to rest against yours for a moment while you both adjusted to the overwhelming fullness.

Then he began to move.

It was soft, intimate sex—deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you. Zanka wedged his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin there with every breath. His moans and whimpers were muffled against you, warm and needy, vibrating through your body. “You feel so perfect,” he whispered brokenly between thrusts, one arm wrapped securely around your back, holding you flush against him. “So warm… so tight around me…”

Each slow withdrawal and glide back in built the pleasure higher. Skin slid against skin, slick with sweat. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him even deeper. His hips rolled in a steady, luxurious rhythm—not frantic, but devastating in its intensity. Every whimper, every soft moan against your neck sent sparks through you. He kissed and nipped at your pulse point, murmuring your name like a mantra, voice cracking with emotion.

Time stretched. The room filled with the wet sounds of your bodies meeting, your shared gasps and moans. He kept the pace gentle and deep, grinding against you on every thrust, drawing it out until you were both trembling on the edge. You came again, clenching hard around him with a cry, nails digging into his shoulders. Zanka followed right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a choked whimper, pulsing hotly inside you as waves of pleasure wracked his body.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out. He stayed nestled deep within you, face still tucked securely into your neck, breathing you in. His arms held you close, one hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine. Lazy kisses pressed to your shoulder, your jaw, wherever he could reach without moving too much.

The earlier embarrassment had faded completely, replaced by quiet, sated contentment. His voice was a low rumble against your skin when he finally spoke. “Didn’t mean to act like that earlier. Just… couldn’t handle how much I wanted you.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair and holding him there. “Then next time, tell me sooner.”

You guide a flustered Zanka Nijiku into the small, dimly lit side room just off the main party area, the bass from the music vibrating faintly through the walls. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the chatter and laughter outside, but not nearly enough to grant real privacy. A single lamp casts a warm, golden glow over the worn couch, highlighting the way his silver hair falls messily across his forehead, his usual composed demeanor already cracking under the heat of your gaze.

He backs up until his thighs hit the edge of the couch, eyes wide and cheeks dusted with pink. “W-wait, here? Now? Someone might—” His protest dissolves into a sharp inhale as you drop smoothly to your knees in front of him, hands sliding up his thighs with deliberate slowness. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way they quiver beneath your palms.

You tug his pants and underwear down just enough to free his cock, already half-hard and twitching eagerly in the cool air. The flushed, velvety length bobs in front of your face, the tip glistening with a bead of precum. Zanka’s breath hitches audibly. You lean in without hesitation, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss right beneath the sensitive head, letting your warm breath ghost over his skin.

A broken, needy whimper escapes his lips instantly—soft and unintentional.

Encouraged, you wrap your fingers around the thick base, feeling him throb hotly against your palm, and take him into your mouth. The moment your lips slide down his shaft, enveloping him in wet heat, Zanka’s head falls back against the couch with a shaky gasp that quickly spirals into something far louder. A deep, throaty moan rips from his chest, raw and unrestrained, echoing slightly in the small room. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, and one hand flies up to slap over his mouth, but it’s far too late.

You don’t give him any mercy. You hollow your cheeks and suck harder, tongue swirling lazily around the underside of his cock as you bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass. Another moan tears out of him—higher-pitched this time, desperate and sinful, completely unlike the quiet, reserved Zanka everyone knows. He doesn’t seem to realize how loud he’s being; he’s already lost, pretty eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth hanging open as soft, wet whimpers and gasps spill freely from his throat.

“Ha— ahhn—! It feels… so good… too good—” His voice cracks beautifully, fingers threading into your hair, not pushing or pulling, just clinging desperately as his thighs tremble on either side of your shoulders. Every time you take him to the back of your throat and swallow around him, a new broken cry escapes, louder and needier than the last. The slick, obscene sounds of your mouth working him fill the room—wet slurps, soft gags, and his increasingly shameless moans layering over them.

You focus on that most sensitive spot just beneath the head, licking and sucking with firm, targeted pressure while your hand strokes the rest of him in time. Zanka’s entire body jolts violently. His back arches off the couch, muscles straining under his shirt as his eyes roll back, lashes fluttering wildly.

“F-fuck— right there, right there—!” The words dissolve into a loud, guttural shout that bounces off the walls. “Ahhn—! I can’t— I’m— I’m coming—!”

He doesn’t whisper it. He shouts it, voice raw and cracking into a desperate, sinful cry that anyone nearby would easily hear. His cock pulses hard on your tongue, thick ropes of cum spilling down your throat as his hips stutter and jerk uncontrollably. You keep sucking and licking through it, milking every last drop while he shakes and whimpers through the aftershocks, completely gone—eyes rolled back, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaking down his flushed cheeks, mouth open in a continuous stream of hoarse, broken moans.

Only when he starts twitching with oversensitivity do you finally pull off with a soft, wet pop, a thin string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to his spent cock for a moment before it breaks. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at his dazed expression. His chest heaves, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, legs still trembling.

It takes him several long minutes to come back down to earth, blinking slowly like he’s waking from a dream. You gently tuck him back into his pants, fix his clothes, and help him stand on shaky legs. Zanka leans heavily against you, burying his burning face in the crook of your neck as you lead him toward the door.

The moment you step back into the main room, the party noise seems to dip noticeably. Heads turn. Eyes widen. A few of your friends freeze mid-conversation, drinks paused halfway to their lips. One girl slaps a hand over her mouth, barely stifling a laugh, while another guy raises an eyebrow with a knowing smirk. The stares are impossible to ignore—some shocked, some amused, a couple clearly putting two and two together from the timing and the faint, lingering flush on Zanka’s face.

Zanka freezes beside you, realization crashing over him like a bucket of ice water. His face drains of color for a split second before exploding into a deep, mortified crimson that spreads all the way to his ears. “I… I was… that loud?” he whispers hoarsely, voice barely audible now, cracking with embarrassment. He tries to hide behind you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, fingers clutching tightly at your shirt.

You just grin, sliding your hand into his and lacing your fingers together as you walk casually past the staring crowd. Whispers and muffled giggles follow you both. Zanka stays glued to your side for the rest of the night, avoiding eye contact with everyone, his grip on your hand never loosening. Every so often he lets out a tiny, mortified groan against your shoulder, but there’s a shy, secretly pleased little smile tugging at his lips when he thinks no one’s looking.

“W-wait—ah—!” His voice cracks as you wrap your hand around the base and lean in, dragging your tongue slowly up the underside. The first wet lick makes his hips jerk, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. You don’t give him time to adjust. You take him into your mouth in one smooth glide, lips stretching around his girth, tongue swirling around the head before you sink deeper.

Fu’s head falls back instantly. “Oh—oh fuck—!” His hands fly to your hair, not pushing, just clutching desperately as his thighs tremble on either side of you. You bob your head, taking him deeper each time, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard. Saliva drips down his shaft, coating your fingers where they stroke what you can’t fit in your mouth.

He’s loud. So fucking loud. Whiny, desperate sounds pour out of him as you work him relentlessly—sucking, licking, twisting your hand in time with your mouth. His cock throbs on your tongue, leaking steadily, and you swallow around him, milking more precum from the tip.

“Too—too much—feels so good—please—!” His voice is already cracking, breath hitching into sobs. You look up and see his eyes fluttering, lashes wet, mouth hanging open as drool starts to slip from the corner of his lips. You hum around him, the vibration making his whole body jolt.

You speed up, sucking him sloppily, wet obscene sounds filling the room along with his broken cries. Fu’s hips twitch helplessly, trying to thrust but too overwhelmed to find rhythm. His eyes roll back, whites showing as his head lolls against the couch. Thick strings of drool run down his chin, dripping onto his heaving chest.

You pull off just long enough to stroke him fast and tight with your slick hand. “Look at you,” you murmur, voice husky. “Such a pretty, pathetic mess already.”

He tries to answer but only manages a garbled moan, more drool spilling as his eyes cross and roll again. You dive back down, taking him to the back of your throat and swallowing repeatedly. That’s what breaks him. Fu lets out a strangled scream, thighs clamping around your head as he cums hard—thick, hot pulses flooding your mouth. You swallow every drop, but you don’t stop.

Even as he whimpers and twitches from sensitivity, you keep sucking, gentler but relentless, tongue pressing against the underside. His cock stays hard, overstimulated and aching. Tears spill down his flushed cheeks, mixing with the drool coating his chin and neck.

“P-please—too sensitive—can’t—ahhhn—!” His words dissolve into dumb, incoherent babbles. His eyes are completely rolled back now, mouth slack and drooling uncontrollably as you edge him straight into a second orgasm. His whole body shakes violently, cock pulsing weakly as he spills again, smaller this time but just as intense. He’s gone—completely dumb, only able to make wet, needy noises while you milk him dry.

Scene two

Later that night you have him on the bed, completely naked and already trembling. Fu’s chest is heaving, skin shiny with sweat from the first round, but you’re not done. You crawl between his legs and wrap your lips around his spent cock again without warning.

He jolts hard, a high-pitched whine tearing from his throat. “N-nooo—too soon—sensitive—!” But his hips still push weakly toward your mouth, betraying how much he craves it.

You take your time this round, savoring every inch. Long, slow licks along his shaft, gentle sucks on the head, then suddenly deep-throating him until your nose presses against his pelvis. Fu’s hands fist the sheets above his head, knuckles white. His legs shake uncontrollably, heels digging into the mattress.

Every wet glide of your mouth drags another broken sound out of him. His voice is hoarse now, cracking on every moan. Drool pools at the corners of his mouth and runs in shiny trails down his jaw as his head thrashes side to side. You reach up and pinch his nipples lightly, and his back arches so hard he nearly bows off the bed.

“F-fuuuuck—your mouth—feels—haaa—!” Words fail him again. You suck harder, bobbing faster, one hand cupping and rolling his balls while the other strokes the base in tight, twisting motions. His cock is swollen, flushed dark, hypersensitive and leaking nonstop.

You pull off with a wet pop and slap his cock lightly against your tongue before swallowing him again. That little sting makes his eyes cross instantly. Fu’s mouth hangs wide open, tongue lolling as thick rivulets of drool spill down his chin, onto his neck, and across his collarbones. His eyes roll back completely, only the whites visible as his body convulses.

You don’t let up. You suck him through another shattering orgasm—his voice breaking into silent screams, body locking up—then keep going, nursing his overstimulated cock until he’s sobbing and babbling absolute nonsense.

“G-good—too good—can’t think—please—more—stop—don’t stop—!” His brain is mush, reduced to a drooling, twitching wreck. Tears stream down his face, mixing with the mess on his chin. Every flick of your tongue makes his hips jerk and his eyes flutter uselessly. He cums a final time with a wrecked, dumb little cry, body shuddering violently as you swallow around him, drawing out every last weak spurt until he’s limp and whimpering, completely fucked-out and empty-headed.

Scene three

You straddle Fu’s hips, his cock—still hard despite everything—sliding against your soaked folds. He’s a gorgeous disaster beneath you: flushed skin, tear-streaked cheeks, chin and chest shiny with his own drool. His golden eyes are hazy, half-lidded and unfocused.

You grab both his wrists and pin them above his head with one hand, leaning your weight down so he can’t move. His breath hitches sharply at the restraint.

“Mine,” you whisper against his lips before sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion.

Fu’s back arches hard, a loud, broken moan ripping from his throat as your tight heat engulfs him. You start riding him immediately—slow at first, grinding deep, then faster, bouncing on his cock with wet, filthy sounds. His wrists flex uselessly in your grip, fingers twitching as he tries and fails to touch you.

“So—full—ahhn—!” His voice is wrecked. Every time you slam down, his eyes flutter and roll. You ride him harder, using his cock for your own pleasure, hips rolling and grinding against his pelvis on every downstroke so your clit gets friction.

Drool starts spilling from his open mouth again almost immediately. His head presses back into the pillow, neck straining, eyes crossing as you fuck yourself on him. You lean down and lick the drool from his chin before kissing him messily, swallowing his desperate whimpers.

“Gonna—gonna cum—please—let me—!” he babbles, voice high and broken.

You don’t slow down. You ride him through his orgasm, clenching around him as he pulses and spills inside you with a strangled cry. But you keep moving, chasing your own pleasure, overstimulating his sensitive cock. His eyes roll back completely again, tongue hanging out as more drool runs down his face. His whole body jerks and twitches beneath you, wrists still pinned firmly above his head.

You use him relentlessly—bouncing, grinding, taking what you want. Every thrust makes wet squelching sounds and forces more broken, dumb noises from his throat. “C-can’t—too much—feels—haaa—your pussy—!” His words dissolve into incoherent moans and sobs, tears flowing freely as another orgasm is ripped from him.