JJK

Whatever you had said must have been satisfying enough for him though, as he followed it up with a story that was beginning to sound exactly like the five previous anecdotes he’d chosen to enlighten you with. All of which were egregiously self-important, and sufficed by not a single follow up question about yourself. So instead of listening like a good date would have, you leaned back in your chair, slumping further down toward the marble floor with each supplementary vowel from your dates lips.

Entirely unperturbed by your antisocial behavior, your date continued blabbing, and you sat nursing your solitary glass of wine and thinking about what a waste of a good outfit and makeup the night had been.

You usually kept your outward presentation simple, polished and professional. Pretty, but subtle. Mascara and a little eyebrow gel, a BB cream, maybe a touch of blush, and some concealer if you were feeling particularly inspired. But tonight you’d decided to go all out. A Friday night date at an upscale restaurant you’d had on your bucket list for literal years, with an allegedly rich and handsome man? You’d even dabbed on some of your most luxurious perfume before you left - an expensive bottle you’d splurged on as a gift to yourself when you’d graduated, saved for only the rarest of occasions.

Just like your makeup, when it came to fragrance you usually kept things light. Soft inoffensive florals, a subtly sweet skin scent, or nothing at all. But this was supposed to be a special night - the giddy promise of something new and a night finally away from the office - so you’d splurged, and left your apartment perfumed in a cloud of indulgently rich spices. Too bad your dates good looks and seemingly bottomless bank account couldn’t ever hope to cover his average personality.

You’d honest to god nearly jumped from the restaurant seat with relief when your phone rang at the tail end of his next monologue - buzzing along the silk tablecloth where you’d tucked it beside your unused cutlery. Prayers answered, with a mock apology you tilted the screen and let your eyes roam over the caller ID. You weren’t even upset when you saw the research facility office number printed there. You’d take wrestling with a rogue hybrid over the rest of this date any day.

Plus, it would save you the awkwardness of turning down your dates offer to check out his "luxurious" penthouse hotel room. Which you were certain was where the night was heading, given the bedroom eyes he’d been shooting you across the table ever since you’d leaned down to pluck something from your handbag and he’d snagged a glimpse down the sloping cut of your neckline.

With a string of placating apologies and a hurried peck to your cheekbone that lingered a little too long for comfort, you fled. Slinging your coat on and gliding out onto the street with the crisp click of your stilettos, arm raised to flag a cab.

The facility was dark when the taxi came to a screeching halt out front, though even through the dimmed lights you could see the hurried silhouettes of the night nurses bumbling around the foyer - apparently frenzied by the flash of the headlights. You shook your head, thanked the driver and slipped a generous folded note into their palm as you stepped out into the crisp night air, coat closed snugly around your throat.

One of the night staff faculty gave you the rundown when you finally made it inside, or rather they tried to, though you could barely make out a single word with how quickly the words were spilling out. In fact they were trembling all over - lower lip wobbling, shoulders tense and jumping when you grasped them gently and guided them to the staff room. With a worried expression warping your face, you pressed a plastic cup of water from the visitors refreshment table into their hand and insisted they sat down. Only once their shoulders had stopped trembling and they had gulped down a few gracious mouthfuls of water, were you finally able to comprehend just why exactly you’d been contacted so late.

There had been a fight. More specifically an altercation that had turned physical between two of the more… aggressive high class predator hybrids. From everyone’s general hesitance and the air of hushed tension that seemed to have fallen over the facility, you didn’t even need to ask who the primary culprit was. You couldn’t even feign surprise when the nurse shakily murmured the name “Sukuna” like they were afraid he might hear them and burst through the door, teeth bared and claws outstretched, seeking retribution.

You couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to your last official visit, one that had undoubtedly blurred the professional lines between doctor and patient to a degree that had sweat prickling at the back of your neck even reminiscing about it. You’d hoped the tests would come back negative, give you a reason to transfer him to another facility, to another doctor who specialized in complex breeding programs with difficult patients. But to your dismay the results had come back crystal clear and resolute - Sukuna was a perfectly healthy, virile male.

With his previous buyer pulling out after his blatant refusal to integrate, and with no real reason to transfer him, you’d instead resigned to place him back into his previous lodging within the facility, back under your personal care.

Since then you had been trialing him with other predator type hybrids with the desperate hope that he might take a mate, or at least shed some of the antisocial behavior he’d begun to display. Suffice to say it had not been going well, though you’d never dreamed that he would stoop to physical brawls. In fact you’d imagined prior to the program that he’d have thought that he was above petty cat fights, that no other hybrid at the facility was worth lifting a paw to.

Not that you could say you were entirely surprised - Sukuna was probably the proudest hybrid, no, the proudest man you’d ever known. Through that lens it wasn’t surprising in the least that he would be hesitant to share the spotlight in any sense of the word. Resources, territory. You’d even caught him glaring through the glass like he could snap bones through will alone if he’d happened to pass by while you were working with another hybrid, regardless of their type, class, or even gender. Maybe the big cat was getting territorial in his old age. The thought made you chuckle, though you cleared your throat swiftly to cover your amusement when the nurse crinkled their nose at you, still wide eyed as a doe in high beams.

“Alright,” you nodded, lips still spread into a tight smile, “I’ll go see him.”

The moment you stepped through the door into his quarters, Sukuna's nose scrunched in what you could only read as unfettered disgust.

Ignoring his blatantly rude greeting, you instead busied yourself by surveying the room as you finished buttoning the last few clasps of your coat, tugged tight over your sleek gown. The acrid smell of stale blood hung sharp and musky in the air, and your own nose twitched responsively as you eased into the room.

“You couldn’t let me have a single night off, huh Sukuna?” You greeted cheerily, taking a few strides further inward, heels clicking crisply over the smooth linoleum.

Your movement was slow, a little hesitant, still not certain of his temperament. You stopped a few metres shy of him, taking in the sight. Despite the dramatic reports from your faculty, all together he didn’t look too bad. He was lounging across the excessively large zabuton set he’d insisted on having installed, though the sheer size of him would make any piece of furnitureseem small. One thick arm lay outstretched sideways along a few stray cushions, the other was hooked in a subtly defensive posture around his abdomen, his hand tucked beneath the fold of his robe.

“And here I was thinking you just missed my company, doc,” came Sukuna’s flat reply after a few moments of consideration.

Beneath the curl of his tensed forearm you could see a smear of red staining the striped hide of his chest, beginning to seep into the silk of his robe. As if sensing your scrutiny, he huffed, flaming ear flicking alongside his tail in evident irritation. Your eyes snagged on the motion, trailing up to catalog the crisp sliver that had been sliced from his ear in a ragged and bloody triangle. When your gaze shifted back down to his face, you found that he was watching you in return. Sharp eyes narrowed to slits of ember, tracking the slow approach of your stilettos as you moved across the floor.

“So you and the bull, huh?” You continued easily, careful to keep your voice light and unobtrusive.

As you spoke you eased yourself to your knees, creeping over the tatami until you were close enough to feel the warmth of him, that if you reached out you could clasp a hand over his shoulder. To your relief he didn’t revolt, simply watched you begin to unpack the first aid kit you’d brought, expression scrunched into a lightly defensive scowl and nostrils flared.

“Shame, I thought you’d appreciate the company of another apex,” you continued, tugging on a pair of shiny blue gloves with a practiced ease, “Maybe you’d share stories, might even become friends?”

He spat at that, and his striped tail writhed atop the tile like a great lashing serpent.

“You can’t possibly think that I’d want anything to do with that pigheaded fool.” He spat with a venom so biting that you almost flinched.

Holding your ground, you instead exhaled a long breath, and with it suddenly you were exhausted. You raised a hand to delicately rub a knuckle over the space between your brows, conscious of the makeup still slathered there, which you were sure was creasing by now.

“You could have at least let one of the night nurses patch you up,” you sighed, meeting his gaze again with a newfound fatigue, “really, they’re much more skilled with a bandage than I am.”

“No.” He huffed in a tone of scorching finality, nose lifted to peer down at you in reproach. “You’re my doctor, so you’ll tend to my needs.”

“Alright, alright,” you yielded, much too tired to argue with his idea of correct patient care, “sit up for me then, show me where it hurts.”

With only a mild roll of his eyes he slipped the sleeve of his robe downward, revealing an angry red slash running from his plump pec to the center of his chest. The skin surrounding was beginning to bruise a sickly purple, indicative of brute force impact hard enough to split skin.

“Ouch,” you winced with a genuine sympathy, leaning forward a little to peer at the wound, “that’ll teach you to go toe to toe with a prime bull, hm?”

He snarled, seemingly on instinct, though the sound eased into a low rumble when he saw you jump a little at the outburst.

“Don’t say that like we’re on equal footing,” he huffed, though the tone was a touch softer now, edged with a little less bite, “and don’t ever pair me with him again. Actually, don’t pair me with any of them. None are worthy to stand beside me.”

You laughed suddenly at that. A deep, full bellied laugh, and when you finally recovered enough to wink an eye open, you found that he was utterly silent - lips pressed flat, watching you with slightly widened amber eyes.

“None are worthy,” you mocked lightly, in a similarly low rumble, “you’re very amusing sometimes, Sukuna.”

He grumbled something beneath his breath, but offered no further argument as you continued to giggle quietly to yourself. Though you joked now, what he had done to the other hybrid was no laughing matter, and you were sure the nurse tasked with patching the other hybrid up would be looking at the self proclaimed king of the jungle with a newfound unease come daylight.

Shaking your head a little and with your lips still tugged into a soft smile, you diverted your gaze to your lap and began to sift through your collection of tools. From your peripheral you watched him lean in slightly as you worked, huffing great lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils so deep you could feel the vacuum against your skin. His lips parted a little as if he were tasting the air, expression turned quizzical.

“What is that?” He questioned finally, sounding genuinely perplexed.

“Hm?” You hummed, lifting your head in curiosity, “What’s what?”

“That stench,” he groused, nose once again scrunched in displeasure.

“Stench?” You echoed incredulously, lifting an arm to sniff at your coat. You sucked in a deep breath, but could identify nothing but the faint remnants of your perfume soaking your skin below.

“My perfume?” You wondered, “I’m very sorry if it’s not to your refined taste, my lord.”

You supposed you couldn’t blame him for the negative reaction, he didn’t get exposed to many artificial scents cooped up as he was, and with a nose as delicate as his you’re sure even the tiniest spritz was unbearably strong. It was for that exact reason that the facility had rules similar to most hospital or care facilities - scents were to be kept light an in offensive, or not worn at all.

“You happened to interrupt a personal outing of mine with your little cat-fight,” you explained, inching forward to inspect the wound closer. Your eyes trailed over the curve of his chest, relieved to find that it was already beginning to seal at the edges, blood drying to a hard crust.

To your surprise, he said nothing else. He simply settled back into place atop his zafu and watched you in silence as you moved. You worked in mutual silence, though his nose still twitched subtly, crinkling each time you turned, the movement sending a gust of perfumed air toward him. A few times you caught his eyes wandering too, dipping beneath the collar of your lab coat with a barely hidden curiosity, those pinpoint eyes surely catching glimpses of the silky fabric hidden beneath.

Trying your best to ignore him and keep your expression neutral, you focused instead on applying a simple adhesive bind. You delicately spritzed the site with liquid saline before lifting your hands to his chest, firmly pinching the skin together. His pec was warm beneath your hands, hot enough that you could feel his skin beginning to stick to the latex of your gloves. You bit the inside of your cheek hard, neck flushed beneath his watchful gaze, feeling the steady beat of his heart thrumming beneath your palms. After a moment, satisfied that the site was clean and aptly closed, you applied a thin slather of medical adhesive to the wound, brushing delicately over the slit to seal the edges.

With your hands free, you reached into the kit and pulled out a tube of antibacterial ointment. Without thinking, you began unscrewing the lid of the tube, and his brow furrowed. You squeezed a dab onto your gloved finger, and when you lifted it to his cheek he went rigid, recoiling away from your outstretched hand with wide eyes and his fuzzy ears flattened to his head.

“I’ll clean the smaller cuts now,” you explained, hand lingering in front of him, “stay still.”

He didn’t reply, simply eyed your hand warily when it inched closer. You held your breath, feeling the burning weight of his gaze on you as you slowly thumbed dots of antibacterial cream over his face, rubbing the salve into the spatter of cuts that laced his cheeks. His brow twitched under your delicate touch, tip of his tail beginning to sway back and forth over the mat.

“There,” you said finally when the wounds were finally clean and sealed, wiping the back of a gloved hand over your brow, “now, is there anything else before I go get some much deserved sleep?”

The uncharacteristic quiet that had settled over the room was enough to have your pulse quickening beneath your skin, but it was the way he was looking at you that really made the fine hair along your neck prickle. Carmine eyes narrowed, equal parts reverent and critical, and he moved before you could manage an argument.

“What are you-?…”

You froze, body entirely rigid as his paw lifted, fingers wrapping around your jaw with a surprising gentleness that you hadn’t thought he was capable of. Brows knitted in sudden determination, eyes locked on your face, he leaned in, and you couldn’t help the small noise of unadulterated fear that slipped from your throat as you tugged feebly against his iron grip.

There was the dig of his fingers at either hinge of your jaw, the clinical scent of the antibacterial salve, and then his breath, hot and damp tickling your lashes, before you felt something wet and rough press against your cheek. Your eyes shot open, and with a heart stopping flush you realized that he was licking you.

His massive sandpapered tongue lapped flat over your face, a single stripe over the patch of skin where your date had kissed you, square on your cheekbone. Once your cheek was sufficiently lathered, he moved down, tongue curling up the strip of skin behind your ear, over the line of your jaw where you’d dabbed a few spritzes of perfume earlier.

After a few additional indulgent laves of his tongue, he pulled away and released you. Eyes half-lidded, looking oddly pleased as he traced the blooms of raw skin left in his wake. Seemingly satisfied, he once again met your gaze, and the contact was heady enough to make you press your thighs together beneath the spread of your lab coat.

“Don’t come in here reeking like that ever again.” He drawled, pink tongue slipped out to swipe at his lips, like a predator licking its chops after a satisfying kill.

You’re not sure you’d ever fled a room quicker. Only feeling your pulse begin to settle once you were in the safety of your apartment and had shed your evening clothes.

Thrust beneath the spray of the shower head, you scrubbed at your throat and turned the water to a stream of ice, trying desperately to forget the feeling of that rough tongue against your skin and cool the heat beginning to swirl low and dangerous in your stomach.

The next day you barely saw him at all, having been run off your feet tending to a new resident - an apex snow leopard with an attitude to boot. By the time you’d reached his room for your daily check in you were running on nothing but the fumes of three espresso shots and the hopeful dream of leaving before 7pm.

“How are you today, Sukuna?”

You couldn’t find the strength to mask the exhaustion seeping into your tone. Tired eyes lowered to the clipboard in your hands, blinking slow and sticky as you mulled over the half scribbled notes left by the night staff.

“Better than you, by the looks.”

Despite the humor of his words, his expression was dead serious when you met his gaze. So intense in fact that you lifted the clipboard a little to sever the line of sight, pulse thrumming hotly beneath your skin.

The telltale metallic slide of the door behind you gave you pause, and you turned just enough to catch sight of a nurse wheeling in a meal tray. You offered a strained smile over your shoulder, listening to the gentle squeak of the trolley wheels as you angled to face Sukuna once more.

“Well, I’m sorry for interrupting your meal, but I was hoping we could chat for just a few minutes.”

He scoffed where he was sat lounging across the tatami, but nonetheless nodded toward the cushion placed across the table from him - a silent invitation.

With a gracious dip of your head you lowered yourself, legs tucked beneath your knees as you settled into place. Sukuna watched you shift atop the cushion, though you didn’t meet his gaze in return. Instead you focused on the assistant who was delicately lowering various dishes onto the table with hands that trembled so subtly it was almost imperceptible.

“Thankyou,” you smiled, lifting your head to the assistant, who bowed slightly in return and slipped the tray from the table before slinking away just as Sukuna’s lip began to curl into a sneer.

Since the fight he’d been edgy, and evidently he hadn’t quite been able to shed the territorial attitude that had triggered the incident in the first place. Most of the time he simply refused any non essential service from the staff and refused to let anyone into his personal quarters at all - anyone aside from you, of course.

You let your eyes drop to the table and gazed, a little envious, at the spread of freshly prepared food peppered there. There was plethora of dishes decorating the surface - grilled vegetables, dipping sauces displayed in delicate ceramics, a heaping mound of fluffy rice, and a slab of steak so large you’re sure that it was bigger than your head. Watching the little plumes of steam float skyward from the hot meal, you suddenly felt all at once the chill of the air kissing your bare arms.

Silently, you cursed yourself for forgetting your sweater in your office. Shoving down the urge to shiver again, you instead gritted your teeth, brows furrowed determinedly as you turned your attention instead to the incident form tucked into your clipboard, eyes roaming the lines.

“So Sukuna tell me, how are you feeling today?” you began, though when you finally lowered the clipboard, any supplementary words died on your tongue.

For a moment you were unsure what to make of the sight that met you. A massive hand laid outstretched before you, the corner of a knitted blanket clutched between blackened claws.

“I-…” you trailed off, tongue tripping over the vowels, entirely unsure of what to do.

“Take it.” Sukuna prompted flatly, nudging the blanket toward you again, “you’re cold, are you not?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could gather the words your shoulders quivered in betrayal, a fresh shiver wracking your frame. He raised a slit brow at you, and with a defeated sigh you reached out and closed your fingers around the knit - thick threaded wool looped into a delicate feather pattern. It was soft beneath your grasp, evidently worn soft and plush from use.

“Thankyou, that’s very thoughtful,” you replied, voice gentle and a touch breathless with surprise.

Slowly, you looped the blanket around your shoulders, letting the excess drape along the floor behind you like a cape. You exhaled, relief washing over you instantly as warmth began to build beneath the blanket. You were no hybrid, but your nose wasn’t completely useless, and with a little rush of heat you realized that it smelt like him. As subtly as you could manage, you dipped your head into the wool bundled across your chin, taking a slow inhale. Something wild and unnamed hit your nose, mellowed by a deep richness - sweet and smoky like burning cherry wood woven through the knit. It was raw and oddly intimate, and that concept sent an embarrassing bolt of excitement straight through you.

Clearly pleased with your response, Sukuna settled back into his lounged position, feigning a cool detachment, though his eyes didn’t leave you - trailing over where the blanket was wrapped tightly around your collarbones, the way your body relaxed into the warmth it provided.

“Now, as I was saying,” you cleared your throat, one hand slipping from the shield of the blanket to tap at the clipboard, “how are you feeling today?”

“Fine,” he replied flatly.

You gritted your teeth a little behind your smile.

“That’s good. How about your wounds, are you feeling any residual pain?"

He scoffed, ignoring your questions to instead slide his hand around the teapot that had been delivered fresh and steaming alongside his meal. His other hand lifted to grasp a clean cup, fingers dwarfing the delicate china entirely as he poured a heaped serving.

The crisp scent of tea leaves perfumed the air instantly, mixing with the heady scent of food which sat taunting and undisturbed atop the table. Thick juicy steak, sticky rice, and perfectly seasoned vegetables. You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your mouth was beginning to water, though it was no use - the cocktail of delicious scents was fuel to the fire, and before you could stop it your empty stomach rumbled into the silent air.

After a haunting moment of silence, your lips parted to continued your line of questioning, intending to ignore your bodies mildly embarrassing intrusion, but his sudden attention forced your silence.

“You haven’t eaten?” He questioned incredulously, slit brows knitted into a serious expression, hands paused mid pour.

“I -uh… I had a granola bar earlier?” You offered with a hesitating smile.

He growled, shaking his great head in evident irritation. He lowered the teapot, cup abandoned to the edge of the table as he instead began to shift the dishes dotted across the tabletop.

“You don’t dress appropriately, you don’t feed yourself. Must I do everything for you?” He grumbled, shoving the plate of steak across the table before he lifted his head to fix you with a pointed stare.

“Really, there’s no need…” you stuttered, unable to quite hide your surprise as you watched him thumb the dish until it came to rest directly in front of you.

“Eat.” Came his simple reply as he folded his arms across his chest, more of a demand than a request, really. Especially grunted past the shield of pearly teeth, glinting between his lips in the dim evening light like the threat of a knife.

You considered the plate before you, feeling the steam filter upward through the air to warm your cheeks. The scent was tenfold at this distance, gracing your nostrils, savory and delicious and temptingly close. Before you could think better of it your hands were moving toward the cutlery, body taking the initiative for you.

You could feel his gaze on you as you moved, sticky and heated like the press of a palm. The knife slipped through the steak like silk, meat tender and lathered richly with butter, parting beneath the press of metal to reveal a perfectly bloody center. Lifting your hand, your eyes fluttered closed and you hummed when the meat hit your tongue - a soft pleasured sound at the flavor that sizzled over your taste buds. It was delicious.

He watched you eat intently, peering over his teacup, eyes following the movement of your fork each time you lifted it to your lips as if he himself were being satiated - quietly intense and hungry. The weight of his attention was stifling, and you didn’t dare pause until finally your stomach cried fullness and you slid the cutlery back to the plate alongside a third of the steak.

Sukuna glared at the remaining food like it had personally scorned him.

“Finish it.” He demanded, bucking his chin at the steak, left half cooled and bleeding pitifully onto the plate.

“Sukuna,” you retorted, dabbing at your mouth with a napkin, “look at the size of you.”

Your hands outstretched to gesture at him, poking the scrunched napkin at every considerable pound of hard packed muscle sat opposite you, tucked beneath the little table like a grownup playing tea party.

“Now look at me,” your hands flipped toward yourself, and his eyes followed the movement greedily, “I don’t need as much food as you do.”

His expression eased an inch, though he still looked a little wary, as if he didn’t quite believe you.

“That was more than enough, really,” you insisted, lips spread into a genuine smile. “I feel a lot better now.”

And it was true - your body hummed, and your limbs tingled pleasantly. Warmed and satiated by the thick wool blanketing you and the hot meal sitting comfortably in your belly.

Sukuna huffed a little beneath his breath, but gave no further argument, instead settling back into his seat and lifting his steaming cup once again to his lips.

“Now,” you continued cheerily, “please, let’s get back to my questions…”

Sukuna’s behaviour over the next week had been similarly jarring.

He’d been prescribed a standard catalog of care following the incident, and he took most of the minor checkups and medication with as much grace as he typically reserved for the nurses poking at prodding at him - with a heavy dose of grumbling and a few growls. But other than the occasional snarl, the care was administered without further issue.

That was until about two days later when he’d been moved to the medical bay for a course of supplementary vaccines - a standard precaution against infection following close proximity with another hybrid. To everyone surprise, yours most of all, he’d taken the injections with exactly zero complaint.

Even in the hours following, the shift in behavior he'd displayed had remained. Nurses reported that he had been quiet and docile throughout, uncharacteristically so. His only complaints were that it was too warm in the bay - which was always kept at a controlled and comfortable 70° - and of a repeated headache.

You’d read the report over a few times in the comfort of your office, feeling a gnawing little bead of unease begin to form. The irritating feeling needled away in the back of your mind throughout the morning, enough so that by lunchtime you had slipped on a lab coat and strutted your way down to the medical bay yourself.

“Sukuna,” you voiced the familiar greeting when you entered, expecting a huff, or an unimpressed slue of insults thrown at you in return, but when the automatic door slid closed behind, you found that he was simply watching you.

His gaze was soft, eyes a little dilated, delayed about a second behind as they tracked your movement across the room. You frowned, brows knitted lightly as you approached. He didn’t move, just sniffed the air lightly when you paused beside him. His head craned a little, posture relaxing an inch with the next slow exhale as if in relief.

Lifting your hand, you hesitated for a moment before snapping your fingers in a sharp ‘click!’ beside his head. Sukuna jolted, great shoulders jumping along with an irritated flicker of his ear.

“What do you want?” He grumbled, gazing up at you, soft expression hardened to one of irritation and badly concealed confusion, like he’d only just noticed your presence and was too embarrassed to admit it.

The strength of his gaze provided you a little comfort.

“You told the nurses your head hurt,” you offered patiently, “are you still feeling pain?”

“Hm,” he hummed, eyes slipping from your face to instead fix themselves upon your shoulder with a sudden spark of interest.

You frowned and dipped your head subtly to follow the line of his gaze, finding only the smooth expanse of your lab coat and a few stray strands of inky hair wedged between the folds of fabric - remnants of your afternoon spent wrangling the very same bull you could likely thank for Sukuna’s current state.

“Yes,” he replied after a few contemplative moments, and you wondered what it was he was thinking about as he bore a hole into your shoulder with his gaze.

“Alright,” you continued with a light clearing of your throat, brushing away the hairs alongside a few lone specks of lint, “let me see then.”

His brow twitched, and then with a surprise degree of willingness, he tilted his head downward, offering you access to the crown of his head. His eyes dropped similarly, studying the expanse of white tile beneath your feet. You peered for a moment without moving, simply studying the tufts of pink sprouting from his scalp, and the way he was rocking ever so slightly with each gentle breath. Without further words, worried even the slightest outward reaction would send him recoiling back into his shell, you stepped forward and lifted a hand to his head.

You began with his ears, fingers tracing the round discs delicately, the silky skin feeling soft as rose petals beneath your fingers. You eyed the sliver where the bull had sliced away a chunk of skin, pleased to find the wound nearly healed, kissed pink with fresh scarring. When you reached the space behind his ears you slowed, fingers beginning to tease into the expanse of salmon spikes with a clinical efficiency. As you worked, your nails caught suddenly on a knot, scratched lightly against skin, and Sukuna shuddered beneath your touch.

“Stop squirming,” you sputtered instinctively, a little flustered by his uncharacteristically raw reaction, “I need to check the rest of your scalp for surface wounds, so stay still, okay?”

He offered nothing but a low rumble, and his head remained down-turned, shielding his expression from view, though you imagined that his eyes had fluttered closed if his relaxed body language was anything to go by. You gritted your teeth and continued, fingers carding through tufts of hair, eyes narrowed in scrutiny as you split the expanse of pink to study the scalp beneath. When you finally reached his forehead you released a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, relieved to find that there were no hidden cuts or bruises that were missed in the initial assessment. Though the cause of his sudden migraines remained a mildly concerning mystery.

Without thinking, you ran a gentle hand through his hair in outward relief. Smoothing the pink spikes that were stuck in all directions, wayward from your roaming fingers. Sukuna made a soft sound beneath you, and you felt him shift suddenly in response, pressing his head up into your hand in an action you could only describe as nuzzling.

He stayed like that for a few indulgent breaths, lashes fanned over his flushed cheekbones and chuffing happily, clearly reveling in the feeling of your bare fingers lacing through his hair. You paused, eyes wide, taking in the rare sight of him utterly relaxed, all that innate harshness smoothed away by tranquility. You studied his face, the curve of his brow bone, the delicate wisps of scarring you hadn’t ever noticed dotted between dark stripes, painting the edges of his cheeks like lashings of ink.

Indulgently, you curled your fingers until your nails hit scalp again, and you watched him shiver beneath you. His massive thighs twitched either side of your knees, hands gripping the bed so tightly that his knuckles paled with the effort. His lips parted, and a soft breathy sigh slipped free. The tender sound went straight to your belly, where that betraying little knot of heat was once again beginning to tighten.

Sukuna shifted, squirming beneath your slowly tightening grip, and the bed creaked in argument. With another soft little breath, his hips nudged upward, tented lightly beneath his robe, and all at once with a dizzying rush of heat you realized what exactly you were doing.

You cleared your throat sharply, and when the motion of your hand paused its motion thumbing over his hairline, his eyes shot open.

Sukuna went stiff beneath your touch, expression sharpened to one of surprise and then of utter mortification, as if he were confused and a little horrified by his own actions. With an amused little hum you lifted your hands away and stepped backward, eyes lowered to instead smooth your hands over your coat, picking at invisible threads to afford him a little dignity.

“Your scalp looks fine, no cuts or bruising that I could see,” you offered smoothly, managing not to sound as shaken as you really were, “I think you’re just feeling the crash of adrenaline and the mix of sedatives we gave you for the wounds.”

He growled something unintelligible, tail lashing behind him. You tried to meet his gaze, but found that his head was turned, studying the glass beside him intently. Your eyes roamed his profile, the sharp angles of his nose, his jaw, the subtle blush creeping over his striped throat like a collar.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it,” you said finally, “let me know if you start feeling any further symptoms, alright?”

He offered no reply.

Your office was silent aside from the clack of your nails flying over the keyboard and the delicate ticking of the clock mounted on the wall opposite. The air was cool, still. Dimmed dark with tendrils of cool evening light creeping between the half closed shades like poking fingers. With a click of the mouse that was more forceful than was probably necessary, you slumped backward into your chair and lifted a hand to rub at your brows. Your eyes stung beneath the press of your fingers, tender from hours of staring at line after line of mind numbing reports.

A melodic jingle chimed beyond the blackness of your vision, and the sound shot straight through your skull like the piercing intrusion of a shell casing. Winking an eye open, you peered at the landline phone atop your desktop, rattling lightly with each ring, doing absolutely nothing to ease the ache thrumming behind your eyes. With a sigh you sat up and leaned forward just far enough to see which of the multitude of blinking lights on the directory was lit up. Your jaw tightened.

Room 1E - Sukuna.

You peered longingly at your handbag, slung over the hook on the back of the door alongside your coat. The sight had once been a comfort, a promise of an end to a very long day. Now it stood as nothing but a taunting tease of a freedom that was slowly slipping through your fingers.

With your teeth gritted in determination, you lifted yourself onto your aching feet and began the long trek to the private wards, slipping past your bag with nothing more than a longing hand slid over the leather to comfort yourself.

The hall was dim, late as it was, lit only by a few sparse corridor lights that blinked to life at the motion of your passing. It was as silent as it was dark, utterly abandoned by any signs of life on account of the late hour and the weekend looming only a few hours away now. Your nose twitched absentmindedly as you walked, catching the unusual scent of something vaguely sweet perfuming the air. It was subtle, almost untraceable - like someone had sprayed cologne and then walked down the hall before you.

You paid it no mind, figuring the cleaners were trialing a new soap, a different detergent, something simple and entirely explainable. With your jaw clenched and your brow furrowed, you came to a halt in front of the lone door decorating the stretch of hallway, examining the nameplate screwed into the drywall with a wary eye.

Sukuna had been troublesome all week. Picking fights with staff and other facility patrons alike, straight out refusing any nurse from doing so much as breathing near him. Even on the rare occasion that he had let you - and you alone - enter, he was bratty and uncooperative. Refusing to do much more than stare at you. His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing your appearance, like he was working some unknown theory over in his mind, some idea that you were not privy to.

“What is it Sukuna, you do know I need to sleep at some point righ-?…”

The moment you stepped inside you were slapped by a wall of thick heat, palpable enough that you physically recoiled. You inhaled a desperate breath and immediately choked on it, resigned instead to sucking tiny slips of air through your parted lips, unable to bear the heat stinging your nose. The scent was stronger here, unbearably so. The air was thick with it, like you were breathing in water with each staggered gasp.

Tripping a little over your heels, you stumbled backward, shoulders hitting the door while your hand immediately fumbled for the doorknob - struck by an instinctual need to flee.

“Don’t.” A graveled voice rumbled from the dark, rough and heavy from apparent lack of use.

In the near non existent light you could barely make out the source of it, just the vague outline of a hulking form tucked into the corner of the room.

You focused on the shape writhing in the dark, and as your eyes adjusted you were met with the reality of the space. What once had been a tidy sanctuary was turned upside down - tufts of feathers flitted through the humid air, cushions shredded and tossed into a mountainous pile in the corner of the main room alongside seemingly every other piece of fabric that had dared to exist between the four walls. Sukuna was usually neat as an arrow, obsessively so, and the stark contrast of the room you were now standing in made your stomach churn in unease.

“Stay.” His voice came again, softer this time, edged with a rawness that you’d never heard grace the deep tone. It felt sinful against your ear, silky and tattered like shredded satin. “Please.”

You’re not sure what possessed you, maybe it was the utterly broken tone, or the fact he’d actually pleaded, but you found yourself doing what he asked - abandoning the safety of the door to instead take a few slow trembling steps into the room. Driven by sense of duty, or at least that’s what you told yourself as you inched further into the literal belly of the beast.

“What’s wrong Sukuna?” You murmured into the darkness as you moved, sliding one unsteady leg before the other like you were walking a tightrope, “are you feeling sick?”

The only reply was the muffled shuffle of fabric and the sound of a heavy, stuttered exhale.

“Come here,” came his croaking demand.

The air was caked with heat, oppressive and unwavering, and your knees wobbled beneath the weight of it. You tore desperately at your collar as you moved, shedding your coat to the floor as a bead of sweat formed at your hairline and began to trickle down your forehead.

“Sukuna? Where are you?”

Your hands waved blindly in the darkness, splayed before you and swiping at the air as you blinked, trying desperately to find anything to ground yourself in the sea of blackness. With a relief that was almost dizzying, your palm slapped against something solid, and in the next moment you were wincing against the sudden burst of light - down lights flickering to life overhead.

The sight that met you was enough to have any moisture stripped from your mouth in an instant. Your pulse quickened, heart beginning to hammer frantically against your chest like the beating of a drum.

Sukuna lay in the center of a shredded pile of what had once been cushions, massive limbs splayed in all directions, tan skin slicked with a sheen of sweat. He’d shed his robe, and by the looks of it his pants too - clothed now only in a thin sheet tossed haphazardly over his hips. He was panting, plump chest heaving with the effort of each stuttered breath, accompanied by a whine so soft it was almost inaudible.

As if sensing your approach through the fog, his head lolled to one side, flushed cheek resting on the curve of a massive shoulder, pink lips parted and glossy with spit. The heat of the room was sweltering, but it didn’t ease the further you traveled, in fact it was almost as if the heat was emanating from him - as if he were a living furnace stoked hot. Exactly like you’d expect if he…

In an instant it hit you - all the little pieces finally pieced together in your mind, forming a picture with shuddering clarity. That’s where you’d smelt it before, the same sickly sweet cloying scent you’d sniffed samples of in school just to catalog it to memory. The same scent that had sweat beading at your hairline and your thighs trembling where you stood. He was in rut.

You’d have to worry about what had triggered him later. Right now, you weren’t equip to deal with a hybrid in rut, certainly not one of Sukuna’s type or class. You’d need at least half your staff just to keep the other hybrid residents at bay when the pheromones finally leaked out from beneath the seal of the doors, and another team to organize the swift sourcing and delivery of a suitable partner, or at least a doll-

You froze in place, a quiet sound interrupting your spiraling thoughts, though you could barely hear it over the blood pounding hotly in your ears. It was a soft mewling, and all at once the shape of the words became crystal clear. He was groaning out a name into the curve of his shoulder, your name whimpered between pained huffs, raw and thick with need.

With no biologically suitable partners around, Sukuna hadn’t gone into rut in the entire time you known him, and the reality of the sight was stark. The terrain of his tan skin was beaded with sweat, glistening like a valley of rhinestones, droplets beginning to dribble down the curve of his heaving abs. Veins ran down his biceps in thick bundles, pulsing over his forearms. Like coiled vines snaking over his lower belly and dipping below the slip of sheet tugged over his manhood. His body diligently sucking the blood from his brain and pooling it somewhere lower - somewhere it deemed significantly more important.

“Sukuna…” you breathed, unable to tear your eyes from him.

He jolted as if he’d been slapped at the sound of your voice, and another jagged breath escaped his throat, hips nudging upward seemingly of their own volition. The pale sheet shielding his dignity slid with the motion, held in place only by the weight of the bulged fabric. His leaky cock twitched pathetically beneath, weeping a slick wet patch into it, turning it to glass.

It was nothing you hadn’t seen before of course, but this felt entirely different - raw and utterly primal. The way he was pressing obscenely against the thin cotton, so hard you could practically see each pained throb of mottled purple beneath the stretched sheet, hips twitching each time the fabric moved and administered another delicious graze of friction.

Your mind ran wild. Who had done this, triggered him so suddenly and to such a degree? The pretty little snow leopard you’d spent your week pampering? Shit, the bull?

You were so entranced by the sight that you lost balance entirely when his paw lifted to wrap around your wrist and tug. To your utter mortification you found yourself kneeing the tatami, straddling one of his massive thighs. Splayed over his lap, your hands found his chest, where you clambered desperately to keep yourself upright.

He was blisteringly hot beneath your palms, so warm in fact that your skin was already beginning to stick to his. The sensation was stark without your usual shield of gloves, warm and personal, undeniably intimate.

“You…” he panted as if he’d read your mind, curling hot and humid over your collarbones, “you did this to me…”

Your breath caught like a stone in your throat, face flushing as the reality of his words dawned. You?

When you dared to peer down again his head had lifted, sharp jaw raised to meet your gaze. His eyes were half-lidded and glassy in the dim light, devoured entirely by desirous black as he blinked up at you, dazed as if he’d been sedated.

“Me?” You managed to squeak the lone word.

He nodded with a slow flutter of his lashes, the motion limp and boneless like his head was too heavy to hold up.

“Told you, didn’t I? Scrambled my brain, doc… can’t think, can’t breathe…”

Before you could think of anything to say in reply he broke the sizzling eye contact, instead dropping his head into the valley of your chest. You squeaked, though he only pressed deeper at the sound, pink tufts tickling at your neck, nosing at your spread collar until the tip hit your bare skin. You realized then that he was sniffing, huffing deep lungfuls of your scent like it was water, like it was a lifeline. His lips parted, and a relieved groan slipped free.

“Good, ‘s just you this time…”

You felt the tender graze of his lips, then his teeth nipping feather soft at your skin before he pressed his tongue flat and - just as he had earlier in the week - began lapping at you. His tongue was big and rough, mapping the expanse of your throat methodically in long slow lines, like he was tasting you, like he was grooming you, ridding you of anything that wasn’t him.

“Needy little thing….” He murmured between licks, “Covering my scent so blatantly… Refusing my offerings… So hard to please, aren’t you?…”

He spoke the words into your skin as if you weren’t even there, as if he didn’t realize he was speaking aloud at all. He burned beneath you like a furnace, dewy cheekbone hot and blushed where it was sticking to your clavicle.

You’d honestly thought you might have started to stink a little, too busy with work to worry about sweating, but with the way he was huffing your scent you’d think you smelt like heaven personified.

“Sukuna…” you choked again, unable to hide the weakness working its way into your voice as he continued to mouth at your jaw. “You need to let me go now, I’ll go get something to help you feel better, okay?”

A snarl sounded then, so sharp and sudden that you jolted, and his grip around you only tightened in response.

“Don’t want some doll with fake pheromones,” He shook his head wildly where it was still nestled firmly against your chest, “don’t want medicine, don’t want a machine...”

You could feel him beneath you then, all the impossibly thick inches of him - hard and throbbing where he was rutting a sticky patch into your slacks, hips rocking in a subtle motion you were sure was entirely instinctual.

“Want a warm body squirming underneath me…” he rumbled, mouthing at your collarbones, losing himself in the fantasy of his own words. “Yeah… Want to bite… Wanna fuck… I want you.”

A sudden wetness hit your skin, drool smearing as he rubbed at the nape of your neck, where your scent glands would have been if you were a hybrid. The heat was stifling, as was the sheer size of him, a brick wall caging you on all sides. His bare chest pressed to yours, plump arms wrapped around your waist, and the firm press of his thigh pulsing between your legs, thick as a tree trunk.

“I want you,” he said again, all sweet and pleading, and it sounded utterly foreign from his lips, “Need you…”

You swallowed hard against his tongue, and a traitorous heat began creeping up your throat. He groaned, so in tune with you that even such a minute shift your body language, a tiny flare in your scent, had him groaning low in his throat. It was as if he could taste the little bud of desire beginning to bloom sticky between your thighs, like he could tell just how badly your body needed exactly what he was offering.

“Know you need it too, can smell it on you…”

He could overpower you in an instant, you knew it, and you knew that he knew it too. But despite his physical prowess, he did nothing more than keep you pressed tightly in his lap, laving his tongue over your skin in what you thought was intended to be soothing.

“Am I not enough, woman? Tell me what you want, what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

Difficult as it was to think with him tonguing at the delicate skin beneath your ear, through the haze beginning to blanket your brain you considered hybrid mating rituals. He was courting you, fronting for you - that much was clear. His odd behavior over the last week had been subconscious instincts spurred on by his pre-rut hormones. Showing you what he had to offer whether he’d consciously intended to or not - strength, protectiveness, the ability to provide, defend territory - all hallmarks of a desirable mate.

You cursed yourself silently for not having recognized the signs, blinded by your closeness to it.

“Just let me… need to…” he grunted between breaths, between long sandpapered licks that were beginning to edge on painful.

Most hybrids of his class didn’t bother with traditional courtship anymore, or with what was socially expected amongst their species. They were the top of the food chain, the apex, and thus they could take what they wanted without consequence. But Sukuna had always been a little unconventional, with a deep rooted sense of his own honor and tradition no matter how warped others may have perceived it.

You considered the warm press of his body beneath you - strong and capable and singing for your attention. Sukuna had never taken a mate in captivity, had blatantly rejected every candidate you’d proposed to him. The chances of him navigating this rut alone without artificial assistance and without consequence was slim. Either you did something to ease his pain now, or you left him to his own devices to potentially injure himself, or worse.

Decision resolute, you let your body go limp and began to ease down into his lap. With your pulse pounding deafeningly in your ears, you tilted your chin up to allow him access to the soft of your jugular - a primal show of submission that you hoped translated through the thick fog of his rut. The response from him was immediate - bulging forearms enclosed around your waist, and a tail thick as rope slid over your thighs like a chain. With a groan that edged on woeful, his teeth hit the bare skin of your throat, accepting your silent invitation.

“Mmm, shhh…” he soothed, sounding relieved and pleased in equal measure. “That’s it, I’ve got you…”

He nosed along your skin, following the long line of your throat with his tongue upward until he hit your jaw, where he began to nibble. Pressing gentle little kitten licks along your cheek, across the corner of your mouth, up to the delicate skin beneath your lash line.

On the next swipe of his spiked tongue you moved too, tilting your head downward to interrupt him mid lap, capturing his lips instead in a gentle, almost hesitant kiss.

He froze instantly, and you felt the way his breath caught, then released in a hot puff through his nostrils. You pulled away with a soft sound, blinking down at him brows knitted in worry.

“What… what are you doing?” Sukuna wondered, sounding a little breathless. His glossy eyes wide despite the way lust was weighing his lids down.

“Kissing,” you replied, feeling your cheeks begin to heat, “Is that… Is that alright?”

Despite the fact that you were spread over his lap, littered with his marks and grinding on his thigh like you were the one in heat, suddenly you felt oddly shy beneath the weight of his attention. His hand lifted from your waist to instead drag a calloused thumb over your bottom lip, entranced.

“Kissing…” he echoed, fingertip brushing thoughtfully over your lip, eyes locked on the sight of your spit painting his thumb in the low light.

He leaned in, murmuring the next words so close and so quietly that you could feel the syllables curling through the air between you.

“I like it… give me more.”

With that he lifted his chin, eyes fluttering closed as his lips replaced the thumb atop your lower lip. Sukuna was always a fast learner, sharp and strategic, and he proved it now with the ease by which he had you melting into the kiss. He moved with fervor against you, the roll of his jaw looser, more confident. Though it wasn’t long before any rhythm or semblance of control dissolved and the contact turned suddenly heavy - more like he were trying to devour you than anything.

He groaned into your mouth, all teeth and tongue, losing himself in the taste, the delicious friction forming between you. Not that you were fairing any better, losing more and more of your weakening self control with each press of his tongue against your own.

The sensation was rough and entirely foreign, peppered alongside gentle nips at your lower lip, like he couldn’t help but push just a little further, shivering each time he swiped a fresh bead of blood from your skin. You yelped when his teeth finally sank into the delicate skin of your lower lip, and he swallowed the sound with a satisfied rumble of his own.

The scent of him was intoxicating, surrounding you like a blanket. Vaguely familiar and oddly comforting, like the cool wind breeze off alpine rivers, the crackle of burning cherry wood - deep and smoky and utterly him. You were dizzy with it, drunk on the scent of him, the taste of him, the weight of him pressing into you. You thought back to your school days, academic discussions about the impact of hybrid pheromones on humans - a hotly debated topic that most people of scientist chalked up to pseudoscience at best. But now you knew the reality of it first hand, it was enough to melt your brain clean out of your skull.

You hadn’t noticed when exactly your hips had started to rock, you only knew that it felt so utterly right grinding against him as you lost yourself in the heat of it all, guilt and shame turning to liquid desire in your veins. His grip around your waist tightened in response to a particularly well placed hump, thumbs hooked over your hip bones and pinching the fat there as he began rolling you along his lap. He panted, jolting a little each time your soft inner thigh bumped against him.

You gasped into the kiss, a fresh sizzle of need washing over you when you felt the kick of his cock against your clothed crotch, separated now only by the thin sheet and the sticky fabric of your slacks.

“Oh…” you moaned, hand abandoning his shoulder to instead snake between your bodies, finding the thick bulge in the fabric and offering a delicate squeeze to whatever you could manage to fit in your hand.

He felt bigger somehow, thicker than you’d remembered, and hotter too. The weight of him in your palm, throbbing between your clasped fingers was enough to have you squirming, clenching around nothing as you let his head drop to your shoulder.

“Ah… hah-….”

He went limp as you tugged him half free from the cloth and began to pump, as if all coherency had simply fled his body. Whining pitifully into the crook of your neck, hands useless and limp atop your thighs. He was utterly consumed by the rhythm of your hand, the contrast of your smooth skin and the scratch of the cotton against his leaky cock, and the way you were purring sweet nothings into his ear all the while.

“There you go, shhh…” you cooed, swiping a thumb over the reddened head just to feel him jerk beneath you, “doesn’t that feel good?”

He nodded, temple rubbing at your shoulder. His eyes were down turned and low lidded, locked on the obscene sight of your fingers slicked with his pre, glazing over in time with the expert curl of your wrist.

Suddenly on the next pinched upstroke, as if he’d been slapped, Sukuna made a sharp sound. A quick exhale of air as his own hand shot down to close around your wrist where he squeezed tight enough to give you pause.

“No, no…” he panted into the heated air between you, sticky with your shared breath. Shaking his head like it was painful, like he had half a mind to let you keep stroking him until he painted your front in heaping pearly strings, “not your hand, can’t waste it, not this time…”

He released your wrist to instead slot it between your bodies, fingertips trailing feather soft over your lower belly before he slid his palm flat and rubbed firmly. The contact was stifling, made hotter still by the rawness simmering beneath his words.

“Need it inside,” he insisted, eyes drooped to watch the way his hand dwarfed your abdomen, length of his palm nearly reaching either side, before they flicked back up to meet yours, “understand?”

Unable to find the words and struck with a sudden wave of need that had your head feeling fuzzy, you simply nodded dumbly in reply and allowed his hand to slide across your back. His fingers curled around the nape of your neck, firm and protective, and suddenly you were moving. Caged between his arms and maneuvered until you were blinking up at the ceiling with your back pressed flat to the tatami.

Before you could quite fathom it, the little buttons of your dress shirt were clinking along the tatami either side of you. The air was thick, contrasting against the cool press of his nails against your now bare skin, slicing through your silky dress shirt as if it were nothing more than paper.

“Sweet… smell so sweet.”

He murmured into your chest, nose once again glued to your skin as he worked his way down. Warm breath curling over your breasts, your ribcage, the soft curve of your belly.

“Need more, need to taste…”

Finally, he paused - nosing gently at your still clothed crotch where he took a long huff, and you jerked when the bridge of his nose brushed your tender clit through the fabric.

He rumbled a soothing sound in response, before he lifted his chin and parted his lips to press his tongue flat over your clothed cunt. You choked on your next breath at the dulled sensation, while he simply groaned below you - low and desperate.

His tongue slipped back behind his teeth, and his eyes fluttered closed, as if savoring the taste.

Before you could recover, two big hands lifted and sharp nails dug into the fabric either side of your pussy. You watched, dazed, as he tore the center seam of your slacks open, splitting the cloth in a single effort.

He lapped slow, indulgent strokes along the plush skin of your exposed inner thigh, pressed a thumb indulgently over your soaked panties just to gather the slick there before those too became mere shreds of fabric beneath his claws. You watched him move, nosing along the length of your now bare leg until he reached the sticky center.

For a moment he did nothing but look, longing and hungry, before he leaned in and pressed his tongue flat against you again, now with nothing separating you from the sinful heat of his mouth.

“Oh god…” you choked.

Tiny barbs poked at your delicate nub, feeling like the press of a thousand tiny silicone tongues. He made a breathy satisfied sound and lifted his head just far enough to lick his lips, rolling the flavor of your over his tongue.

“Good… tastes so good,” he sighed, light and a little breathless. He sounded faraway, he sounded high. Drunk on the scent of you, and now the taste of you.

With that simple utterance he dove back in, massive head craned and one hand curled over your thigh in a motion that read as decidedly possessive. The other settled over your belly, rubbing slow soothing lines over your womb, thumb petting at the sparse coils of hair peppered there, tugging the skin up to expose more of you to his greedy mouth.

You simply babbled a slur of unintelligible words between spineless gasps and cries of his name, blinking down at the blur of pink moving between your thighs. Your jaw hung slack in pleasure and shock in equal parts, watching the hypnotic slip of tongue between the sharp glint of his teeth, the little strings of your arousal linking him to you each time he lifted for air.

You’d expected him to claim you immediately - you’d expected it to be rough, for it to hurt as he crowded over you and took what he wanted, what his instincts demanded of him. You had no doubt that he was doing exactly as he pleased now, but what surprised you was that that seemed to entail making you come undone on his tongue, despite the throbbing weight between his legs that was surely beginning to border on painful.

Your hands found his head, and your fingers locked firmly around the pink spikes there. He nudged up into your grip, though he didn’t slow. He ate like a hungry beast, like a man starved - splayed over the mat with his bare hips grinding haphazardly, the tip of his flaming tail twitching each time you clenched around his tongue. It was like a switch had been flipped, a version of him entirely absorbed with making you leak into his mouth.

It was rough and hot and utterly too much, and it didn’t take long before you were riding that delicious line. One swipe of his tongue away from tripping over the edge. He mouthed, sandpapered and rough, over your clit, spreading you open between two thumbs to make room for him to slide his tongue inside. Deep enough that his nose hit your sensitive clit, sending a spark of pleasure zipping up your spine.

The sound was obscene, wet slurping alongside your own desperate squeaks. His lips pressed flat in a seal around your clit, and when he began to suckle like he could nurse something out, you were finished. Your pussy pulsed helplessly against his tongue, once, twice…

“Sukuna,…please, ‘m gonna…!-…”

It hit you like the crash of a wave - hot and rolling and decorated with a gush of slick. Your head smacked against the tatami, hands wringing tight fistfuls of pink hair as your thighs trembled either side of his ears.

He groaned, lapping at you as you jerked, drinking in your spend like it was satiating, like he were sipping water after months without. You lay in the afterglow, dazed, limbs sizzling with residual little nips of pleasure. You’re not sure you’d ever come that hard, certainly no man had ever done anything remotely similar.

“Why?” Came your croaked voice through the silence, quiet, the edges of it softened by pleasure.

“You and your incessant questions,” he tutted between licks, though his tone was affectionate. “Look at the size of me,” he echoed your earlier sentiment.

And you did look, blinking up at him as he straightened, thumbing at his chin which was glazed and slippery with remnants of you. Your gaze dribbled slowly over his frame like the drip of honey. Tanned hide stretched over thick slabs of muscle and fat, flecked with lashings of jet black ink. Broad shoulders and a thick neck tapering to an angled jaw. Pearly canines poking from between his parted lips - longer now, you thought. The teeth of a predator, sharp and poised to latch onto the nape of some poor little thing that couldn't run fast enough.

Biting your lip, you let your eyes roam freely, taking in the sight of him laid entirely bare where the sheet had been tugged loose. The sinful spattering of hair trailing over his softened abs, dipping down between his thighs. The thick inches bobbing before him, too heavy to stand upright, pulsing with veins and blushed so dark that it looked painful. You swallowed hard, watching glistening droplets dribble slowly down his shaft, in such excess that if you hadn’t have known better you would have thought he’d come already.

“Now look at yourself.” He didn't try to hide the lazy pleasure in his voice. 

Held up on trembling elbows, you peered down at yourself. At where he was rubbing a hand slowly down the plane of your stomach, cupping the soft flesh like it was a form of worship. At your thighs, spread and twitching with residual sizzles of pleasure - where his spare hand was creeping into your vision, snaking between your legs to begin petting at your pussy. He watched keenly, eyes low lidded and locked on the sight of your folds glistening with a mix of your arousal and his own spit.

“So small, so tight,” he purred, thumbing at your entrance, which gave easily beneath the pressure, “But you’re going to take it all, aren’t you? Let me put all of it inside?”

You didn’t answer, instead you gathered your remaining resolve, lifted yourself onto your palms and rolled over.

Recalling what you’d researched in your many long years in the field, all those ridiculous demonstration videos - you crawled a few feet from him, lowered your chest until it hit the floor and lifted your hips to present yourself in as blatant of a show of compliance as you could manage. You held yourself there on trembling thighs, back arched and palms pressing sticky hand prints into the tatami.

You’re sure you painted quite a sight - flushed cheek pressed to the mat, ass in the air and thighs spread to give him a stellar view of the way you were still twitching and drooling with the residual hum of your first orgasm. The position was revealing. Primal, submissive, and you felt every inch of your exposed skin sizzle beneath his attention.

Whatever you’d done, it must have been right because you heard his breath catch behind you. A big palm crept over the curve of your ass, sharp nails dragging stinging lines over your skin until it settled on your lower back with a claiming firmness, forcing you down further into a sinful arch.

“Look at you, presenting for me so well,” Sukuna purred, voice nothing but a pleased rumble, and you could all but feel the heat of his gaze, teasing over the sight of your dripping folds like a wayward hand. “Perfect. Just like I knew you would be.”

The mat was warm beneath your chest, tempered by your shared body heat. It it felt like skin, like sin incarnate brushing against your tender nipples. You felt the weight of him as he slotted in behind you, one great hand reaching over to tease down your inner thigh while the other remained firmly planted atop your spine.

“That’s why I’m going to make you mine,” he murmured with a bluntness that was surprising, hand easing your thighs further apart, scraping your knee over the mat. “They can’t have you, none of them… the leopard, the fucking bull… none of them.”

In an instant the moment of clarity was gone, dissolved further with each spiraling word until in its place was only the singe of blind, sizzling lust. His words were thick with it, salacious and sticky against the shell of your ear.

With a jolt you felt it - the sudden heat of him grinding against you. Nudging through your spread folds slowly, letting you feel every curve, every ridged pulsing vein until his tip grazed your clit and you had to force yourself to remain upright. As soon as he’d moved forward, you felt him retreat, length slick now with your arousal, easing backward until he grazed the tight valley of your entrance.

He rumbled behind you, tip pressing inside just enough to feel the stretch, and all at once the dizzying realization of what you were about to do hit you like the sobering slam of a brick wall.

“Wait-Nngh!… w-hah-wait… slow down… Sukuna!” You hissed, yowling when teasing pokes turned into a concentrated push.

It was a futile request, how could you expect him to hesitate. Thick length midway through plunging inside your silky heat, doing precisely what his instincts demanded of him, and after so very long spent being patient.

“Can’t, I can’t…“ he grunted.

He slowed but didn’t stop, murmuring gentle slips of praise into your ear as inch by thick inch sunk inside. You could feel your body caving, sucking him deeper and deeper until he hit a spongy little spot that sent your legs quivering in a wobbled frenzy. You were panting, face screwed up against the searing sting of him splitting you open, the mammoth task of simply holding him inside. So unbelievably big that despite the way your orgasm had softened you, you could still feel the slow welling of tears begin to bubble at your lash line from the stretch.

“Need it inside, need to put it in…inside… need it inside now…” Sukuna was growling behind you, hands curled possessive over the curve of your hips.

Just as the words left his mouth, you felt the front of him hit your backside, and suddenly you were wholly and completely full. Like the missing piece of a puzzle slotted into place in the form of his toned thighs pressed flat to your trembling hips. You couldn’t speak, honestly you wondered how you were even breathing with such a monstrous length stuffed inside you. It felt as if he were poking at your lungs, at your throat. He seemed similarly dazed, eyes low lidded and blown black as the night sky, peering down at where you were joined.

“It is… it is inside ’kuna… hn-!…” you grunted between gasps, little slips of air sucked into the minuscule space left inside.

He shook his head limply, as if drunk, and slipped out an inch. He made a low keening sound at the sticky little strings that laced you together before he nudged forward and sunk back in again, relishing in the silky wet heat of you.

“No… ‘s not… it’s ‘not enough… ‘s not deep enough…”

You felt his grip tighten, nails dug into your tender flesh to leverage the way hips began to roll, shallow little thrusts against the sheer tightness of you. He took you in firm steady thrusts, like a predator, like an animal. Slow, but not for lack of effort, purely just to feel the way your shaking amplified each time he eased back inside, body stretching around a length so thick that your vision blurred on each downward pump.

It was then that the pain began to give way to something sweeter, a honeyed pleasure blooming beneath the sting, low and hot in your belly, edged more and more desperate with each thrust. The sensation was stunning, devouring, and your eyes hit the back of your skull before you could utter further argument.

In the blackness you pictured what you might have looked like - shredded remnants of your business slacks clinging desperately to your shins, slick and spit dribbling creeping lines up your belly to your throat. Your face flushed from the rush of blood, jaw agape and drooling onto the mat as his thrusts stole the very breath from you. You sobbed at the thought.

“Ah, hn!-… ah, ah, hn-hah!” You couldn’t help the sharp stuttered gasps that escaped, each accented by yet another fleshy slap, the vulgar sound of his balls smacking your creamy cunt. Slick with your spend and his own pre leaking down between your thighs, smearing up to your belly button.

The front of his thighs were sticky with it, toned muscle there glistening as if rubbed with oil. With an animal grunt, he shifted behind you, planting one foot atop the mat to get a better angle, massive thigh twitching, thrusting so deeply now that tears bubbled hot and incessant at your lash line.

“S-oh-…so -hah- deep S’kuna…” you sobbed.

You tried to breathe, tried to muffle the tiny little squeaks he was knocking out of you each time he bottomed out and a fresh little nip of pain flared in your gut. But it was impossible. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe - relegated to sucking in shallow breaths only on the retreat of his hips, when your spine could decompress without the oppressive weight of his body pressing into you.

“That’s right,” he purred, a pleased rumble - though you hadn’t been trying to convince him, your brain simply felt empty aside from the simply fact that he was just so deep.

Your hands slapped feebly at the floor, grasping backward blindly in search of relief, something to anchor to. You found his hands, and thick fingers closed tightly around your own, driven further into the floor with each thrust. You sniffled, digging your nails in harder, biting white little crescent shapes into his palm

“Good,” he continued, voice thick with adoration despite the way you were clawing at him, a rarity you’re sure would be hard won if not for the state he was in, “so good taking what I give you, taking it all.”

It was then that you noticed it, the slow creep of his tail inching along your ankle. Just like the education videos, just like he’d done around when you’d milked him dry with your gloved hand so many weeks ago - his tail slipped up around your thigh like a python, the fuzzy tip tickling at your bare hipbone. He was really going to do it, what he’d murmured to you in between those white clinical walls wasn’t just lust-filled babbling, it was a threat, a promise.

You recalled the sheer volume of his spend; smearing your glove, your lab coat, sprayed over your glasses and dripping down to your chin. You thought back to the test results - healthy, potent, virile.

“Ohgodhn-…,” you croaked, “oh god, Sukuna, you’re going to-…”

You collapsed before you could finish, trembling thighs giving in beneath the force of his movement until you were forced flat. Your belly hit the ground, front flush to the floor and hands grasping fitfully at the tatami. His thrusts didn’t slow, he simply followed you downward - body laid over you like a blanket - and shoved a thick arm beneath you. His forearm curled just enough lift your hips, enough for him to snake a hand down between your belly and the ground and tuck his fingers snug against your clit.

“Shhh nearly there,” he breathed into your nape, lips grazing the sweat soaked hair there, “nearly there… just a little more…”

It was hot, so hot, so sticky. You were melting into the mat, melting into him - packed so tightly that you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. You felt the brush of his teeth, and his hand angled downward to begin rubbing tight little circles in time with the dizzying stroke of his hips.

“Oh Sukuna… please, pleaseplease…” you found yourself begging, shame washed away by the delicious wave of pleasure, too stunning to manage anything else.

He hit impossibly deeper like this, and you could feel the stretch of your walls, muscle clenching of its own volition around the intrusion. Despite your best efforts you couldn’t stop it, the way your body was shaking beneath him - with pain, with pleasure, with the unfiltered desire thrumming through you like a rush of adrenaline.

“That’s it, beg me for it, beg me to fill you. Won’t be able to move when I’m done…”

If you’d had the strength you would have teased him for how talkative he’d become since sinking inside your cunt, tongue surely softened by the honeyed taste of you and the sweltering heat of his rut.

“All full and round and waddling…” he drawled, voice a near snarl, “you’ll have to stay here, stay with me, just me, mine…”

His words were slurring, blurring closer together as he pressed his lips to your neck, nosing at the sweat slicked hair curling there.

You were no hybrid, but when his teeth breached the delicate skin of your nape you went limp beneath him all the same. A bone deep urge to submit as instinctive as the urge to spread your thighs when you felt the pulsing heat of him begin to fill you.

The bite was hard, firm enough to break skin with a rubbery ‘snap!’, and when it did you squealed, writhing in a frenzied shake despite the futility of the action. He held firm against your thrashing, clamped jaw keeping you immobile and docile as he continued rutting into you, firm sucking slaps against your ass in an obscene ‘schlick! schlick! plap! plap! plap!’

“Yes! Yesyesyes, ohhhnnng!-“ you warbled with a fitful shaking of your head.

The release of pressure flooded you along with the physical dribble of blood, and it was enough to send your hurtling over the edge after him. The tight knot in your belly unraveled in tight pulses alongside his thick throbbing spurts, pussy milking him readily, greedily. You could feel blood beginning to dribble down your shoulders, pooling at your clavicles just as his spend began to leak out around the stretch.

After a few stuttered thrusts he released you, let his jaw relax and instead craned his head to begin lapping at the bite, sending a fresh burst of goosebumps over your skin each time his rough tongue brushed the tender puncture wounds.

You managed to wring your head from the mat, cheek wet where you’d been drooling and where tears had seeped out between your skin and the bamboo.

He gazed down at you with an intensity that made you whine again, pulse thrumming hotly in your ears.

“More…S’kuna… More…” you pleaded, sucking in a desperate, shaking breath between your chapped lips.

He laughed, a deep chuckle that sounded as manic as it did wolfish.

“My greedy woman, stuffed full and still crying for more.”

A lazy pleasure painted his face like a mask, severe features softened with it, and you gazed distantly at the contrast of inky stripes over his blushed skin with a sort of dulled awe.

He shifted behind you, but he didn’t pull out. Instead he simply wedged two great arms beneath your chest and flipped you over until he could crowd over your shaking form once more. He took a moment just to indulge in the sight of you beneath him - face darkened and glimmering with a sheen of sweat and tears, blinking up at him with wide, syrupy eyes, body still trembling as it tried desperately to accommodate the sheer bulk of him.

Your body was stained with him - a littering of sucking marks and plains of skin rubbed raw from his endless licking. His spit glossing your thighs, his cum smeared up your belly, and the little rivers of blood still dribbling down your throat where he'd planted his teeth so deep he was sure that it would scar.

A low, contented sound escaped him at the thought, and he lowered himself once more, knees lodged into the mat as he sucked in another indulgent breath. You even smelled like him - your own scent thrumming mellow and sweet beneath, mixing with his own and the sticky heat of his rut into a cocktail so delicious that it had drool pooling on his tongue.

You whined, mouthing at his shoulder as he sunk back inside and pressed down to the hilt, until the spatter of soaked hair at his base tickled your tingling clit. Deeper and deeper until there was only him - his thick thighs forcing your own apart, and his fat cock filling you again.

You mewled, squirming and crying as the firm rhythm of his hips resumed, tender now with the new angle that left you exposed and splayed beneath him. Thrusts a little sloppier but lacking none of their previous intensity. Each stroke still made you gasp, still made both of your legs quiver where they were spread and limp either side of his massive form, heels dragging pitifully over the floor.

“Shhh, quiet now, pet.” He was murmuring into your ear, soothing pleasantries that did nothing to soften the weight of him splitting you open, or the slick sound of his milky cum turning the mat slippery beneath you where it was beginning to dribble out. “Going to give you all of it… yeah… gonna stuff it all inside…”

Dazed, you lifted your head. Crown bumping into the curve of his collarbone as you peered down between you, sneaking a glimpse at the sight of each inky band disappearing inside, only to be dragged back out glazed and glossy with your shared spend.

“Needs to go inside, all of it… you’re gonna take it for me, aren’t you? Going to take it all…”

One massive hand slapped the floor beside your head, driving brutal divots into the mat with his claws. The other slid down your spine, nestled into the curve of your lower back and gripping the fat there to work you down further onto his length.

“One more, c’mon just one more.” He mouthed into your sweat soaked hair, sinking into incoherence beneath the heat of his instincts. Driven utterly mindless by the tight clench of your walls around him, and the sole goal of filling you to the brim bouncing in the cavern of his skull.

Your hands found the firm slope of his shoulders, and with the last of your strength you lifted your aching legs and crossed them around his waist in a pointed lock of limbs, the meaning of which was irrefutable even with senses dampened by blinding lust - a primal and unspoken cry of ‘don't pull out’.

With your ankles secure, heels pressing into his hips, whatever coherence or restraint he’d shown before - however minimal it may have been - was utterly gone, swept away alongside whatever was left of your brain.

“That’s it, take it, take it all… my woman, so strong, so…hah-…”

He was growling, each sentence accented by a brutal thrust so hard and so final that you saw a burst of stars twirling in your hazed vision each time the head of his thick length kissed your cervix. You simply squeezed your eyes closed and tightened your grip - heels digging into his lower back, grazing the base of his tail which quivered beneath your curling toes.

“Another, need one more… need’t make sure it takes, right? Need it to stick…”

He sounded so sweet despite the obscenity of his words. In stark contrast to the way he was pounding you into the floor, bruising something soft and delicate deep inside. You were writhing beneath the assault, feeling every muscled pound rock against your frame like he was trying to break you, like he intended to make it stick.

You were nodding, a wild frenzied toss of your head. The mat was slick below you, stained with a vulgar mix of sweat and cum and blood where the bite mark at your nape was smearing red up into your hairline. Your skin was flushed and dewy, rogue hairs splayed and glued to your sweat soaked forehead.

“Yesyesy-hn!- yes, Sukuna… need you ‘t fill me…breed me, want you to hngnn-mate me,,…”

You didn’t know what you were saying, you only knew that you didn’t want him to stop. Not until you felt full, stuffed, bloated with it. You could feel the tight swollen press of his knot, looming and incessant at your rim. You were dizzy with the thought of it, with the promise of being plugged, stuffed full - not a single drop allowed to leak out, at least not until it took.

“Gonna give you a baby… gonna stick a whole litter right here, nice ‘n deep…” The softness of his tone was gone, replaced now by something raspy and utterly possessive.

Your hands moved in a stuttered crawl to claw at his back, feeling the taut muscle there jump beneath your touch, sure that you were carving deep scratches into his skin. Not that he seemed to mind, in fact when you dug your nails ever deeper, you were sure that you felt him twitch deep inside, thick length kicking at your walls.

“Feel that, woman?” He growled, delirious, nudging the red hot swell of his knot tighter against your weeping entrance, “That means you’re mine.” 

Neither of you may have voiced it, but you knew the reality. He’d claimed you long before you’d crawled onto your hands and knees and let him mount you like a beast. You’d been his since you’d first laid eyes on him. When you'd walked into the holding bay at the facility and seen him muzzled and chained like destruction incarnate, jaw snapping behind the metal cage and carmine eyes narrowed to slits of burning coals - feral and beautiful and utterly wild. Since you’d nursed his wounds, since you’d let him feed you and clothe you and lap at your throat like he was trying to drink in the mere scent of you.

Brain fried, you could offer no more words. Instead, as penance for the searing puncture wound at your nape, you lapped a gentle kitten lick over his throat, tasting the sweat there, before you sunk your teeth in as hard as you could manage. An outlet for the bruising ache of him splitting you open.

He stuttered in response, knee slipping and tail tightening where it was locked in an fuzzy restraint around your thigh. The tip of it twitched each time you winced, each time you clenched, each time your teeth drove ever deeper into the sinewy column of his throat. It ached now, all of it - your jaw clamping down into his skin aiming to draw blood, your muscles worn down to bone, your fingers trying desperately to hold on.

“Mine,” he was panting, chanting like a hymn, like a promise, and you could feel the vibration of eaah word against your teeth,“oh, mine, mine, mine…”

You shook your head, struck with the resounding belief that you couldn’t possibly take anymore. But before another thought could form, before you could even suck in another desperate mouthful of air, he had nudged his hips forward. To your horror and delight in equal measure, there was a gasp, a blinding sting of pain, and then you were completely and unequivocally full.

Your mind was empty, buzzing static like a radio tuned to the wrong station. You took a few delayed blinks, eyes wide, brows raised in disbelief. He pressed into you, grinding against the seal just so you could feel the way his thick knot stretched you open and then some, the sensation so foreign and unbelievable that you felt as if you were wading through the thick haze of a dream.

The suddenness forced your jaw slack - your mouth opened and closed a few times in silence, disbelief - before you felt your swollen pussy twitch, and then all at once the winding, looming wave of pressure finally gave.

“Full… full… so… fu-hn-!”

Your vision blurred, sensations cutting so severely all you could manage to do was hold onto him when your orgasm finally hit. He was shuddering above you, still shifting in tight shallow humps despite the binding clench of your cunt and the swell of his own knot.

His hips jerked, rhythm faltering to sweet little jolts in time with the desperate throb of his cock. A sticky sweet burst of heat filled you, gush and after gush painting your insides in a pulsing rhythm until you felt bloated with it, stretched to the very limit and plugged by the tight press of his knot.

Finally, feathered at the edges of his next groan, and with a final brutal nudge of his hips, he sounded satisfied.

With the last of his strength Sukuna’s hands curled over your waist, holding you snugly against his front as he moved. You held on limply, caged by his massive arms and making weak little argumentative sounds into his sweat soaked skin before he collapsed into the pile of shredded pillows, keeping you tucked against his plump chest.

You melted into the contact, the warm plain of his chest glued to your front while his hands lowered to rest gently over your waist. His breaths came slow and steady beneath your curled body, and you listened quietly to the frantic pulse of his heart as it began to slow.

“Sukuna,” you tried, finding your voice small and hoarse in the thick air.

He gave no answer, simply the limp flicker of the tip of his tail where it was still coiled firmly around your thigh. You swallowed, throat dry as if you’d run a marathon, or been trapped in a desert for days without water.

You shifted slightly, wincing a little against the tender pressure of his knot still tucked snugly inside, and the effort earned you the flicker of his ear and a low sound deep in his chest. You felt the cavernous rumble against your palms, fingers teasing through the spatter of fur dusted over his pecs, and you waited until he had stilled once more before you peered up, blinking slowly against the sudden heaviness of your eyelids.

Your eyes moved slowly, tracing the length of his throat, catching on the outline of your blunt teeth indented in the skin there. The indents were deep, turning pink in the afterglow. You licked your teeth, imagining a sharp coppery burst of blood coating them, considering what he might have tasted like on your tongue at the height of pleasure.

Head mostly clear from the haze of lust, you now felt the sobering cramp of your muscles - a bone deep ache beginning to settle over your body beneath the pleasant hum. Your skin felt sticky, lacquered in all manner of bodily fluids - shared sweat and spit and semen coating you like a glaze of sin. Though as you gazed up at the angled cut of Sukuna's jawline, softened now in sleep, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Sure, it was filthy and raw and all manners of wrong, but it was yours. He was yours.

A distant, nagging little part of your brain still argued - how could you even begin to explain what had occurred between the four reinforced walls that now caged you? What would your staff think when they came looking for you bright and early on Monday morning, expecting to find you sitting at your desk nursing an hour old cup of coffee, only for some poor unsuspecting assistant to swing open the door and find the truth? Sukuna's quarters devolved into a mess of torn pillows and shredded clothes, perfumed with a cloying heat so overwhelming it could send a sizzle of need through even the most disciplined researcher.

Would they offer you any sympathy at all after finding you buried within some sort of love nest, laying atop the very patient you’d been tasked with finding a mate for, knotted and bred so thoroughly there was no room for argument or denial?

Your nape pulsed, raw and stinging in the open air where the bloody teeth prints of your fresh mating mark were cooling to a crusted smear. Your stomach flipped at the concept, though another sick little part of your brain retorted that you’d simply completed your assigned task. You blinked down at the swell of your belly where it was pressed against Sukuna’s hip, softly rounded, a little fuller than before where he’d stuffed you utterly and unequivocally full.

For now you simply let rational thought drift away. Instead, you relaxed into the warmth of his frame, walled by softened muscle, and let yourself slip into the blackness behind your eyelids. Lulled by the steady thrum of his heart against your ear, and the soft scent of a satisfied beast tickling at your nose.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The tiles around you gleamed white in the stark light, cool and clinical beneath the squeak of your shoes when you came to a halt before a great door at the end of the hall. The primary cause of your currently throbbing headache - and the very reason you were onsite at the facility instead of snoozing the weekend away - was standing in the assessment room like a marble centerpiece when you finally entered.

It was a decently sized space, big frosted windows at the rear which usually allowed a soft light to filter through, making the clinical lab feel just a little bit warmer. Now it just felt stark, the hulking silhouette of your patient blocking out the light like the moon during an eclipse, like a black hole.

He was as intimidating as ever, broad form backlit by the sun leaking through the windows behind him. Wide planes of thick rippled muscle dotted with spatters of silky orange and black dappled hair. He was entirely nude where he stood in the middle of the room aside from a collar cinched around his throat. The accessory looked heavy - a solid loop of dark buttery leather, green light flashing dimly in the center like a pulse.

He stood upright with perfect posture. His spine tugged up straight as an arrow, big hands folded behind his back, though he wasn’t restrained by any physical means. He showed no signs of unease or discomfort at his lack of attire, in fact he was the very picture of control - showing you just a slip of the lazy disciplined strength you knew was simmering below the surface of his striped skin.

His expression didn’t shift when he caught sight of you, but his ears did perk up ever so slightly - brilliant orange discs swiveled toward the doorway where you stood. His nose twitched once, chin lifting to sniff the air.

“Well.” He finally greeted, voice a low sultry purr as his head dropped back to a relaxed position. “If it isn’t my favorite little doctor.”

You made a pointed effort to ignore the nude hybrid, all seven foot of him, as you entered the room and tugged the door closed behind you. It clicked shut with a resounding finality that prickled the fine hair along your arms, goosebumps tickling beneath your pristine doctor’s coat.

His maroon eyes followed your movement as you crossed the floor. The rope of his tail twitching with a lazy interest where it lay along the tiles behind him, the only part of him moving - writhing like a great striped python.

“You aren’t even a little afraid I’ll pounce on you?” He asked, voice thick with teasing. “Foregoing restraints is rather bold, doc.”

You blinked at him and lifted a hand from your crisp white coat pocket, shaking the remote control clutched between your fingers. A green light pulsed at the tip in time with the dim little light embedded in his collar. His lightly amused expression soured as he watched your thumb tease over the big blue button in the center, and he spat a little at the sight, at the promise of sharp pain it represented.

“Right then.” You breathed, and to your relief your voice came out strong and calm in the cool air. “Your previous buyer invoked an early return for…”

You hummed idly, tapping a pen to your lower lip as you squinted at the clipboard before you flipped the page over and gazed up at him over the edge of your lenses.

“…Performance issues.”

His tail swished over the tile in a great flash of orange, brows and nose crinkled in what you were sure was a badly concealed snarl. His biceps twitched as he shuffled in place, clearly itching to move from his docile position.

It was hard to imagine him of all creatures having any issue performing. You’d seen those muscled limbs in action; thick toned thighs, arms, big hands - grabbing, pinning, breaking. It was easy to picture them in other more… primal scenarios. The ease by which he could wrangle someone to the floor and crowd over them. Threaten them with those mammoth teeth of his, those razor sharp claws, and take whatever it was that he wanted.

You cleared your throat in an action that you hoped read as casual.

“The client has requested further tests be run, and if possible, a sample to be analyzed to assess their suspected virility issues.”

“Virility issues…” He echoed, spitting as if the very words tasted bitter on his tongue.

“So strap me into that ridiculous machine of yours then and get it over with already.” He grumbled, and you could all but see the way he was prickling - seething under the blatant accusations of him being anything other than a perfect apex specimen.

You’d been privy to it once, early in Sukuna’s domestication when he’d still been liable to take someone’s finger off. A requirement of all test subjects was to assess their reproductive capacity, so after being restrained heavily and drugged up for good measure, he’d been placed in a state of the art milking machine.

You couldn’t deny the raw reaction you’d had to watching that usually sharp predatory expression of his turn dumb and docile as the machine worked him. That handsome jaw gone slack, drooling around teeth that could gnaw a limb off with ease. Watching the way he’d jerked against the restraints, licked and bit mindlessly at the mouth guard like it was the nape of some pretty little thing he had mounted. Brain melted and utterly drunk on the raw pleasure of it, lost in a fantasy behind his eyelids.

The sight of it, the obscene sounds of him grunting and moaning like he was really breeding something warm and alive beneath him, not being stroked by man made machinery. Muscles in his broad back twitching as he hunched over, tugging wildly against the restraints. It had stirred to life a sticky and entirely unprofessional heat low in your belly. One that had you opening one too many private browser windows that night in the comfort of your home office. Spending a few too many hours researching tiger hybrid procreation habits. Pretending the thick thighs in the demonstration videos were banded in black, pretending that it was flaming pink hair dipped between the raw bitten shoulders of the hybrids poor partner.

“As satisfying a sight it would be to watch that machine suck the life out of you again, the client has requested a more…” You trailed off. “Human approach for this test.”

He raised a pink brow at you, head tilted as his lips spread into a sly grin. He looked at you darkly then - like he knew exactly what you’d done the last time you’d both been in this predicament. Like he knew precisely what had been lingering in your browser history before you’d cleared it away in a blaze of hot shame just as the sun began to lick the horizon, bleary eyed and guilty as a sinner in the light of day.

“What, you gonna bend over and tug up that sweet little uniform? Let me-“

His words were cut short by his own strangled grunt as your thumb dug into the big blue button on your remote. Despite the intensity of the electric currents biting into his throat, he didn’t move, not really. He didn’t snarl or snap or bite like he would have before his training. Instead he simply huffed a sharp exhale through flared nostrils, jaw clenched tight against what you were sure was a decently painful jolt.

“I really don’t enjoy having to use the shock collar Sukuna, so be good - okay?”

He muttered something untoward under his breath, face still scrunched into a scowl. But nonetheless he relaxed back into his previous position and allowed you to continue, gazing down at you with an unimpressed, lightly irritated expression from his place in the center of the floor.

Without another word you continued into the room, tugging a lone chair from behind the small desk along the tiles until it rested in front of him. He peered down at you as you took the seat, maroon glimmering with a thinly veiled interest. His gaze flickered to watch the way your thighs pressed flat over the little plastic seat, and then at the tools you had prepared now sitting in your lap - an audio recorder, a clicker, a little plastic liquids container, and the familiar shine of the shock collar remote.

You swallowed, squirming a little under his undivided attention. You busied yourself instead by tugging a thin blue glove onto your hand, pointedly avoiding the sight of his sharp jaw above you, or the angled curve of his abs sitting at eye level not two feet from your face, rising in time with his relaxed breaths. Despite your seasoned career it was still difficult to feign nonchalance, to hide the instinctual fear that came with being alone in a room with an unrestrained apex hybrid - relying only on your own conditioning training and his fair-weather desires.

With a sharp ‘snap!’ you finished tugging the glove onto your hand, and flexed your fingers beneath the blue latex to test the fit. Satisfied, you cleared your throat.

“Alright. Let’s begin.”

Reaching down, you clicked the ‘on’ button on the little recording device sitting atop the clipboard in your lap and watched the red light flash a few times before you began speaking.

“Subject is Ryomen Sukuna, apex class Panthera Tigris hybrid. Standing at 7’3” tall, weighing 350 pounds.”

Your voice rang clear and uninterrupted into the crisp air of the room.

“The purpose of today’s test is to address reported issues with performance after subject was unable to meet breeding requirements while in private care.”

You noted, carefully avoiding use of the word ‘captivity’. You took a breath, eyes roaming his body slowly, meticulously cataloging the curves and angles of his physique through a pointed lens of professional curiosity, or so you feigned.

“The subject is in acceptable physical condition. Appears outwardly healthy and in active shape.”

Using the word ‘ripped’ would be entirely unprofessional, though not at all inaccurate. Sukuna was a brick wall of heavy, beefy muscles that were more for function than for looks - though he admittedly didn’t lack in either department. It was the kind of physique gleaned from using your body how nature had intended. From stalking, wrestling, taking down prey. From biting and pinning and slicing - indulging in every bloody morsel until you were fat and drunk on the taste.

“As recorded in the previous on-boarding document, the subject is above average size for his type and class…” You cleared your throat a little, eyes roaming down to take in the sight of him, hanging soft and heavy between his toned thighs, nestled between tufts of pink and blazing orange. “…In all regards.”

Your eyes flicked up just in time to catch his proud little smirk, which quickly turned to a scowl and a snarled yelp when your hand lifted and you pinched at his bare hip with gloved fingers.

“Subject responds as expected to pain stimuli.” You noted casually, peering up at him with a smirk that you were sure edged the boundaries of professional.

He scoffed in response, though his tongue darted out almost imperceptibly to wet his lower lip, and when you peered back down to continue your assessment you found that he was half hard.

“Subject is showing signs of initial arousal despite lack of physical stimulation. A positive sign in regard to the clients concerns.” You added, voice a touch rougher than before, faced with the reality of the task you were about to undertake.

To Sukuna’s credit, he gave no reply. No sly taunt or scoff, he simply watched you squirm below him with a lazy, pleased sort of expression painting his handsome features.

With a slow exhale, you lifted your non-gloved hand and reached into the breast pocket of your coat, fishing out a little bottle of lube. Unscrewing the lid, you deposited a few generous drops into your cupped palm, rubbing your fingers to spread the gel evenly.

“Proceeding with sample collection.”

You started slow, latex clad fingers wrapped gently around his base, tracing the thick black bands striped there, pinky nuzzling at the little pink tufts of hair. You blinked a few times, struck with the dizzying realization that your fingertips didn’t touch when you attempted to close your fist around him, not even close.

As expected, his hips jerked a little when your wrist finally began to move, working up and down his length in slow strokes until you felt him harden fully in your grip. You could feel your face beginning to heat despite yourself. Something hot and unnamed creeping up your throat as your thumb traced a thick vein from his base to the tip and you squeezed experimentally before resuming your steady milking rhythm. He made a satisfied sound above you, a rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Subject is responding positively to initial physical stimulation.” Came your slightly shaky commentary, interrupting the slick sounds of your glove moving over his length.

“Course I am.” He grunted. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

You eyed the recorder, and spoke your reply in a low practiced voice.

“No? Then why did the buyer return you?”

He was surprisingly still despite the effort of your arm, expression entirely unperturbed aside from the barest hint of a blush dusting his cheeks and the very tips of his fuzzy ears.

“You don’t seem so disappointed, doc.” He replied flatly. “I can see you pressing your thighs together under that little apron. Don’t try to deny it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You bit back, voice a little sharper now, and your spare hand palmed slowly along your lap until your fingers found the smooth shape of the shock remote.

It had been a long and grueling process to even somewhat domesticate a predator like Sukuna with any measure of success. And though his body may have been broken enough to have him standing unrestrained in this room with you without too much trouble, you’d never quite managed to tame that filthy tongue of his. His attention was searing - pupils blown wide and dark, blistering as a tongue laving your skin as he pinned you under the scrutiny of his gaze.

“Do you have any idea the kinda pheromones you’re putting out right now? I can pretty much taste you.”

Annoyance burned hot in your chest, not because of his blatant disrespect for your authority, but because his words were true. Your thighs clenched tight and trembling beneath your clipboard, spurred by the sticky sweet heat swirling in your belly. It was in his nature as a hybrid to be observant, even more so of beings he determined to be prey, which to your reluctance happened to include humans, namely you.

“Getting nice and wet just from touching me like this, huh?” He tutted, shaking his head a little. “For shame, doc.”

“Enough.” You snapped, brows knitted in unfiltered frustration.

He grinned, wide and toothy, and licked his lips when your stroke quickened, fist tightening as a result of your simmering irritation.

“Right, sure.” He continued, unashamed, lips still tugged into that animal grin. “I’ll pretend like I didn’t get soft the minute I saw that last buyers face, and you can pretend you don’t get off stroking my ‘larger than average’ cock-“

Without warning a sharp buzz cut his sentence short, and he was silent for a moment, face contorted into a pained hiss.

“Fuck.” He finally grunted after a few moments, watching your thumb slide away from the blue plastic button.

You knew the pain of the shock collar first hand, having made a point to trial the sensation before you’d integrated it into your training program. It was a hot kind of pain, sharp and sizzling - like touching a live wire. Sukuna was panting lightly as he recovered, eyes low-lidded and hazy. You imagined that his frazzled brain was likely fighting between the residual pain of the shock collar, and the sweet slide of your hand moving tight and hot over his length. A confusing cocktail of sensations.

“I’d love to use this fuckin' collar on you.” He hissed through gritted teeth, words angry and a little slurred, and you didn’t miss the way he started to move then - thick hips rutting up ever so slightly to meet the momentum of your fist. “You’d be crying by the first shock - sobbing, drooling, fucking begging me to-“

Again, the sharp buzzing sounded, accented once more by his stuttered growl.

“Describe what you feel, Sukuna.” You continued smoothly despite the way your heart was thumping, blood pounding hotly in your ears. He scoffed, a sharp raw sound.

“I feel you fisting my dic-“

He jolted with the impact of the next shock, but this time instead of anger his expression was a little detached in the wake of the buzz. Angled lines softened as he panted, breaths coming heavier now, more ragged. He watched your hand move through his lashes, dimly noting the way your glove was turning slippery, blue latex coated and sticky with his pre.

“Tell me properly now, how does it feel? Me touching you like this?” You prompted again.

Through the slick latex you felt him throb, a heavy kick against your fingers. A rosy pink flush dusted his plump chest, each of his labored breaths accented with a soft little animal grunt.

“Feels good.” He finally managed, and you realized then that beneath the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the obscene slick sounds of your stroking, there was a deep satisfied purring.

Your spare hand moved along your lap, discarding the shock remote in favor of the smooth clicker. His half-lidded eyes flicked up to follow the motion of your hand as you raised the tool and pressed it once with a dull little ‘click’.

His body jolted instantly in response as if he’d been shocked again, and he stuttered out a whiny little noise from deep in his throat. Per the training, you were sure that the simple clicking sound had a flood of pleasure hormones washing over him, and mixed with the sensation of your curling wrist it was sure to be dizzying.

Indulgently, you thumbed at the tip - blushed dark and shining wet with milky beads. You smeared the pre bubbling there along his length, fist clenching tightly on each upstroke until he was panting feebly above you, hulking shoulders curled inward and eyes lowered to watch you shamelessly pump his cock.

“That’s it.” You cooed sweetly. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

You had a nagging little feeling that your commentary was crossing professional lines, and you were absolutely sure that this wasn’t the intended application of his clicker training. But nonetheless, when he nodded in reply you pressed the clicker again, and you swore he honest to god shivered in response this time. His jaw had long since gone slack, pink lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled, his pleasured purr rumbling ever louder.

His cock was drooling now, hot and twitching between your fingers. Weeping thick sticky ribbons over your knuckles, turning your tight strokes sloppy.

“That’s my good boy. You want to help me make you feel good, right?”

He nodded limply, and his hips thrust frantically up into your grip when you clicked the button again. He moaned then, a weaker sound than you think you’d ever heard from him. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he were drooling too as he chuffed, open mouthed, sand-papery tongue laid flat and poking out from between his sharp canines.

It was hard to see what the buyer had been referring to. If this is how he was behaving after just a little lube and your mediocre fist, he’d surely have had no problem performing with another living breathing hybrid.

“I’m not seeing any issues here at all. Just needed a little cup to finish into, is that it Sukuna?” You teased, but when you lifted your head his eyes weren’t on the little plastic dish. Instead they were locked on your face, watching you with such a lazy and unashamed pleasure that you felt the fine hairs on your neck prickle.

He shook his head, the action slow and lumbering as if his skull were just too heavy to move with any grace. You hesitated for a breath, thumb hovering over the pad of the clicker, though you didn’t move to pick up the shock remote instead.

“No?” You questioned, clinical facade fading a little in the wake of your genuine curiosity. “Why did the buyer return you then?”

“Because I didn’t want any of the meek little dolls they tossed at me.” He growled. “Couldn’t even -hah- pretend to get hard when they were mewling and whining under me so shamelessly.”

He looked at you then like he were a man starved, eyes burning hot as coals, dark and hungry. He nudged his hips, causing your eyes to flick down and take in the sight of him - flushed dark and angry against the cool blue of your stained gloves. Slick was smeared up the pink curls at his base, over the curve of his abs, over the veins, thick and protruding, that were running down to his throbbing length.

“Look what you did to me with your little clicker and your sweet fucking scent...” He groaned, nose twitching as he sucked in another slow inhale, tongue poking out like he could taste it. “Scrambled my fuckin’ brain doc, all I can think about ‘s you…”

Your stroke stuttered, but a rumbled growl from his throat was warning enough for you to quickly resume your rhythmic pace. You watched him with wide eyes, lips pouted into a shocked little ‘o’ as you considered the weight of his words.

“If we were outside I’d take you properly.” He continued, eyes low and a little dazed, utterly lost in the fantasy he was painting for you. “I’d have you arched and presenting for me down in the dirt like a proper mate.”

You bit the inside of your cheek against your own instinctive urge to whine. Instead choosing to run your tongue over your lips. He was watching you, and the moment the muscle slipped out, pink and wet over your lower lip, he cursed.

“Yeah. You’d let me wouldn’t you, doc? Let me spread you open and mount you? Breed you?”

It was then that you felt something brush your leg, and you peered down to see his tail coiling around your shin, teasing down to pet at your ankle. Your mind drifted back to those godforsaken demonstration videos, the way the dominant male would wrap his tail around his partners thigh right before…

His cock twitched in your hand, once, twice.

A few more slick strokes and he was painting the front of your apron with a ragged growl, and it took a few heaping spurts before you remembered to force your arm down - shoving the tip of him into the little plastic test cup in your other hand.

He tossed his head back, the long line of his throat flushed and bobbing as he swallowed between breathy groans. He came in harsh throbs, balls and abs clenching in a tight pulsing rhythm. You’re not sure you’d ever seen so much cum - measured level rising more and more with each thick heaping spurt as you held the tip of him to the cup, still milking his length in a slow tight stroke.

“Shit!-“

You made a sharp surprised sound when - to your utter amazement - he filled the container, and then some. Before you could react cum had dribbled over the edge and begun to pitter-patter over the cool white tile at your feet. A few rogue droplets stained the clipboard in your lap as you shifted frantically, and without thought you lifted your arm, arrested by the sole goal of protecting the tools still in your lap. The result was a stray spurt shot over your awestruck face.

You sputtered, professional mask utterly shattered, and released him from your grasp. You recoiled, shuffling back until your shoulders hit the spine of the chair behind you. You could feel his spend spattered over your forehead, your cheeks, dribbling over your parted lips and down to your throat between the spread of your shirt collar. The only small blessing was that your glasses had stopped him from painting your lashes with a sticky pearly string alongside the rest of you.

When you’d finally recovered enough to meet his eyes, they were dark and sharp again, filled with a familiar predatory hunger, and to your surprise he snarled at you - flashing rows of sharp pearly white teeth. The shock button lay sticky and useless in your lap, and you made no move to grasp it.

He was grinning wide and lazy, cock still twitching slow drooling spurts onto the floor where you’d released it in your shock. The room was silent aside from his slow panting and the occasional tap of his spend dripping onto the clinical tile below.

“How’s that for virility, doc?” Came his vicious taunt.

You blinked a few times at him through the smear of cum staining your lenses, before you slipped them off and palmed blindly until the recorder slipped into your sticky grip. The little red light was still pulsing, and with a shaky arm you lifted the mic to your lips, thumbing at a rogue smear there with your spare hand.

“S-subject appears to be functioning within acceptable parameters. No sign of reported performance issues witnessed during the session.”

Sukuna ran his sandpapered tongue over his lips, as if an animal licking his chops after a satisfying kill. You felt the tip of his tail brush your skin, still petting leisurely at your ankle like he’d claimed something. The contact was searing.

In something of a daze, you thought about the best methods for redacting sections of the audio report. Hell, at this point maybe you’d just destroy the recording entirely. At least then you might be able to salvage your job, write the lack of recording off as incompetence rather than gross abuse of power.

“End report.”

‘Click!’

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He can’t finish, but suddenly when you’re there he’s got no issues… right… right….

Sooooo pt.2 with sukuna going into a rut?…

He was a little unusual, sure. Maybe even a little unsociable. All inky hair, thick gauges, and the promise of tattoos peeking out from beneath long sleeves. But there was an undeniable confidence about him, a subtle coolness that made even the most boisterous and bully-prone frat bros steer clear. Whether it was some odd mutual respect, or the primal survival instinct of avoiding what you don’t understand - they lived in a polite harmony.

Yeah, fuck that.

Satoru Gojo wasn’t one for meaningless politeness, or harmony for that matter. Though he wasn’t sure what it was exactly that drove his actions, it didn’t really matter he supposed. Maybe he just wanted to see something break, a little crack in the prim and perfect mask of Suguru Geto.

Yeah, that was certainly why he flicked the top of Geto’s books as he tried to read in class, or slammed his laptop shut whenever he’d saunter by, yapping loudly to Sukuna about some hot chick he’d fucked off campus. Why he’d screw up wads of notepaper scribbled with vulgar doodles and toss them at the back of that perfectly ponytailed head during a lecture.

An ode to Geto’s unmatched patience, and to Gojo’s utter dismay, this behaviour never got him anywhere at all. He was sure that Geto was aware, the man was undoubtedly smart enough to know when he was being targeted, and it’s not like Gojo was particularly shy about it. But still, it didn’t get him an inch.

Geto would simply open his laptop back up, or straighten the crinkled page of his novel and continue on as if nothing had changed, as if he’d simply needed a break to stretch his spine, adjust his position of his own volition. His eyes remained lowered, locked on the task before him. Never once even hinting that he might lift his head, flick those eyes up and grace Gojo with his attention, angry or otherwise.

It was frankly infuriating, though Gojo would never admit it. In fact, it had been only a few hours earlier that he had been painstakingly folding torn notepad pages into paper planes, launching the makeshift aircraft’s across the lecture hall aiming for the middle of that effortless bun Geto always tossed his hair into.

Of course the reaction had been much the same as always. Geto had simply reached back as if he hadn’t just felt the sharp poke of a folded page, and tugged the elastic around his bun free. He’d slipped a hand through the loops of hair, letting the dark inky strands slip down over his shoulders, sleek and intoxicating. The girls in the seats flanking him flushed, and Gojo scowled where he was sat a few rows back, annoyance beating in his chest like a drum.

He’d still felt that little pang of irritation when he’d stormed into the locker room after class, tugging his team jersey over his head in an furious motion, legs tingling as he shoved them unceremoniously into a pair of grey sweats. In fact he’d only managed to forget his bristling annoyance on his third lap of the field, when Sukuna had shoved past him and a meaningless little competition had sparked to life to absorb his attention.

By the time he’d finished training that evening he’d forgotten the events of the previous day entirely. When he finally left the gym - muscles aching, limbs buzzing from the long training session - it was just beginning to get dark. The sun painted the sky with the last few licks of its light, turning the earth below a heady pink. The night wind was crisp, something of a relief against Gojo’s sweat soaked skin, still heated from the earlier drills.

He wiped a gym towel over his forehead, listening to the boisterous cackles of his teammates echo faintly from the locker room. He exhaled slowly, brushing pale strands away from his eyes and tilting his head back to watch the clouds move lazily through the haze of pink. He slung the damp towel over his nape, track bag tugged over a shoulder, bare aside from the slip of his jersey caught beneath the strap.

He found his mind wandering as he walked, eyes lazily tracing the soft tufts of clouds as they meandered through the dying light. He was so uncharacteristically detached from reality in fact, that he only caught sight of the form squatted against the brick wall in-front of him seconds before he tripped over their outstretched legs.

Gojo’s head snapped down to the culprit, lips parted in preparation to dig into them for daring to be in his way - regardless of whether he’d been watching where he was going or not - but words and fury alike died on his tongue when his eyes settled on the familiar head of hair below him.

Geto sat cross-legged on the ground - back pressed against the gym wall, book splayed on his lap - half heartedly tapping a dying cigarette into an empty coke can. Gojo considered actually tripping over him then, maybe even dropping his basketball right onto the pages of his pristine book. But when he blinked a few times and finally took a proper look at the man - entirely absorbed in his novel, dark strands slipping from the makeshift bun he’d obviously re-tied since their earlier standoff, twirling in-front of his face as he read intently - he paused, and found that all of his usual fire had died out.

Gojo found himself speaking before he could think better of it, suddenly arrested by a genuine curiosity.

“Watch’a reading?” His uncharacteristically friendly greeting broke the silence. His voice was softer than he was anticipating, missing its usual swagger, and he wanted to slap a palm over his mouth as soon as the words left him.

Suguru’s head tilted up at him then, slow, leisurely, and suddenly Gojo felt hot under the intensity of the attention. He hadn’t ever really noticed, but Geto’s eyes were dark, really dark. Like he was peering into the unseen depths of the ocean. So dark in fact that Gojo was worried that if he happened to trip in, he might never be able to swim back up to the surface.

Gojo could feel a blush creeping slowly up his throat from the collar of his jersey, and the fact that he was getting flustered by this absolute nobody had him even more worked up. He huffed a little, irritation flaring to butt heads with whatever other unnamed emotion was swirling hot in his chest.

Geto still hadn’t said anything, and Gojo found himself itching to hear him speak. He’d heard Geto’s voice before of course, sharing some of their classes it was hard not to. But the voice he used in class, reciting poetry or whispering to some desk partner about a shared task, it was calculated, like an actor pitching their voice to fit a scene. While undoubtedly pleasant, it would surely be different than when he addressed him privately, just the two of them.

When Geto again said nothing, just blinked up at him expectantly with those void like eyes, Gojo pointed a long finger down toward the novel splayed over his bent knees.

“The book.” He clarified dumbly, as if he could possibly be referring to anything else.

He thought he almost caught the roll of Geto’s eyes, but none of that mattered when the man below him made a little sound, clearing his throat, and then replied in a smooth rumble.

“Nietzsche.”

That single word was enough to send a sizzle of goosebumps over Gojo’s shoulders. Hearing Geto mechanically recite iambic pentameter was one thing, but having him direct that dulcet tone toward him was something else entirely.

“The one about good and evil?” Gojo questioned, finger tapping the plush leather of the ball between his palms.

Geto quirked a sharp brow, and Gojo thought that he caught an edge of genuine surprise, that or it was pure doubt contorting his smooth features.

“You read ‘Beyond good and evil’?” He queried and fixed him with a flat expression, like he didn’t quite believe it.

Gojo shrugged and spun the ball in his hand, making a smooth casual sound like he hadn’t just pulled the title out of thin fucking air.

“Sure, was assigned it in some class or something.”

“Hm.” Suguru hummed, obviously a little dubious, but he provided no further commentary as his eyes flicked back down to the page in his lap.

Those additional six words acted as nothing more than a teasing taste, and Gojo had never been one to be satisfied with anything aside from overindulgent.

“Got a book report due on ‘Jane Eyre’ now though.” Gojo added, watching Geto pause halfway between the turn of a page. “I don’t even have a copy, have to keep going to the library to read the stupid thing. Haven’t even got past page five, ‘s a real freakin’ pain.”

“Jane Eyre.” Suguru echoed slowly when Gojo had finished his rant, as if he were feeling the way the vowels felt in his mouth before he nodded lightly. “Not a bad read.”

A little spark of pride flared somewhere in Gojo’s chest, not that he had any clue what to say next. Thankfully, Geto filled the empty air for him, finally interested in the conversation.

“Actually, I’ve got a personal copy in my apartment.” Geto added smoothly, slipping some tiny scrap of paper Gojo hadn’t noticed before into the spine of the book. Gojo watched his slender fingers press the note between the pages before he closed the novel and peered up at Gojo expectantly.

“If you wanted to borrow it?”

Any thoughts about the little slip of paper - was it a receipt? Had some cute barista scrawled their number on it, and that’s why Geto was keeping it? Was it a movie ticket from some date, now a sentimental momento? - faded in the wake of Geto’s unexpected offer.

Holy fuck yes. Gojo’s fingers were tingling where they were curled over the ball, white knuckled in an iron grip as if it would expel the energy pent up in his limbs. He cleared his throat and shrugged as casually as he could manage.

“Yeah, that’d be cool. Or whatever.”

Geto puffed a tiny snort of amusement through his nose, then pushed the remainder of his cigarette into the empty soda can and rose to his feet.

When he stood, Gojo noticed for the first time just how tall Geto was. He was used to seeing him sat down in lecture halls, or squatted against a wall smoking a cigarette out the back of campus like he was this evening. Not that he was quite as tall as Gojo, but he wasn’t far off. They were close enough in stature that when he tilted his head up an inch he met Gojo’s gaze almost squarely, face so close that Gojo could see the tiniest splatter of freckles painted over his tanned skin.

Gojo’s mouth was suddenly dry, that creeping heat clawing back up his neck, and he cleared his throat, took a step back in what he hoped read as subtle.

“You uh-“

“Let’s go.”

Geto interrupted, brushing past him to set off leisurely down the path toward the apartment buildings on the outskirts of campus - leaving Gojo to grumble under his breath before taking a few quick steps to match his pace.

The journey to Geto’s place was a quiet one. A little awkward on Gojo’s part, but Geto to his credit seemed entirely unphased. That same mellow coolness thrumming from him as he lead Gojo into an old building - all faded red brick and rusted pipes clawing up the walls - in silence. Gojo watched the loose bun tied at the crown of his head bob lightly as he trailed up the staircase in-front of him, citing over his shoulder that the buildings elevator hadn’t worked in months.

Part of him wanted to fill the empty space between them, insert a lighthearted joke about the near decrepit building that he was sure Geto would defend - say was charming and historical - but he found himself struck by an odd quietness as Geto shoved a key into the lock and pushed the wooden door to his apartment open.

When they crossed the threshold, Gojo was first hit with the subtle scent of incense, flanked by something woody and sweet. It was oddly familiar - distinctly Geto.

“Take your shoes off, please.” Geto murmured as he stepped inside alongside Gojo and immediately leaned down to unlace his dark boots.

Gojo watched the clothed curve of his spine and the loose strands of hair slipping over the sleeves of his leather jacket as he followed suit and kicked his slides off, toeing them into the shoe rack beside the door. He slipped his duffel bag off his shoulder, placing it down alongside his ball. He paused then, and took a long look at his own shoes tucked between a plethora of Geto’s, considering the sight and the little flutter of something unnamed in his chest that came along with it.

He hadn’t much time to consider the implications of that feeling, as Geto was already stepping into the darkness of the narrow hallway past the entryway. His eyes were downcast as he flipped through stacks of books perched on the cabinet beside the shoe rack, mouthing under his breath.

“Brönte, wasn’t it?” Geto questioned as he lifted a particularly thick book and placed it aside, selecting the worn novel below instead and studying its cover intently.

“Yeah.” Gojo murmured in reply, watching Geto sift effortlessly through a mountainous stack of paperbacks, brow lightly furrowed in concentration.

“Ah, here we are.” Geto breathed, face softening in satisfaction. His voice was low as he turned to hand the book over. “I think I liked the setting of this one most. The uninhabitable wild moors as a representation of the protagonists untameable and sometimes destructive natures. Maybe the reason it’s such a classic in the genre.”

Gojo snorted and shook his head lightly, arm lifted to accept the book from Geto’s offering hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be smart or something? That was ‘Wuthering Heights’, not ‘Jane-…”

Gojo froze suddenly, his arm outstretched, lips ajar mid sentence, and he watched Geto’s lips curl upward into a smug smile. Geto tutted and angled the book back toward himself, sharply plucked out of Gojo’s reach before he could even start to backpedal.

“What an informed distinction to make for someone who hasn’t read past, what, the fifth page, was it?”

“Maybe I exaggerated…”

“Don’t lie to me.” Getos interrupted, voice dropped so low and serious that Gojo flinched as if he’d been slapped. “You’ve already read the entire thing, haven’t you?”

Gojo found himself chuckling, probably a nervous tick. To be so boldly accused, all he could really do was laugh. A self soothing response as he felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he lifted his hands in a placating surrender.

“Okay, maybe I’ve read a few more than five pages.” Gojo admitted, voice soft and placating as if he were soothing a wild animal hissing at him with its hackles raised. “And maybe I happen to have also read a few other classics over the years…”

”I’d appreciate if you kept it to yourself, wouldn’t want to damage my stellar reputation. Bein’ some kinda bookworm isn’t really conducive to my popularity.”

Geto let him yap, continued approaching him in silence, stalking like a panther as he crossed the small space. And when he finally reached Gojo, he took one more deliberate step until he was so close that Gojo could feel his breath puff over his bare shoulders where his sweat was still cooling. Geto peered up at him the same way he had in the street behind the gym, like he could see right through Gojo’s facade. Dark shining pools looking almost violet in the lamp light.

“So why are you really here, hm?” Came his questioning voice, head tilting pointedly. Gojo’s eyes caught the flash of his ear as he turned, stacked with titanium bars and studs.

“Because it sure as hell isn’t to borrow a fucking book.” He bit, the sentence feathering off into an accusatory hiss.

The boldness of his words felt like a punch to the gut, and Gojo found himself shrugging in reply.

“It’s true man, I really do need a copy for the report, honest.” He doubled down, fingers spread into the air where he was still struck in mock surrender, fixing Geto with a wide grin, the type of charm that usually let him weasel out of anything.

“Right.” Geto replied flatly, arms crossed over his chest so tight that the muscles in his forearms jumped. “There’s absolutely no way you just wanted to talk with me alone, right?”

Gojo’s brow crinkled. He couldn’t deny that he admired the guy. Sure, Gojo himself was miles more popular, but Geto just had this air about him - an effortless charm that drew people in as if he were magnetic.

Despite being a nobody from nowhere, peoples eyes still followed him when he walked down the hall, hung on his every word whenever he spoke in that smooth tone of his, gracing the class with his thoughtful opinion on a piece. Girls would whisper in hushed giggles when they’d pass him in the library, or walk by his table at lunch - daring eachother to ask for his number.

It was undoubtedly the charm of something new, unique - no one else on campus had tattoos swirling beneath the collar of their shirt, or so many piercings littering their ears that they’d make an airport scanner have a meltdown. But what bubbled in Gojo’s stomach as he watched these little scenes play out from a table over, shouldered by his frat brothers, was nothing more than mild irritation. And the relief he felt pour over him when Geto smiled and shut them down with a practised ease was simply relief that he hadn’t taken one of the girls out of the dating pool. That was it. It had to be.

“Pfft, yeah right.” Gojo scoffed, crossed his arms in a brutish mirror of Geto’s pose. “Like I’d voluntarily hangout with some loser.”

The sentence had barely passed his lips before Geto’s hand shot out to grab a handful of Gojo’s jersey, meshed material crinkled beneath the tightness of his grip. He tugged roughly, with a strength that made Gojo suck in a little breath of surprise, and he found himself stumbling forward a little with the force of it.

“Don’t be rude, Satoru.” Geto bit, voice smooth and venomous as he narrowed his eyes accusingly. “It doesn’t look good on you.”

Gojo might have been ashamed at the way he felt his dick jump pitifully in his shorts at Suguru’s sharp tone, the way his first name sounded hissed from between his teeth. The way he’d twisted the collar of his jersey so that it bit ever so slightly into his throat. But he found himself leaning forward instead, until he felt Geto’s knuckles press against the bob of his Adams apple.

“I’m sorry.” He found himself apologising before he could think better of it, surprised by his own sudden meekness.

“Hm.” Geto hummed in reply. The tone was thoughtful, lightly pleased, and Gojo felt all the more like a wayward little puppy who had just performed a trick correctly for the very first time.

In an instant the rising tension simmered away. Geto said nothing further, simply released his iron grip on Gojo’s collar and eased away from him, slipping down the corridor into the apartment with a simple flick of his wrist. Gojo watched a slender finger curl in beckoning motion as he faded into the shadows.

“C’mon. We can watch a movie.”

Gojo stood frozen for a moment, honestly a little shocked that Geto hadn’t just shoved him out into the hall. When he was left blinking into the silent empty corridor, he sighed and trailed down the hall swiftly behind Geto.

The room he entered was dim, bathed in darkness but for the slip of light creeping in from the street lamps outside. Gojo grumbled, almost lifted his hand to feel around the wall for a light switch before the room suddenly lit up with a soothing orange glow. Geto was silent as he wandered around the space, flicking a few ornate lamps on as he went.

Gojo was left standing a little awkwardly in the entryway, taking in the space, lips parted and a little awestruck. The living room was undoubtedly neat, but felt lived in all the same. Clean dark wooden frames of original film print posters and old photographs littered the walls, flanked by shelves and shelves of DVDs, books, vinyls. Ashtrays stuffed with cigarette butts and half burned sticks of incense littered the flat surfaces. A mug sat abandoned atop the coffee table beside a notebook opened to a half scribbled in page, pens and annotation tabs scattered along the creamy paper.

Gojo’s eyes were wide as he took it in, cheeks warm with the odd intimacy of it, feeling a little like he was invading. His dorm was nothing like Geto’s eclectic apartment. Walls painted a dull clinical white, entirely bare. No personal items in sight. The sole desk shoved into the corner. There were no photos in scratched frames, torn at the edges and faded with age, or little plastic momentos won from a claw machine. Just a fridge stocked with half a case of beer and a twin bed lined with itchy university issue sheets.

Before he could work himself into a further mood, Gojo’s eyes caught on movement as Geto trailed toward a doorway - the bedroom, he assumed. He found his mouth opening and closing - though he didn’t manage to form a single coherent sound - as he watched Geto shrug his worn leather jacket off and hang it over a coat hook, then begin tugging his shirt over his head as he stepped into the shadowed room.

“What are you doing?” Gojo finally managed to choke out.

Geto paused in the doorway and tilted his head back, fixing him with a flat look.

“What does it look like? I’m changing my shirt.” He replied as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “Been wearing this all day and I had lab earlier.”

It was in that moment Gojo realised that Geto always wore baggy clothing. Crinkled leather jackets and long sleeves, loose hakama pants, jeans - purposeful, fashionable layers of fabric. Even in summer he’d never seen more skin than the barest slip of Geto’s forearms.

“Holy shit.” Gojo breathed, unable to stop the words escaping as his eyes roamed over Geto’s bare back. The way he had twisted to face Gojo left his waist a narrow curve that Gojo felt the sudden urge to run his fingertips over.

Geto raised a brow in that pointed look of his that was beginning to become a habit. Atleast where Gojo was concerned.

“I mean… You’re like… hot, dude.” Gojo continued, clearing his throat.

“You could try not to sound so shocked, dude.” Geto replied flatly, tone a little snide. But Gojo caught the undeniable flash of pink dusting his cheeks when he turned to shove the shirt into a laundry hamper just past the door.

He realised then, watching the lithe muscles in Suguru’s broad back twitch beneath swirls of dark ink as he fished for another shirt, that he wasn’t jealous that Suguru was attracting girls attention, he was jealous that Suguru’s attention wasn’t on him instead.

As he stood there in the living room, mulling over this newly realised concept and trying to decipher what the tattoo on Geto’s back was, the same man’s voice sounded from the darkness of the bedroom, edged with a lightly teasing tone.

“Looks like you just had an epiphany or something.”

“Just didn’t realise you worked out. Never see you in gym class.” Gojo shrugged and rubbed at the back of his neck, a half truth.

He was positive that Geto had never even stepped foot onto the track. He would have remembered seeing it if he had. Geto in their school issue sports kit would surely have been a sight. Gojo could picture it - him pulling tube socks up his tattooed shins, bending over to stretch in those little red shorts. Or hell, even tucked in a stadium chair, nursing a plastic cup of warm beer and watching him score a touchdown. Maybe he’d even wear Gojo’s jersey to the game, sitting pretty in the bleachers branded with his number.

“There’s other ways to keep fit other than butting heads over a ball.”

Geto’s voice shoved him from his spiralling thoughts, and he shrugged, no argument to be made there.

“So what do you do then?” Gojo asked with a genuine curiosity.

He’s not sure he could picture any sport in particular suiting Geto. If he had to choose he’d have thought he might be the type to train quietly in the comfort of his own home, but when Gojo looked around he found no weights, no treadmill, no training mat curled up and tucked in a corner.

Geto peered out of the doorway and looked at him in silence for a moment, as if he were deciding whether Gojo was teasing him or not.

“Kickboxing mostly.” He finally replied. “But I take a Muay Thai class every so often too, when I have the time.”

Gojo was surprised by the answer for some reason. Geto always seemed so… pacifistic. The image of him with his fists raised, silky hair tossed back with inky strands sticking to his forehead, sweat dripping down the swell of his broad chest as he kicked someone to a pulp, or wrangled them into a defensive grapple on the mat was…

Gojo swallowed hard.

“Cool.” Was all he could manage to say in response.

Luckily for him, Geto was already busy tugging another black shirt over his head, clearly not expecting a reply. This one looked older, the greyed fabric worn down soft and fraying at the hemline. Gojo honestly couldn’t tell if he was pleased to watch the way the fabric slid over the toned muscles of his chest as he tugged it down and padded out of the bedroom, or if he was sad to have his body covered up again.

Geto waved his hand distractingly, gesturing to the walls of shelves to Gojo’s left littered with novels, DVD and VHS cases.

“Pick something.” He mused as he passed, fingering the bun still tied atop his head. “And don’t tell me your taste in films is as bland as your taste in books.”

“Hey! You said you liked ‘Wuthering Heights’.” Gojo whined, pouting a little.

Geto snorted, tongue poking from his lips as he tugged the hair band free and threaded his fingers through the hair, shaking it loose with a satisfied sound.

Gojo diverted his gaze, instead choosing to trail his eyes over the tightly packed shelf. He toed his way along the length of the bookcase, running a finger across the spines until one of the titles made him pause on the spot.

He snorted and tugged the case free, ready to chastise the on-the-nose title. But when he finally flipped the cover over, his mouth clamped shut, and he felt his face begin to burn hot.

“Oh good choice, real artistic that one.” Came Geto’s unwelcome commentary as he peeked over Gojo’s shoulder, dark eyes roaming over the cover. Geto’s breath was oddly cool against his bare nape, where he was sure he was blushing a betraying pink.

Geto’s voice was light, casual. Like Gojo hadn’t just pulled a glorified Arthouse porn flick from his shelf. Porn staring two men for another thing.

“I-… What do you?-…” Gojo urged his tongue to move, conjur up some witty joke to break the tension suddenly simmering in the room, but he found it entirely unresponsive to his direction as he stared down at the cover clutched in his grasp. It was a dramatic still shot of two men, thick braids of dark rope binding them together, cropped so he couldn’t tell which limb belonged to who.

“Cat got your tongue? Didn’t take you for such a prude, Satoru.”

Gojo blinked then, slow and indulgent, letting the sound of Geto purring his name like a taunt sear itself into his memory.

“And I didn’t take you for such an artsy snob.” He replied, pulse quickening. There it was, finally some kind of ice breaker.

Where he expected a laugh, an ease of the rising tension, Geto’s lips simply stretched into a satisfied smile like he’d won some unspoken bet.

“So you don’t want to watch it then?”

When Gojo remained silent, hesitating, Geto made a placating sound.

“It’s alright, wouldn’t want to scare you. After all it might be too intense if just the cover had you this tongue tied.” He cooed, like Gojo was some snotnosed toddler who’d picked out a horror movie at the rental much too scary for him.

Gojo turned to face the other man, shoving the DVD unceremoniously into his chest.

“Just put it on already.” He grumbled, and Geto simply grinned up at him as he plucked the case from his grasp, turning around to sink onto the couch.

The film started off relatively calm, if a little… odd. True to Gojo’s prediction, it was definitely artsy - filmed snippets of twisted limbs layered over each-other, a low sensual jazz track in the background. The resulting affect was surprisingly impactful, erotic, even. Gojo found himself squirming in his spot on the couch cushion.

Really, it wasn’t at all as provocative as the cover had suggested. And truthfully it was all so trippy and layered that all he could really make out was stretches of skin, the curve of muscle and lips pressing against various body parts. So why was he feeling so hot under the collar suddenly? He’d watched porn that would make a nun have a conniption. Played drunken games of spin the bottle that turned to strip poker and then to seven minutes in heaven that were miles more invigorating, much dirtier too. But never had any of them had him straining against his shorts like a horny high schooler.

Geto’s dark eyes found him in the lowlight, because of course they did. He sniffed out the weakness like a shark would a drop of blood in a tank of water.

“Thoughts?” Came his voice through the dark.

“Honestly? It’s pretty tame.” Gojo replied smoothly with a shrug, hoping his tone didn’t betray the way his pulse was racing just beneath his skin.

“Tame? What were you expecting?” Geto questioned, and even Gojo wasn’t blind enough to miss the goading edge.

“I dunno, for them to fuck eachother or something?” Gojo huffed, annoyance with his own body’s betrayal and the confusing energy filling the space between them turning his tone spiteful. “I mean, that’s what men do together in these movies, right?”

Geto looked at him for a few long moments before he spoke again, and his next words made Gojo freeze.

“Take off your shirt.”

The annoyance filling his chest faded along with any other sound in the room, like he had been thrust into a vacuum. Gojo tilted his head, like he hadn’t quite heard him correctly.

“Excuse me?” He retorted, fixing Geto with a blank, dumb look.

“Your shirt.” Geto repeated plainly. “Take it off.”

Gojo huffed out a chuckle and shrugged before he scooted back on the couch, arms raised to grab at the nape of his jersey. He tugged it over his head with little effort, and tossed it to the floor. He gazed back at Geto, who was watching him with that same easy smile on his face.

Dark eyes roamed over his broad shoulders, an expanse of pale skin pulled taut over hard worked muscle. Down the little strips of beige tape dotted along his right side, plastering the deep purple of a bruise blooming over his ribcage, where he’d tanked a particularly hard tackle. Gojo fingered the couch cushion, veins in his forearms still protruding a little from the strain of his earlier training session. Geto looked pleased.

“I showed you mine, you gonna show me yours?” Gojo quipped, his own voice a little softer than he expected.

In a near copy of Gojo’s actions, a puffed chuckle slipped from Geto, and he too sat up on the couch, hands crossed over one another to peel the ragged band tee up over his chest. Gojo sat transfixed, watching the slow reveal of that now familiar expanse of toned tan muscle. He felt his breath catch when little balls of metal caught the light, glittering like fishhooks nestled either side of Geto’s nipples. Slips of ink curling over his skin that he was much too breathless to identify the shapes of. His eyes dipped of their own volition before he could think better of it, following the dark trail of spattered hair down beneath the waistband of Geto’s pants.

“So tell me, do you think about ‘what men do together’ often?” Geto poked, so close that Gojo could feel the way the air moved with his words, and he strained his ears to listen to the next hushed purr.

He didn’t wait for an answer, not that Gojo would have had the wherewithal to give him one. Geto’s hand curled around his nape, teasing up into his undercut, and Gojo shivered in response.

“Why don’t I show you, hm?”

Gojo found himself nodding, eyes rolling back a little as Geto scratched indulgently at his scalp.

Through the haze of his lashes he could see Geto inching closer to him, until their knees knocked together.

“This is what men do.” Geto whispered lowly, and Gojo watched the slow flitter of his eyelids as he lifted his jaw and pressed their lips together.

The kiss was soft, almost hesitating. Geto’s fingers traced wide circles into the shaved hair of his undercut, and his tongue swiped delicately over Gojo’s lips, still pressed into a flat line in his surprise. Gojo made a choked sound into Geto’s mouth, sucked in a sharp breath through his nose.

Geto pulled back a little at the sound, eyes blinking open to trail over Gojo’s face in an assessing look, concern etching worried lines into his smooth features.

“I-…”

He parted his lips to speak, an edge of hesitation warping his expression, but before he could vocalise anything Gojo silenced him by tugging him eagerly into another kiss. This time it was rougher, a true crashing of their lips - a hint of his own desperation creeping beneath as he returned the favour and licked up into Geto’s mouth.

Geto tasted like menthol when their tongues finally met. Mint and old smoke and the Coca Cola he’d been sipping on earlier. Gojo was dizzy with it, and when Geto bit his lip in a teasing nip, he groaned shamelessly.

By the time they split apart, Gojo was panting, and he found himself utterly mesmerised by the slight blush painting Suguru’s cheeks in the dim light.

“We can stop here.” Geto said suddenly as he caught his breath, running his tongue over his lower lip - now plump and reddened from Gojo’s wayward teeth. “Sorry if I overstepped.”

Gojo stared at him, pale brows furrowed.

“You’re kidding right? I’m harder than a fucking rock right now.” He retorted, annoyance edging his tone. “So either we do something about it, or you let me lock myself in your bathroom for ten minutes while I jerk off into whatever stupid artisan towels you have in there.”

Geto had the grace to look shocked for a moment, before he broke into a laugh. A genuine full bodied cackle that had the bubbling annoyance in Gojo’s chest fizzling out as if he’d thrown a bucket of water atop it.

Once he had recovered, Geto looked at him - all messed hair and blushed cheeks. His eyes narrowed to a sweet taunting smile as he ran his hands up and down Gojo’s clothed thighs in slow strokes.

“So take your pants off then.” He mused, tilting his head in that teasing way of his that made Gojo’s stomach wobble. “Or is the mighty quarterback of Jujutsu Tech feeling a little too self conscious?”

Gojo’s not sure he’d ever jumped to his feet faster. He tugged at his training sweats with vigour, nearly tripping over the fabric as he stepped out from either leg hole and kicked the pair of pants to the side.

Geto mirrored his actions where he sat atop the couch, but with considerably more tact. Unclasping his tattered jeans with a ‘pop’ that felt sultry somehow, easing them down without leaving his seated position, in a slow tug like he was some high end escort giving his client a striptease.

Gojo had seen dicks before. Playing college football it was almost impossible to avoid; all the locker rooms, shared showers, urinals. Not that he made it a point to look, but he couldn’t deny that objectively Geto had a nice fucking cock. Shorter than his own, sure - but thick, tanned and blushed dark at the head where he was sitting half hard against his thigh.

By comparison Gojo was faring significantly worse. True to his earlier words he was rock hard, standing to attention and already drooling pathetically from the tip. As he stood in the cool air of the room, toned thighs twitching, he felt as though a gust of wind might be enough to cause another desperate spurt.

He shifted in place, and Gojo’s throat burned when something glittered in the lowlight between Geto’s parted thighs - was that a fucking piercing?

Before he could make any comment, deflect by complimenting the man below him, Geto stole the words from his mouth.

“So pretty.” Geto praised, eyes roaming over Gojo’s now nude form.

His jaw clamped shut, and he felt himself flush instantly. Gojo been called many things throughout his life; hot, sexy, handsome. Even his dick alone had received its fair share of praise, but never had he or his dick ever been called pretty.

Geto was smiling at him then, patting the couch cushion beside him.

“Come sit.”

And all Gojo could think to do was comply.

Gojo lowered himself to the couch beside Geto, and Geto lifted a leg onto the cushion and bent his knee, scooting closer until their thighs touched. Gojo flinched when Geto turned to face him and slung a leg over his own, enjoying the sudden warmth of him as he pressed inward.

Gojo frowned, eyes narrowed as he watched Geto buck his hips a little, head tilted downward to watch their lengths line up. He almost laughed.

“What, you wanna have a dick measuring cont-ngh!-“

Without a word, Geto wrapped a hand around both their dicks, and squeezed.

Gojo’s jaw went slack, and he gazed dumbly down at where they were pressed together, expression awestruck. The sensation was utterly alien - Geto’s thick length pressing warm and soft against his own. He could feel the gentle thrum of his pulse, running through the vein kissing the underside.

“Hm, not quite.” Geto purred, amusement edging his tone.

Rendered silent with shock, he watched Geto crane his head downward, one hand raised delicately to hold stray hairs behind his ear as he let his lips part, and he half-spat half-drooled down onto his knuckles below. Gojo watched the spit drip from his tongue, mesmerised.

“What are you?….” Gojo began, voice trailing off into breathy moan when Geto ran a thumb and forefinger up to pinch their heads together, before he slid back down and gave a few sloppy pumps, beginning to jerk them both off simultaneously.

Gojo jolted in place, and his thighs parted instinctively, eyes wide and glassy as he watched the steady curl of Geto’s wrist below.

“Does that feel good?” Geto cooed, though his voice sounded faraway, detached somehow.

Midway through his attempt at a reply, Geto’s spare hand slipped down to massage at his balls, where the mix of their drooling arousal was turning them slippery, and Gojo made a strangled sound instead. Suddenly he could hear nothing but the pounding of his pulse in his ears, and he felt his body go limp in the sizzle of pleasure.

Geto leaned forward, pressed a slow kiss to his throat, listened to him pant out feeble little whines, feeling the hummed vibration against his tongue.

“Yes… oh fuck yes…” Gojo whined, cheek pressed to Geto’s head where he had collapsed into him, dark hair smooth as silk tickling at his skin.

This close, pressed together so tightly, Gojo realised that it was a piercing - several piercings actually - embedded in a neat ladder up Geto’s length. The cool metal was a sharp contrast against the heat of his skin, and the mix of heady sensations had Gojo panting out into the heated air.

Geto’s hands were equal parts soft and rough as they ran over his length, down between the press of his cheeks. Subtle callouses had formed on his palms, but the remaining skin was soft as silk, hot and tight and slick with pre.

Gazing down, Gojo could see where his own navel was turning a pretty pink, blushing beneath the spatter of silver hair trailing down between his thighs. It was in stark contrast to Geto’s tanned skin and the winding path of his dark hair.

“That’s it. Ah, You feel so good Satoru...”

Sure, he’d pictured it before. Him and Geto together. He’d woken up half hard plenty of nights when the sky was still dark, head thick with sleep and swirling with the filthy images his unconscious mind had conjured up. And each time he’d done the only thing he could think to do in the moment - he’d shoved his hand into his boxers, seeking relief from the pit of guilt and undeniable heat forming in his gut. He’d humped desperately, rolling over to bite at the pillow.

This certainly wasn’t a new concept for his brain, but he’d always imagined himself on top; taking, guiding, dominating the cute little bookworm virgin until he all but broke beneath him. That pretty black hair splayed in his hand, dark eyes peering up at him all glossy and pleading. Not… this.

Not Geto thumbing his cock head against his own, pressing his tongue to his throat, working him in his fist like it was his life mission to see him break. And certainly not himself all but begging for it as he drooled pathetically into Geto’s hair.

“Satoru, look at me.” Geto’s breathy voice tugged him from his desperate spiralling, and he forced his head to lift, eyes lowlidded and hazy.

Geto appeared remarkably composed where he was sat across from him, shoulders curled inward, plump lips lightly parted. The only indication that anything was askew was the subtle flush of colour painting his cheeks, and the way his sharp eyes were softened slightly with pleasure.

Gojo couldn’t believe that they were privy to the same sensations. That Geto was also feeling the slick squelch of their lengths pressing together, sticky little threads forming between their bumping heads as Gojo’s hips twitched. The pulse of his own hand, tightening in a milking squeeze around them.

“F-uuck, oh…” He couldn’t do it, couldn’t hold Geto’s all-consuming gaze. Not while he felt like this, when he thought he might trip over the edge just watching the way Geto’s brows curved upward quietly in need.

He found that his hands were gripping at Geto’s thick thighs beneath him, feeling the muscle there twitch under his palms as he held onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, what’s this?” Suguru questioned, voice thick with teasing. “You’re telling me the star quarterback is gonna cum already, just from a little handjob?”

“Sh-huh-shut -uh-up…”

All Gojo could hear was the filthy ‘schlick’ ‘schlick’ of Geto’s hand as he fisted them both in a steady rhythm. Gojo was dizzy, watching a milky web form beneath the press of Geto’s pinky, lacing them together. His grip tightened, nails digging little crescent moons into Geto’s thighs.

“What did I say about being rude, Satoru?”

Suddenly Geto’s grip tightened. He squeezed, hard, and Gojo swore he saw stars burst to life in his vision.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m sofucking sorry, ohfuck please don’t stop.” He cried, lips parted around panting breaths, brows furrowed so tightly that his head hurt.

“What a good boy, apologising so sweetly.”

Gojo thought he even felt tears begin to form, bubbling at the edges of his eyes. It was unbelievable, the way he felt right now. He was no virgin, but never had he found himself so utterly desperate. It had to be Geto, the sole unexpected variable. The same reason he’d reverted to childish flirting tactics like he was some middleschooler, shoving down his feelings of annoyance and desire until he rutted them out into his mattress in the wee hours of the morning, hips stuttering, face burning with shame.

“Is this what you wanted, huh? My attention?”

Fuck, of course he knew. Gojo thought that Geto must have the key to his head, must be sloshing around knee deep in all the dark depraved corners of his mind.

“All that whining, all that misbehaving - just so I’d put you back in your place, hm?”

Gojo squeezed his eyes closed. Sure that if he kept watching the sinful slide of Geto’s hand - the way his slender fingers were shining and slick with their mixing arousal, the way their heads were peeking from the top of his fist with each stroke, flushed dark red and needy - he was going to come right then and there.

“Where’s that big mouth now, Satoru? So quiet and docile. Maybe I’ll keep you just like this, what do you think?”

“Yes yes please, whatever you want, please…” His voice was broken, crackled and rough like tattered satin.

Gojo could hear it, just how pathetic he sounded, but in the moment, with Geto’s smooth voice purring pleasantries into his ear, nothing else mattered.

“Yeah? Gonna be good for me?”

“Yes, god-hah-…I’ll be so good, I’ll be a good fucking boy…please -ah-…”

“Whose cock is this?”

“Oh it’s yours, Suguru. Use it, use me, -fuck!-‘s yours!…”

Geto made a satisfied sound, somewhere between a relieved sigh and a moan, and Gojo’s eyes shot up to his face, vision bleary and tear stricken. And the way Geto looked back at him then, he wanted the image of it branded there forever in the blackness behind his eyelids.

Geto lifted a hand, feathered through the cropped hair of his undercut and tugged him closer until their lips brushed. Gojo shivered, gazing longingly at his mouth before he nudged forward and crashed their lips together again.

This time it was messy, deep and greedy. Tongues sliding, moaning between frantic sucking as they both bucked their hips into the tight wet heat of Geto’s clenched fist.

Geto took a shuddered breath when they split apart, moan interrupted by a slight hitch. Gojo was comparatively panting desperate little sounds into the air between them.

He pressed their foreheads together, resting in Gojo’s frantic breaths. Hand still locked on his nape, eyes burning into him like hot coals. Gojo was trembling, fighting back waves of pleasure to hold his gaze.

“Now you better look at me while you cum, -hah-… Or I swear I’ll stop.”

And so Gojo’s eyes flicked up, unable to avoid picturing Geto releasing him, and himself humping the empty air like a dog while Geto watched in pity. Not even ten whole seconds into holding his intense gaze, with that image bouncing in his head, he felt that tight little coil in his belly finally snap. Cool chocolate brown, dark and polished as a river stone blurring as his vision unfocused, pleasure creeping over his senses, eyes glossy.

“Oh Suguru,oh fuckfuckfuck!-“

When he finally came it was violent. His entire body went rigid, jerking in time with the frantic, vicious pulse of his cock. His body felt numb, as if he were floating, aside from the distinct feeling of Geto throbbing against him.

He was making sounds he wasn’t aware he was capable of, gone were his usual controlled grunts and groans, he was moaning unashamedly now. Needy, broken sounds as his hips bucked frantically up into Geto’s tight fist. He leaned back, hands pressed into the couch cushion to let him rock his hips until his orgasm slowed to a pleasant hum.

When his eyes finally focussed, left warm and buzzing with the remnants of his high, he peered up and the sight made his overworked cock twitch.

Suguru was gazing down at where they were still touching, eyes soft and unfocused, lips parted and glossy as he panted gently. Gojo found that in the slick mess between them, Suguru had come along with him, cock still twitching between the press of his hand.

“Suguru.” He offered softly. “You alright?”

Geto jumped a little, as if he’d forgotten Gojo was there at all. Then came the slow nod of his head, strands of his dark hair flailing loosely, damp with sweat.

It was then that he noticed a stray bead of his cum streaked along Geto’s chin, and he lifted a hand to thumb it away. Then he brought Geto’s limp hand to his mouth and began licking delicately at the pearls of cum streaked over his knuckles.

Geto watched him, looking a little detached, his eyes half lidded and heavy.

“Yeah, ‘m good.” He murmured, voice a low rumble.

If Gojo had the strength he might have made fun of Geto, now the embodiment of the quiet docility he’d teased him for earlier. But the sight of Geto splayed over his thighs, expression entirely blissed out, made him simply smile softly and lean back onto the arm of the lounge.

“You hungry? I think there’s a food truck down by the bar on Tuesdays.” Gojo murmured, looking a little shy despite himself. “We could grab a bite… If you wanted?”

Geto’s mouth lifted into a soft smile as he blinked up at him.

“Starving.”

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“Didn’t get him an inch” HAHA I’m sooooo funny pls laugh. Anyway #need to write Geto showing Gojo some grapple techniques on the mat 😛

Gojo was always loud. Or maybe loud wasn’t the right word. Gojo was always mouthy.

The sorcerer always had something to say; some little quip, a flurry of borderline sinful compliments when you wore a particularly flattering outfit, teasing words with no real bite when you found yourself caught in an impromptu back and forth, or a constant barrage of taunts and cocky insults thrown at the opponent while he was fighting.

Suffice to say that you were used to the constant hum of his presence, his smooth voice filling the quiet even when he’d do better to keep his mouth shut.

It was silly of you to expect that he’d be any different behind closed doors.

He couldn’t keep quiet even when his mouth was thoroughly occupied, smooth words still spilling out from between his lips despite being neck deep in eating you out.

The bedroom was filled with frankly obscene sounds; slips of half muffled moans, and broken mumbling. Satoru still managing to ramble a slew of compliments and filthy flirtations with his face nestled so tight into your pussy that you thought he might leave an imprint - his perfect profile pressed between your thighs.

“That’s it baby. Just relax and let me make you feel good, m‘kay?” He murmured into your inner thigh, lips brushing skin in a breathy kiss, voice so rough it sent a prickle of goosebumps over the bare flesh.

Satoru swallowed a groan, pressed another chaste kiss to your thigh before he craned his head back, taking a moment to survey the utter mess he’d made of you. Your breath hitched when you caught sight of him in return.

Blue eyes like glimmering melted ice shards, half hidden beneath pale lashes, lowered lazy and hazed thickly with lust. Lips bitten pink and glistening with your arousal, spit smeared slick along the line of his jaw up to his pale cheeks.

“Fuck… can’t believe you let me do this to you.” He breathed, voice rough with unabashed desire, clearly as awestruck by the view as you were.

In a moment of uncharacteristic patience, he sucked in a slow breath and kneaded at your thighs with his slender fingers, ran his thumbs along the delicate bone at the crux of your hips and spread you open a little more.

You bit your lip, whined as you watched him crane his head, lips parted to drool another slow, obscene line of spit straight onto the twitching muscle. You kept your eyes fixed on him, entranced by the glistening thread connecting his lips to you before he dipped back down and encapsulated your cunt once again in a sloppy, open mouthed kiss.

You jolted in his grasp and moaned out his name in a slow, whiny breath - vision gone fuzzy at the edges.

“Ah, ‘toru!…”

You felt his own responsive groan reverberate from his chest, sending a rumble of vibration up to where his lips were pressed flat over you. A lightening strike of pleasure shot up your spine.

“Shh I know baby, I know. It just feels sooo good, right?” He cooed against your pussy between slow, hot kisses. The string of words was muffled where his chin was smushed up against you.

You nodded wildly, eyes squeezed shut as you rolled your hips up to meet the steady laps of his tongue, listened to the sweet sounds of him hum appreciatively in time with each buck, bobbing his head to meet you halfway.

In that moment nothing else existed in the world aside from you and Satoru. The sound of the mattress squeaking beneath you both, alongside his string of babbled moans, and the feeling of his mouth working you steadily up to a sweet release.

You were so utterly lost in the blinding sensations that you didn’t even hear the car pull into the driveway. Didn’t notice the front door click shut, or the jingle of keys set atop the front table, or even the soft footfalls inching their way toward your room.

In fact, your eyes only winked open when the bedroom door itself creaked, and you whined a truly pathetic sound at the sight that met you.

Suguru stood in the doorway, arms crossed loose over his broad chest. His expression was one of mild amusement, lips pulled into an easy, knowing smile. His hair fell in loose inky threads over his shoulders. Your eyes dipped momentarily from his face to the way his black shirt draped over the long lines of his form, biceps teasing out from the dark fabric before you met his gaze again.

“Looks like you two are enjoying yourselves.” His voice was smooth as ever, like a splash of crisp water against your fevered skin, and you shivered despite yourself.

Satoru seemed entirely unfazed - thanks to his six eyes you supposed - and broke away from his task for only as long as it took to murmur a response.

“mMhmmshe tastes so good, Suguru.”

His words were slurred and heavy as his tongue slipped out between syllables to lap at you.

Geto lingered in the doorway, arms still crossed casually, watching for a few silent moments.

His dark eyes roamed freely over Gojo, taking in the sight. The roll of his jaw, his pale lashes fluttering over blushed cheeks, the way he was absentmindedly rutting into the mattress, letting out little muffled ‘mmphf’ sounds with each grind, his slender fingers splayed over your thighs as he held them apart, pushing down lightly against your pleasured squirming.

Satoru parted from you with a vulgar click and rumbled out a low groan, pressing a wet kiss to you before he tilted his head back and finally made eye contact with Suguru where he was still stood in the doorway.

You weren’t sure how Suguru didn’t flinch when those azure eyes met his - with the intensity of blind desire swirling behind the thin ice, melted as they were with the haze of lust. Even you were shocked by how he looked so utterly gone, so unequivocally pussy drunk just from having his mouth on you.

From your reclined position, you watched the toned lines of Satoru’s throat bob as he swallowed and grinned up at Suguru with a wild, animal smile, his eyes half lidded and a little glassy.

“Wanna taste?” He offered, licked his tongue slow over his lips.

A tendon jumped in Suguru’s forearm as he tapped a finger across his clothed bicep. His gaze flickered up to you, head tilted a little in questioning. You nodded frantically in agreement before you could think.

In the next moment Suguru was pressing a knee into the mattress, slipping down to his hands and knees as he prowled toward you - crossing over the bed like a wild panther, eyes dark and devouring. When he reached your spread legs, his rogue fingers snaked up from your ankles.

Satoru busied himself trailing a hot path of kisses up your curved abdomen, sucking little marks until he reached your bare chest, where he latched onto a pebbled bud.

Simultaneously, Suguru’s hands slid soothing lines up your legs until he reached the valley of your thigh. His eyes were lowered as he thumbed you open on either side, humming in consideration.

“You made such a mess, Satoru.” He tutted, eyes narrowed in judgement.

Satoru released your nipple, and leaned over to replace his pinching fingers on the other bud with his teeth.

“Couldn’t help it.” He muffled innocently through his mouthful.

Suguru gave no further comment, instead he tilted his head down and blew a slow stream of cool air over your exposed pussy, turned the soaked wet slick to ice.

“Hah-!” You flinched, felt yourself twitch absently in response, squirming against his grasp.

“Oh, sensitive are we?” Suguru quirked, seemingly pleased with your reaction.

You propped your lower lip out into a pout. “Please don’t tease, Suguru.”

Satoru - for all his strength - was usually happy to play by your rules. Content to let you squirm, grab, and roll your hips up into him as much as your heart desired, always meeting you with the same eager energy he brought to a fight. Suguru soon made it clear that type of leisurely freedom was not something he was interested in entertaining, at least not tonight.

His fingers bit into your plump flesh, pinning you down against the mattress with an understated strength that made your head spin.

“Be a good girl and stay still now.” He murmured, head craned down as he lowered himself between your thighs, and your jaw went slack when his lips finally made contact.

Lulled into a slow, easy pleasure by Satorus unhurried teasing, you were suddenly overwhelmed by the intensity of Suguru’s treatment. Tongue swiping in long, efficient strokes, dipping down to plunge inside for a few stunning strokes before sliding up to trace wide circles over your clit.

“God…” You groaned, rolled your head back against the pillow.

Suguru's hand shifted, big palm sliding over your lower belly, thumb trailing down to tug you open, make room for him to press his lips flat over your clit.

You gasped, head lolled to the side as you twitched in his grasp. He sucked lightly, a flat even pressure that had you throbbing against him as his tongue continued to draw steady circles in a dizzying rhythm.

“Shit…” Satoru finally broke his silence, voice a little breathy as he watched Suguru’s head bob between your thighs. “‘Didn’t know you ate pussy like that Sugu’.”

Suguru hummed in response, not breaking his focus on you. You whined out for him, a muffled slur of his name, fingers gripped so tight into the sheets beneath you that your knuckles turned pale.

“C’mon don’t hog her.” Satoru huffed. “Make some room for me.”

Suguru tilted his head, hand slipping up to cradle your leg and tug you open even wider as he rested his cheekbone against your plush inner thigh, his tongue still sliding steady lines through your folds. Satoru settled down to his left, tucked himself into the empty space next to Suguru between your parted legs.

Sufficiently nestled together - shoulder to cramped shoulder, and with your thighs propped so far open you thought they might snap off - the two began their joint exploration, starting with soft kisses along your tender thighs.

While Satoru sucked slow, dark bruises into your skin, Suguru was biting the opposite thigh, pressing little soothing kitten licks over the marks. The contrast between the sting of teeth and tongue sliding over the darkened indents was nothing short of filthy.

The two men’s temples pressed together, stark contrast of black and white hair tickling the tender skin of your inner thighs. Kisses soon turned to licks, which turned to sucking, which turned to devouring. One mouth dipped low, lapped at your soaked entrance while the other drew little heart shapes over your clit, making stars blink in your blurred vision before they switched places in a dizzying, silently coordinated attack.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t utter a single word or mumble a sound other than the release of a pitiful moan as you watched them move - slips of hot pink tongue brushing against you, and against each other as they crossed paths.

Suguru’s eyes were lowered, only fluttering open when his head bumped unexpectedly into Satoru’s. His brows twitched as he watched the silver haired man press his lips and attach himself to your clit, breaking the steady rhythm - once again selfishly lost in your taste.

You watched Suguru’s hand trail slowly up to the nape of Satoru’s neck, thick fingers carded through pale strands, and Satoru shivered when the fingers tightened, surely sending a prickle of pain along his scalp.

“Don’t be greedy, Satoru.” Came Suguru’s low voice in an even warning.

In the next moment, Satoru’s head was tugged from you with an obscene ‘pop’, and his brow lifted in an expression of surprise and mild irritation before Suguru angled his head and crashed their lips together.

Satoru went limp, any semblance of annoyance immediately dissipated as he melted like jelly into Suguru’s touch. Satoru whined, parted his lips to let the others tongue slip inside with a muffled moan.

“Oh god…” You breathed, blinked wildly - not wanting to miss a second of the sinful sight before you.

You watched through dark lashes, caught the slip of their tongues sliding together, the sound of Satoru moaning as Suguru gripped his nape and guided the roll of his jaw in a vulgar, hungry kiss.

As furiously as it had began, Suguru soon broke the kiss - pulled back from the other man to fix him with a thinly veiled expression of smugness, and Satoru pouted in reply, panting lightly.

“Not fair.” Satoru huffed.

“Hm.” Suguru smiled in reply, that sweet, charming smile that could stop hearts. The kind of look that made you sure that he could get away with anything at all.

Still well and truly dazed, you simply leaned back and blinked, and in the next flutter of your eyelids Suguru was leaning up toward you. His pretty face filled your vision, so close you could feel his breath, could count his dark lashes as he peered up at you through them.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” Suguru breathed, voice low and rough. “Didn’t mean to make you feel left out.”

You barely had time to suck in a breath before his lips met yours. You keened when his sharp teeth immediately nipped at your lower lip until you relented, let him lick up inside. You groaned into the kiss, sure that you were fairing no better than Satoru a few moments prior - the taste of yourself sharp and musky on his tongue.

Left with free rein of your lower body, Satoru wasted not a single breath before he was nestled back between your thighs, tongue pushed so deep into your sopping cunt that his nose was pressed into the dark swirls of hair.

You broke the kiss with a strangled cry, and Suguru took the opportunity to join his counterpart once again between the aching spread of your legs.

The rhythm continued. The two remained nestled between your thighs; temples bumping as they devoured you. Lips and tongues sliding together, breaking you apart, interrupting the pattern every so often to kiss each other, or sometimes to kiss you.

In the blur of pleasure, of sensation, it was becoming impossible in your worn mind to tell where you ended and the two men began.

You could do nothing but moan, entirely at their mercy. You dipped your head to meet their waiting mouths when they demanded, sank back into the bed frame when they released you.

Your body was weak beneath the incessant waves of pleasure, head smacked back against the headboard until your voice quirked an octave higher, hips stuttering as you felt the slow steady bubble in your gut suddenly boil blisteringly hot - your orgasm creeping steadily up until it was upon you.

“Mmmohhpleasei’m gonna cum, please let me cum!” You cried, hands sliding down to grasp onto their hair, one fist clenched full of pale spikes, the other threaded through smooth dark threads.

Satoru slid his tongue from where he had been pumping it into you, and lifted his head slightly, humming, breath hot against your sloppy pussy.

“Hear that Suguru? Think she wants to cum.”

Suguru - who had been midway through tracing a slew of letters over your clit - replaced his tongue with his fingers and set a slow rub.

“Who are you asking, princess?” Suguru questioned innocently, before craning his head back to press his mouth against you, sucking hard now.

You shook your head frantically, limbs buzzing numb as tv static, vision blurring dark at the edges like someone had slid a vignette lens over your eyes.

“Sator-Sugu- Either… Both! Just-fuck-…please!” You babbled, knuckles white where they were clenched tight through either man’s hair, tugging in a silent plea.

You felt Suguru’s lips spread into a grin, canines sharp and glinting against your sensitive flesh. Satoru simply groaned, and you pulled a little harder to hear the slip of a moan that worked it’s way from his throat, just as all sound cut out entirely, and you finally tumbled over the edge.

Stars burst behind your eyelids like the flash of a rifle, pleasure sizzling in hot streams through your limbs all the way down to your toes. Thoughtfully, the rhythm set between your thighs eased in time with the waning pulses, sucking and stroking turned to soft laps and kisses - just shy of overstimulating.

You were floating. The sheets below you were plush clouds, the soft kisses being pressed to your thighs, all the way down to your ankles were little slips of sun, rays beaming warm and pleasant over your skin.

“That’s it baby, such a good girl.” A low voice purred into the curve of your throat.

You didn’t bother opening you eyes, not sure you could bear even the weight of your own eyelids with how utterly boneless you felt.

Your nose twitched, assaulted with a nearly overwhelming flurry of new scents - clean mint tea, green vanilla, woody incense, and something sweet like spun sugar mixing in the air as if someone had lit too many candles. Not unpleasant by any means, but simply a lot.

“Did you get a new cologne or something Satoru?…” You questioned, rubbed at your sensitive, crinkled nose.

Satoru simply grunted in response, eyes and obviously attention still entirely entranced by the video playing on his phone.

With another wave of nauseating heat, you squirmed in place, suddenly feeling wildly uncomfortable. Your belly was churning, coiling in an uncomfortable writhing ache. Your body felt taut and irritated - like your skin had shrunk, been pulled too tight over your frame.

As you wriggled in place, you felt Suguru’s cool gaze lift from where he had been absentmindedly watching the wind rustle the leaves outside to instead rest on you.

“You okay?”

You jumped a little at his words as they poked through your bubble of thought like a pin, though it didn’t seem like he’d spoken all that loudly. You rubbed at your ear, frowning as the shape of him began to swim a little in your vision, soft and fuzzed at the edges.

“Yeah, just feel a little weird s’all.” You murmured, brows furrowed as you focussed entirely on getting the words out correctly.

Suguru simply watched you for another moment, expression unreadable, before he replied.

“Want me to get you some water?”

Water, yeah that sounded good.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry and parched, body burning somehow even hotter than before as your stomach flipped.

“Yeah that would be good, thanks Sugu’.’” You croaked.

“Course. Let me just-“ Suguru hummed in reply, and leaned over you, big hand gripping your leg gently to leverage himself as he attempted to climb out from the mess of limbs.

You shocked even yourself when you felt his fingers innocently curl over the soft skin of your inner thigh, reaction occurring before you could think to stop it. In an entirely instinctual response - you moaned.

Suguru froze in place, fingers twitching over your plush thigh, and you felt Satoru tense equally behind you.

“I-“ You swallowed, cheeks burning hot with more than embarrassment, throat scratched dry. “‘m sorry I don’t-…”

Your tongue felt thick and heavy in your mouth as you tried to formulate a reply, the muscle was unresponsive to your whims, moving slow and sticky as sweet molasses behind your teeth.

Satoru was uncharacteristically quiet beside you, phone abandoned, icy eyes locked onto you from behind glinting black frames.

Suguru clicked his tongue, watching you with a sudden cool intensity that made you shiver.

“Lay back down.” He commanded, voice flat and even.

“But I-“

“Lay back.”

“Sug-“

Suguru made a low, dangerous noise deep in his throat - a type of sound you’d never heard him utter, but it made your stomach drip into a heated puddle regardless, and you felt Satoru flinch behind you.

Your mouth snapped shut, and you relented, lowering your eyes as you melted back into the mattress.

“Shit…” Satoru finally spoke, voice pitched low and gruff. “You seein’ this Suguru? Our cute little best friends an omega.”

The room was utterly silent for a moment aside from your choked gasp.

“W-what? You’re crazy. You know i’ve always been a beta…” You trailed off, eyes squeezed closed as another way of heat - no, it was more than that - another searing wave of desire pooled over you.

“Nah, no way.” Satoru murmured, nosing at your throat, taking a deep lungful of your scent, pale strands tickling at the sensitive flesh until you made a high pitched sound. “Betas never smell this sweet.”

Suguru’s hand began to move over your thigh in slow soothing lines, and your eyes dropped to watch, entranced by the way his warm palm was melting you beneath it, the way the motion was igniting the heat pooling deep in your gut.

“Don’t you feel it?” He murmured, and your knees twitched at his honey sweet tone, legs parting subconsciously to make room for his creeping fingers.

“You’re going into heat, sweetheart.”

You were dizzy, from the sensation of Suguru’s warm palm gliding over your skin, from Satoru’s breath ghosting over your throat. From the words, ringing on your ears.

“…Heat?” You whispered.

Your eyes bore a hole into the dark grey sheets beneath you. Heat? But that was… You swallowed thickly as distant memories of the last week flooded over you.

All the tiny pieces, the collection of odd little coincidences from the past few days suddenly slid into place to form an unmistakable picture.

It made perfect sense now why you’d been so irritable around Nanami when you were typically so friendly - why some unspoken air about the alpha had rubbed your skin the wrong way, like the coarse lick of sandpaper. Why you’d found yourself absentmindedly tugging on one of Suguru’s sweaters from the dorm hamper one evening, nosing into the scent lingering in the fabric when you couldn’t seem to stop your body from trembling - despite the forecast being a sparkling summers day.

Why between the two of you, suddenly you’d become the touchy one with Satoru - clinging to him long past your obligatory hugs of greeting, tangling your legs over his on the couch, climbing into his lap and nuzzling his throat as he flicked on another rerun of Human Earthworm 3.

Suguru lifted his hand to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. His finger curled, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes - tugging your attention from where it was locked onto his other palm still pressed over your thigh.

“It’ll get worse. This feeling, this need.” Suguru explained, head tilted a little to consider you. You watched a slip of ink black hair twirl over his narrow eyes. “Why don’t you let us help you?”

Satoru hummed in agreement from where he was still busy nosing along your jaw.

“Yeah, just relax and let us handle it.” Satoru murmured, voice low and sweet curling over your ear. “I mean, what are friends for?”

All of your resolve, thin as it may have been - snapped the instant you felt Satoru’s lips part against your throat. His teeth grazed the top layer of your skin, his tongue pressed flat as he licked a slow, sinful strip along your skin, inching dangerously close to your nape.

“So, what do you say?” Satoru rumbled against your neck, latched his teeth in a gentle nibble that coaxed a sharp sound from your throat.

“Please…” You whined.

As if he’d simply been waiting for your restraint to dissolve, Suguru’s hand were on you in the next flutter of your lashes. Fingers creeping up from your trembling thighs to the waistband of your little shorts. He popped the button with a practised ease, slid them down alongside your panties in a single tug.

Your stomach dropped, flinching when the cool air of the room finally hit your bare skin. If you hadn’t noticed it before, the open air made it painfully obvious - you were soaked.

Slick dribbled from you in ribbons, slipping down your thighs like sweet syrup. Satoru rumbled against your throat, and Suguru sucked in a slow breath through his teeth, nose twitching.

With you now exposed to the room, the very air seemed to shift, suddenly thick and suffocating with the unspoken tension sizzling between the two men.

Suguru was the first to move, kneeling beside you in the quickly dampening sheets, his fingers trailed up, aiming for your spread thighs.

“That’s it, just relax-“

Satoru’s hand shot up from his side, gripped tight around Suguru’s wrist before his fingers could meet their mark. The other man’s gaze sharpened, flickered from your face to Satoru’s.

“Why do you get first dibs?” Satoru quipped, pale brows furrowed as he peered at Suguru from over his lenses.

“She’s hurting, Satoru. I’m just trying to help.” Suguru replied flatly and tugged his wrist free, leaving Satoru’s hand to clench into a fist where it hung in the air.

“Besides, she should get to choose.” Suguru replied, smooth voice edged with a little bite. He blinked slow, eyes coming to rest once again on you. “Who do you want first, sweetheart?”

Satoru’s scoff interrupted Suguru’s questioning, not that your mind could have conjured a single word to give him in response anyway.

“Don’t be stupid, of course she’d want me first.” Satoru continued, oblivious to the way you were squirming beneath the suffocating energy of the two brawling alphas, their aggravated clashing scents pinning you to the mattress. “I am the strongest, after all.”

“Satoru.” Suguru’s next reply was a near growl, and Satoru returned the sentiment with a flash of sharp teeth.

You whined, unable to convey any thought aside from the distinct notion that you would die if someone didn’t touch you, if someone didn’t do something, anything to ease the gut wrenching ache between your thighs.

The quiet, desperate sound made the two men sit up straight, petty argument abandoned, attention entirely absorbed by your wordless plea.

Free from further objection, Suguru’s fingers slipped up through the unimaginable wetness between your thighs to dip inside with an ease that would have made you blush if you weren’t so utterly gone.

“I’m sorry princess, I know.” He soothed, and you simply went limp in the sheets, head turned to gasp in a breath as his fingers slipped deeper. “Hurts doesn’t it?”

Your jaw went slack as he slipped a third inside, and began curling them on each pump, digging up into that delicious spot that had a high, desperate whine escaping you.

“Look at her, so greedy. Sucking in my fingers like that.” Suguru mused, watching the way his fingers plunged inside with no resistance.

You didn’t bother to vocalise any reply other than a breathless groan, eyes drooping to watch as his palm pressed up against your clit, grinding the sensitive flesh in time with his fingers.

Satoru resumed his slow exploration of your throat, softly licking and sucking at the sensitive patch near your nape as if you were his favourite sweet. He worked dark, claiming marks into your skin, simultaneously his hands roamed over the hem of your little tank top, and he tugged it over your head with ease.

Both men made low, satisfied sounds, and through the steady buzzing of pleasure you could feel their eyes roaming hungrily over the smooth expanse of your newly exposed skin. You felt a hand trail up to capture one of your breasts, kneading the fat there as lithe fingers pinched at a delicate pebbled bud.

Beneath the treatment of the two men, you went limp, and Suguru’s lips curled into a smile as he watched your expression soften, watched your eyes flutter closed as you licked your lips.

“That’s it, there we go.” Suguru murmured, curling his palm to squeeze you between his fingers. “All better?”

For how utterly wired you were - every nerve set alight, every ounce of energy in your body pooling hot and sticky between your thighs - it seemed only a heartbeat before you found yourself on the precipice of sweet release.

“Sugu-“ You choked, corners of your vision turning a little hazy as your eyes threatened to roll back. “M gonna-“

Suguru simply smiled softly as you choked, watched your head fall back onto Satoru’s chest while you tightened around his fingers in a desperate pulse. Satoru made a sweet little sound behind you when you collapsed into him, eyes locked on the sight of your spine arching into an artful curve as your entire body clenched.

His fingers worked you through it, palm easing steadily over your sopping cunt until you whined. Suguru watched your expression go slack with pleasure, watched your skin turn dewy in a sheen of glittering sweat.

“So pretty.” Suguru cooed as the motion of his hand slowed, and he slipped from you with a wet sound that would have made you embarrassed, if not for the pleasant thrums of blistering relief pooling over you.

He took a moment just to relish in the sight of your arousal webbing his fingers before he slipped the sullied digits between his lips to taste you. He groaned quietly when his fingers hit his tastebuds, lashes fluttering.

“Now do it again.” He mumbled around the digits, made a low satisfied sound as he ran you against his tongue before he slipped his fingers from his mouth with an obscene ‘pop’.

“Around me this time.”

After what felt like a millennia your vision finally refocused, blur of shapes sliding back together. Your eyes wandered down from Suguru’s pleased face to watch the curl of his wrist as he fisted his cock in slow, lazy pumps.

You licked your lips, eyes tracking the hypnotic motion of his hand working the thick curved length where he’d tugged his pants loose - pearlescent beads drooled from the tanned tip, dribbling over his knuckles with each leisurely pump.

“Hold her legs back, Satoru.” Suguru requested, lifted himself to his knees to crowd over you.

Satoru acquiesced without further argument, despite his earlier irritation - he was just as eager to watch his bestfriend break you open as you were to take it.

He lifted himself up, leaned over your trembling form to catch your ankles. His fingers dwarfed your lower legs, and he tugged them back over your shoulders until your knees pressed into your bare chest.

You peered up at Satoru from between your knees with glassy eyes, sucked your lower lip between your teeth.

“More… need more…” You whimpered, whatever vague flicker of relief your first orgasm had granted fading beneath the fresh overwhelming wave of nauseating heat.

Satoru swallowed thickly, and pressed a soft kiss to your ankle.

“I know baby, Suguru and I are gonna take real good care of you, promise.” He murmured.

As if to prove his friends words, Suguru nestled himself between your parted thighs, tapping his length against your weeping slit. He hummed as he rocked his hips leisurely, coating himself in your slick.

“Yes yesyesyeshhh…” You panted, bucked your hips up desperately, brain screaming out for him to just slip inside and finally fill you up, relieve some of the ache writhing in your gut.

“So desperate...” With a low chuckle that would have sounded mean had you been in your right mind, Suguru pressed a thumb to his length and guided himself to your entrance.

You made a wild, feral sound somewhere in your throat as he nudged inside inch by inch, and you bit your lip when he bottomed out.

Fuck, he was big. Curved length slotting into every ridge, kissing every silky bump so perfectly that when you clenched around him, stars danced in the black behind your eyes.

Suguru sighed above you, lips parted, eyes locked on the vulgar sight of your cunt sucking him in like a long lost lover - like you were made for it. He supposed in some ways you were made for it, and this little heat of yours proved it.

That needling little thought flipped a switch somewhere in his rational brain, and he rocked forward onto his knuckles, kneeing the mattress until he could press his hips into you and grind until your pelvis’ were flat against one another.

All you could manage was a guttural whine when you felt him start to move.

He set a steady pace - but it wasn’t the rhythm or the speed that had you gasping and clawing at his shoulders, it was the sheer control. His thrusts were meaningful - hard and deep and targeted - kissing your cervix until a delicious throb bloomed low in your gut, and your legs turned to jelly.

“UhhhnnUh-… hmmsssSugu-…hn…” Your jaw was utterly slack, lips parted and slick with spit, panting out desperately into the stagnant air.

Your body was moving of its own volition, as if it had been cutoff from your brain. Every buck of your hips, every gasp - each motion entirely instinctual - responsive to the alpha above you, grinding you into the mattress, claiming you.

Suguru craned his head until his lips caressed your ear, bent over so your sweat soaked skin stuck to his chest through the dark tank.

“I’ll remember this, the sight of you - so desperate, so cock drunk that you’re drooling for it.” He grunted, nipped at your earlobe as you writhed beneath him, listened to you pant out a slurred chant of his name.

“Fuck, Suguru.” Satoru breathed somewhere behind you, hands still looped like cuffs around your ankles, his azure eyes blown dark - downturned and lazy as he watched the vicious slap of Suguru’s hips.

Suguru simply growled, knuckles biting into the mattress, thick muscles in his forearms twitching.

Every sensation seemed dialed up tenfold beneath the sear of your heat. Your jaw was slack, drool gathering at the corner of your parted lips as you mewled, jostled in place with each delicious thrust, clawing at his back like a wildcat.

“Poor baby.” Suguru cooed, craned his head back to watch the way your eyes rolled back into your skull, where your lips were bitten raw and plump beneath your wayward teeth, as if the sharp sting of pain were entirely lost on you.

“You’re not even there anymore, are you?”

You gave no reply aside from a string of incoherent words amongst a gargled moan. Your legs trembled in Satoru’s grip, and he watched as your toes curled, rocked into his palm by the strength of Suguru’s thrusts.

“C’mon darling, use your words for me.” Suguru tutted. “You want my knot, don’t you?”

Now that seemed to snatch your attention, like the tantalising dangle of a promised carrot. You swallowed thickly, and Suguru nudged his way beneath your jaw, ran his tongue long your throat to feel the motion under his tongue.

“Yesyesyesyesplease give it to me, hnn ah-… please, need it…” You slurred, voice pitched high and breathless - air utterly knocked from your lungs.

You could feel it, the thick swell, the bulging heat pressing insistently against you on each downward motion of his hips. It was so close, if you could only tilt your hips, just angle a little, then he could…

“C’mon darling, biiiiig stretch.” Suguru breathed into your ear, breath hot over your sweat soaked shoulder.

Before another thought could form, before you could even suck in another desperate mouthful of air, he had nudged his hips. There was a gasp, a blinding sizzle of pain and pleasure in equal measure - and then you were completely and unequivacobaly full.

“Ahh… There we go. Good girl.” Suguru soothed, peppering kisses along your cheekbone.

“Doesn’t that feel nice?”

He pressed into you, grinding teasingly against the seal just so you could feel the way his thick knot stretched you open, peering down at you with a hazy smile.

Your mind was empty, buzzing static like a tv tuned to the wrong station. You took a few delayed blinks, eyes wide, brows raised in disbelief as you gazed down at the obscene sight of his thick length splitting you in two.

Your mouth opened and closed a few times in silence, disbelief. You felt a puff of air beside you, and in the blurred perimeter of your vision, you watched a pale hand creep over the curve of your belly, dip down between your gushing folds to press against your clit.

“Satoru, don’t-“ Suguru growled.

Satorus fingers didn’t halt, slipping over your slick cunt to rub tight little circles into you. Of its own volition, you felt your swollen pussy clench, and in the next flutter of your lashes the searing coil slowly winding in your belly had snapped.

Your body tightened like a string pulled taut as your second orgasm came crashing over you. Relief and pleasure flooded you in equal parts, and somewhere in the haze you heard Suguru make a low choked sound.

When you came back to you realised he had cum inside. You could feel it, thick and hot, plugged by the swell of him, still twitching as he pumped you full of sticky ropes.

Suguru was panting, chest heaving as he rolled his thumbs over your hips in soothing circles, and he tilted his head up to fix Satoru with an icy glare - though it was softened by the residual thrums of pleasure.

“You were taking too long, Sugu~.” Satoru purred, met Suguru’s fury with a stretched grin.

“My turn.”

That’s how you’d found yourself upright, knees bent around Suguru’s thick arms as he held your trembling form infront of him, still pleasantly dazed. Your back was pressed to his chest, head tilted back resting against his collarbone as Satoru rutted between your spread legs.

He was groaning like he was in pain - melodic, borderline pornographic sounds, pink tongue lolling as he slapped his hips into the underside of your thighs in a myriad of obscene ‘plap! plap! plap!’s’

“Have some decorum, Satoru.” Suguru bit from behind you, breath curling hot over your sweat soaked skin where stray strands of your hair were sticking in slick curls.

Despite his annoyed tone, his eyes were dropped low, same as yours, watching Satoru disappear inside you. You blinked slow as molasses, marvelling at the sprinkle of pale hair where his base was blushed a pretty pink from the impact.

“Easy for you to say.” Satoru grunted, licked his lips. “You already got to fill her cute little pussy up.”

Suguru adjusted his hands, slid them a little further along to lift you up higher, rocking you to meet Satoru’s lethal thrusts. Through the soft tufts of pleasure stuffed thickly between your ears, you could hear his soft breaths behind you. You could feel the outline of his cock, hard once again, pressing tight against the curve of your ass.

“At least try to show a little restraint, hm?” He murmured, nuzzling at your nape, lips parted to run his teeth along your pebbled skin.

Satoru shook his head wildly.

“Nuh uh… Can’t.” He murmured in a slurred breath. “Look how well she’s taking me… shit.” He groaned. “Gonna take my knot this easy too princess?”

You nodded wildly, jaw slack as his thrusts punched a myriad of desperate little ‘ah’ sounds from your throat.

“How long have you been holding out on us, hm?” Satoru continued, narrow hips rolling in a dizzying rhythm. You watched a tiny bead of sweat roll down the valley of his V-line. “Could have been breeding this tight little omega cunt for months already.”

A desperate whine fled you, his words triggering something deep rooted and primal somewhere in your exhausted, muddled brain.

“Mhmmmmyesplease…hah-…breed me, breed me breedme please!...” You slurred, voice turned needy and gone.

Satoru’s lips spread into a grin, and Suguru cursed beneath his breath behind you, fingers gripping your thighs so tight you thought he might leave behind bruises, swirled in the shape of his prints.

“Don’t you worry baby, we’ll make sure you’re niiiice and full.” Satoru purred, hands slipping over Suguru’s, clutched over your bent thighs to leverage his vicious thrusts.

Suguru’s little pecks at your throat turned to slow licks, sharp teeth and hot breath grazing over your nape and sending a dizzying spatter of goosebumps along your sweat dappled skin.

“Gonna make sure it takes too.”

That simple promise alongside the threat of Suguru’s teeth pressing over your nape was all it took. Your senses cut out entirely when you came for the third time. All you could do was rut your aching hips up to meet his wayward, sloppy thrusts, the motion turned desperate and heated.

You choked a strangled sound as you felt a sudden burst of warmth, felt Satoru begin to pulse somewhere deep inside. He groaned, and then came the little patter of droplets dribbling to the floor as he stuffed you full and then some, a mix of cum and slick spilling over and out in thick milky ribbons.

“You’ve got the strongest inside you baby…” Satoru tutted, and you whined when you felt the thick swell of his knot kiss your aching entrance.

“…Don’t waste it.” He hissed through his teeth, flourished the last words with a harsh rut of his hips, and you squealed when the swollen ring finally slipped inside - plugging the cocktail of your slick and their seed inside.

Satoru gave a few testing nudges before he threw his head back and blew out a long, satisfied sigh - content that you both were well and truly tied. You were limp, trembling where you were held still being held up - tight and safe in Suguru’s arms.

As you breathed softly, eyes fluttered closed, the two walked you back - Satoru on shaking legs - until they could lower you both onto the mattress.

Satoru sighed in relief, feeling the plush mattress sink beneath his spine. He relaxed back onto the comforter, tugging you along with him until you were perched on his lap cowgirl style - still connected together in a tight lock.

You collapsed, limbs still arrested by tremors of pleasure and exhaustion as you curled atop his chest. Sighing contentedly, you nuzzled your face into the curve of his throat and breathed the soothing thrum of his scent.

Satoru exhaled, lifted a hand to run his slender fingers through your sweat soaked hair, feeling the strands beneath his nails as he let his eyes fall closed. Only once he felt your pulse and breathing slow to a relaxed pattern, did he open his eyes.

Suguru’s gaze was already on him where stood beside the mattress, having tugged on a loose pair of sweats. He tilted his head as his eyes raked over the sight of you both, and he reached a hand out to swipe a rogue strand of silver from Satoru’s eyes.

“You okay?” Suguru questioned, voice low and gentle.

Satoru hummed, nodding as his pale lashes fluttered, enjoying the slow stroke of Suguru’s thumb over his flushed cheekbone.

“Good.” Suguru smiled and straightened back up, stood for a moment just to listen to you both breath. He let his eyes roam over the mess of bruises and bite marks over your skin, taking in the soothing scent of a placated and content omega for a few quiet seconds.

at first, they thought nothing of you beyond you being one of shoko's friends. you were the epitome of normal - a beta, a regular 9 to 5 job, a respectful demeanor, no dramatic love life, quietly fading hobbies - hell, you even dressed normal.

but then satoru and suguru would pick up on small things here and there that would begin to pique their interest.

i mean extremely small things that you considered just basic human decency - holding the door open for them, naturally going to pay for their food or snacks because it's just easier than splitting the check, offering small mints, gum, even your cardigan if it got cold even though it would barely fit either of them.

you'd ask them about their day, what they did, what they do for work, small hobbies, and how long they'd been together. then you'd add in small facts about yourself when it felt natural, just as excited to share something with them as you were with shoko.

imagine the two of them watching you with their complete and undivided attention during a casual hangout, and you're raving about this show you started watching - the characters you loved, the ones you couldn't stand. they'd even ask questions just to keep you going, drinking up every moment your eyes crinkled with a smile or the way you'd pause mid-sentence trying to remember a scene accurately.

their favorite was probably when you'd lean in close on your own to show them something on your phone - they'd take every second of it to deliberately emit as many pheromones as they could to scent you. and you wouldn't even notice, because you're a beta and way too excited talking about the show's next season to register anything was off.

you honestly weren't doing anything too out of the ordinary. just basic manners, naturally treating everyone with the same consideration. sure, you wanted to leave a decent impression on shoko's close friends, but it wasn't like you expected anything - they were together, after all.

you were quick to be a supportive friend of their relationship despite it going against the norm.

they liked that you did selfless things without a second thought, that you'd fret over their comfort and go out of your way to include them. they liked how you didn't bat an eye when shoko explained that they were "mates" in their own way, that you'd even shown genuine curiosity in how their relationship worked since it wasn't something you'd ever encounter as a beta.

they liked how you were just easy - normal.

it would start as simple enjoyment, just liking you and appreciating your company, until it quietly shifted into something deliberate. until they were intentionally seeking you out for more.

and you, poor thing, would soon find out just how uncontrollable omegas can get when they want something badly enough.

once they decided they liked you, the concept of physical boundaries became something that applied to everyone else but them.

satoru was already openly touchy - you'd seen how he was with shoko, so you thought nothing of it. not even when he'd hug you with the clear intent to scent you, to put something of himself on you that would keep others at a distance and ease the growing paranoia he had about you being somewhere without them. you'd be none the wiser, talking to shoko like it was just another tuesday morning in a cafe while satoru was very obviously nosing into the nape of your neck where your gland sits - sometimes leaving a trail of light kisses if you were in a good enough mood. you'd laugh, tell him it tickled, but you never pushed him away. and that was more than enough reason for him to keep going.

suguru, on the other hand, had always kept a more respectful distance - you'd even commented on it once, saying you found him elegant and composed in a way that felt rare. unfortunately for you, he was no better than satoru beneath that exterior. he'd press his face into the crook of your neck when he hugged you, or opt to come up from behind so he could stay close without being in your way. you'd take it as a sign of how comfortable you'd grown together, a natural closeness between good friends, and before long you'd stopped noticing it at all. you'd let him hang off you without a single comment.

forget just your alone time being interrupted - all of your free time would gradually belong to them. and if you tried to decline, your voice a little too tired or too stuffy over the phone, they'd invite themselves over before you could finish the sentence. they didn't take no for an answer.

they'd lend you their clothes constantly - jackets when it got cold, a hoodie when you mentioned being chilly - but that was only ever the beginning. once they saw how easily it worked, they started leaving things behind on purpose. almost as if they were slowly moving in. it would start with clothes, all conveniently forgotten.

then came the toothbrushes. you wouldn't notice at first - satoru's sleek black one appearing next to yours in the bathroom cup, then suguru's sliding in beside it like it had always been there. when you finally registered what had happened, you'd tell yourself it made sense, that it was just practical given how often they were over. you wouldn't question it. why would you?

the detergent swap would happen so gradually you'd almost miss it entirely. one day you'd be using your usual scent - something neutral, inoffensive - and then one laundry cycle later, the bottle in your cabinet would be different. it would smell like them. like both of them, a scent so distinctly theirs that it would work its way into your clothes, your sheets, every fabric surface in the apartment, until the whole space carried them in a way that made satoru and suguru visibly settle whenever they were near you. you'd assume you grabbed the wrong one at the store, or that someone bought it by mistake. it wouldn't occur to you that they'd done it on purpose.

the groceries would be harder to ignore but you'd still manage to rationalize it. snacks would start appearing in your cabinets - their preferred brands, their specific flavors - and the fridge would slowly fill with things they liked. satoru's energy drinks taking up shelf space, suguru's particular brand of tea tucked into your pantry. when you asked about it, they'd brush it off easily, saying they just wanted to contribute since they were over so often, that it was only fair they stock the place with things they'd actually want to eat. it would sound reasonable. it would sound considerate. you'd accept it without fully registering that you were watching your own apartment become something that felt like it belonged to all three of you.

shoko would notice long before you did. she'd corner them one afternoon, her alpha presence sharp and steady, telling them to back off - that what they were doing wasn't fair to you, that you didn't even understand what was happening. but satoru and suguru would be practiced enough by then. they'd play confused, almost wounded, asking her what she meant - they were just being good friends, weren't they? just spending time with someone they cared about. suguru would tilt his head with that composed look of his and ask if she was jealous, if she was upset about how close they'd gotten to you. satoru would pile on with exaggerated concern, suggesting maybe she was just stressed, that she was being a little unreasonable about the whole thing.

they'd make it sound like she was the problem. like she was overreacting for no reason at all. and the worst part is that shoko - sharp, perceptive, alpha shoko - could smell exactly what they were doing. she could sense the deliberate pheromone markers saturating your apartment, could recognize the careful, methodical construction of a nest that you were too oblivious to see. she knew they were claiming you piece by piece, folding your space into theirs, but her words wouldn't land the way she needed them to because you genuinely wouldn't understand what she was warning you about. and satoru and suguru knew that. they were counting on it.

and the worst part is that when their heats arrived, they were no longer locking themselves away in their own homes to deal with it like they always had. instead they'd come straight to yours on the most innocent of pretexts - wanting to watch a movie, needing to crash because they were tired, asking if you minded them staying the night. it would sound exactly like every other time they'd shown up unannounced, indistinguishable from the dozens of sleepovers that had already blurred together in your memory. you wouldn't question it. why would you? it had been weeks of this, and their presence had long since stopped feeling like an intrusion and started feeling like just another constant.

you couldn't smell anything. that's what made it so dangerous - you're a beta, and their pheromones might as well not exist to you. you wouldn't notice the way the air grew heavier when they arrived, wouldn't catch the sharp, sweet undertone bleeding into every corner of your space. you wouldn't see the way satoru's movements became more fluid and deliberate, or the way suguru's usual composure frayed just slightly at the edges. to you, it would just be another night. just them, just you, just the three of you in your apartment like always.

but it wouldn't be like always. not even close.

it wouldn't be until satoru's hand settled on your thigh and suguru's lips brushed your shoulder that something registered. not quite understanding, not quite alarm - just a sudden spike of disorientation, the quiet sense that something had shifted. their touches would be heavier, more purposeful, and when you tried to put a little distance between yourself and them, they'd follow. and then it would hit you, delayed and sinking: they were in heat. both of them. and you were caught between them with no clean way out.

by the time your brain caught up to what was happening, you'd already be pinned.

the first round would blur together - hands and mouths and the suffocating weight of being wanted that intensely.

the second would come faster, their heats pushing them to claim and mark in ways that left you breathless and aching.

by the third you'd be losing count, losing track of whose hands were whose. they'd use their own slick to keep you open and ready throughout the night, as though their cum alone wasn't enough.

the fourth would leave you trembling, pushed well past the edge of exhaustion into something rawer and harder to name. and when satoru pulled you closer and suguru was already reaching for you again, you'd find yourself hoping - desperately, embarrassingly hoping - that they'd have enough left in them to let you rest after the fifth.

by the time their cycles finally began to wind down, you'd be too limp and spent to do anything but take whatever they still wanted to give. your body would have stopped negotiating. you'd just exist in the space between them, letting them hold and touch and take.

it would only be when the worst of it faded that you'd catch yourself in the mirror. your neck would be a map of damage - deep bruises running from red to purple, bite marks scattered across the skin with dried blood at the edges, and beneath them older marks only just beginning to close, still tender to the touch.

you'd try to forgive them. you really would. you'd tell yourself they were victims of their own biology, that omega instinct overrides choice, that they couldn't have helped it.

you'd repeat it until it almost felt true - it's not their fault, it's not their fault - trying to settle into the version of events where none of it was deliberate.

but then satoru would lean in and sink his teeth into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, right into a scar that had barely started to heal. the pain would be immediate and precise, and somewhere underneath it you'd feel the quiet collapse of every excuse you'd just built. suguru would follow just as eagerly, his bite finding the other side of your neck with that same unhurried intention, and you'd understand - clearly, finally - that nothing is going to stop them.

You were eight when your sister's face contorted into what could only be horror - she was barely six at the time - staring at a blank space beside an elderly woman during a visit to the Buddhist temple in your small town. An empty space, absent of anything that would make a child cry. You'd only assumed she'd seen something she didn't like in passing, that whatever she was crying about stemmed from the ordinary behavior of any child prone to easy discomfort.

You comforted her at first, being the closest to her during the initial prayers, but she wouldn't stop crying. She kept telling you that "it was climbing on her," pointing at the old woman indignantly. You immediately chastised her, telling her it wasn't nice to point at people. She just sat there, immovable as if in shock, sobbing into your arms while hiccupping out between wet sobs: "It's eating her."

"Curses," you thought, the word surfacing when your father came running to her side. He looked at you that day too with a fond look, but it differed from before.

The offer came when you were thirteen. A pristine white envelope with a stamped crest, an emblem you'd never seen before. It was beautiful in the same way it was terrifying. You could not look away from how the crest shone like a beacon of light; you assumed your parents were awestruck by its beauty as well, although the horrified expressions on their faces made you think otherwise.

Your sister, on the other hand, was only nine - you remember how grand and ceremonious her birthday celebration had been, only a month prior. You thought the look on her face as she blew out her candles seemed solemn.

You think your mother apologized to her later that night.

You met Gojo Satoru at fourteen: platinum-white hair, eyes a bright, aquamarine blue. They glittered like fragments of crystal nestled deep in his irises, and it didn't help how sharp his stare was - pointed and unabashed, as if he were fully aware of everything, yet distant, watching from the sidelines the way someone might watch a play unfold. You'd even call it boredom, though something about it felt too old for a boy his age to wear so easily.

That day you hung your head as low as your neck could manage; you remember your hands itching to massage the small muscles that felt seconds away from snapping. It wasn't by choice - your father had advised you multiple times leading up to the meeting to keep your head down unless spoken to, and that if, on the rare occasion they addressed you, you were to maintain steady eye contact as a sign of respect before lowering your head once more.

They didn't speak to you that day. You remembered being told they were the heads of the Gojo clan, though not that they were the parents of the pale boy sitting eerily still across from your sister. You weren't sure if you were thankful for it or ashamed, existing in a way comparable to just another piece of furniture in the room.

At least you managed to tune out most of what was being said, catching only fragments - words like inheritance, bloodline, burden passed between the adults like stones skipped across still water. You didn't understand half of what was being negotiated, only that your sister's future was being decided in a tatami-floored room that smelled faintly of sandalwood incense and aged paper, sunlight filtering thin through the shoji screens, and that no one thought to ask her opinion on the matter.

Eventually, someone - you think it might have been the family's advisor, a thin man that nearly look frail - suggested that "the children" be excused. You remember the relief that flooded your chest, sharp and immediate, at being granted permission to exist outside the suffocating weight of that room.

Your sister didn't want to leave at first. She kept glancing at the boy across from her, transfixed in the way children often are with anything unfamiliar and strange. He hadn't moved the entire meeting, hadn't so much as blinked more than necessary, and yet she stared at him like he was something out of one of her picture books - a prince carved from ice, maybe, or a ghost mistaken for a person. When a servant gently guided her out by the shoulder, she twisted her head back for one last look, as if committing his face to memory.

You wandered the estate alone after that, still in your socks from where you'd left your shoes at the genkan, your sister tucked safely under the watch of one of your family's servants while the adults continued whatever business required hushed voices and closed doors.

The Gojo estate sprawled endlessly, its engawa verandas stretching between manicured gardens, each room more pristine than the last, as though dust itself knew better than to settle there. You didn't know where you were going. You only knew you didn't want to go back to that room.

That was when you found him in the hallway.

He stood there alone, dressed in a deep blue kimono of fine weave, the fabric catching the light with an understated sheen that spoke of expense and careful craftsmanship.

The formality of the garment made him look even more like a carefully arranged porcelain figure, something too perfect and fragile to touch. His hands were tucked into the sleeves, and he stared out through a window at nothing in particular, the stillness of him unnervingly practiced for someone so young.

You almost didn't say anything - almost kept walking, pretending you hadn't seen him - but something about a ten-year-old standing unsupervised in a house this large struck you as wrong. Your eyes drifted across the hallway, down its length, then back toward the direction you'd come from.

The estate was so vast, so quiet. Everyone had made such a fuss about him during the meeting - important, the strongest, a prodigy - and yet here he was, alone in a corridor that seemed to stretch on forever.

You found yourself glancing around again, almost fearful, increasingly concerned that no one had thought to check on him.

"What're you looking at?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

You turned back to find him watching you now, his head tilted slightly. For a moment, he looked away too, his aquamarine eyes scanning the hallway the way you had - methodical, observant - and you caught the way the light caught in his irises, making them shine just a fraction brighter before he turned his attention back to you, as if he'd already cataloged everything worth seeing.

"Shouldn't you have someone watching you?" you asked, keeping your voice soft, the way you might speak to your sister when she was upset.

He turned to look at you more fully now, unreadable, his aquamarine eyes flat and assessing, as if trying to determine whether you were worth the effort of a response - an expression far too composed for a child his age.

"I live here," he said simply, like that answered anything at all.

"That doesn't mean it's safe to wander around by yourself," you said, more insistent this time, though you weren't entirely sure why you cared.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead he studied you the way you imagine scientists studied things under microscopes, dissecting and cataloging, searching for what made you tick.

"You're weird," he finally said, and before you could decide whether to be offended, he held his hand out to you, palm up, expectant.

You took it. You're still not sure why.

The playdates began not long after that, arranged with the same rigid formality as everything else your clan seemed to touch.

You always came along, ushered into the role of chaperone though no one used that word outright, and you supposed it made sense - your sister was still small, still easily overwhelmed, and Gojo was, despite his unsettling stillness, still only a child himself.

Those early visits resembled a strange, one-sided game of twenty questions, your sister peppering him with things like what's your favorite color and do you like animals while he answered in the same flat, distant tone he'd used with you in the hallway. He never asked questions back. He simply existed beside her, present but untouched by whatever she was trying to build between them.

"He's just weird," you told your sister once, on the car ride home, when she asked - hurt, in the quiet way children get hurt - why he never smiled at her jokes. "He wasn't raised like us. I don't think anyone taught him how to be normal around people."

She seemed to accept that explanation, though you weren't certain you believed it yourself.

What you didn't mention, because you weren't sure what to make of it, was the way Gojo gravitated toward you during those visits instead. He'd trail a few steps behind you through the gardens, or reach for your hand without prompting when you walked him back toward the main house, his small fingers curling into yours with a certainty that felt oddly deliberate for someone his age. You told yourself it meant nothing. Children latched onto whoever was nearest and least frightening. That was all it was.

By the time he turned thirteen, something in him had begun to bloom - there was no better word for it. The flat stillness that had defined him as a child gave way, slowly, to something livelier, more textured. He started talking more, filling silences with details about his day, his training, some argument he'd had with an instructor about technique. His expressions multiplied: a narrowing of his eyes and a small click of his tongue when he was annoyed, the corner of his mouth twitching upward when he was pleased but trying not to show it. Even his posture had changed, less like a doll arranged just so, more like a boy who had somewhere he wanted to be.

You found yourself watching these small transformations with something like fondness, the same fondness you might have felt watching your sister learn to ride a bike or lose her first tooth. He was, after all, still a child in your eyes - a strange, occasionally exasperating one, but a child nonetheless, someone you had watched grow from that porcelain-still boy in the hallway into whoever he was becoming.

"Call me Satoru," he told you once, apropos of nothing, while you sat across from him at the low table in his study, both of you cross-legged atop the tatami. "Not Gojo."

"Isn't that your name?" you asked, amused.

"That's my family," he said, you could note the slight bitterness in his tone, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve and not quite looking at you. "I want you to call me Satoru."

You obliged, mostly because arguing over something so small felt pointless, and partly because you liked the way his face brightened, however briefly, whenever you did.

You found yourself feeling something close to pride during that stretch of time, watching him grow into someone with color and shape, someone who existed beyond the porcelain stillness of that first meeting. You thought about how far he'd come from the boy who'd barely spoken, who'd stared at you like you were a puzzle he couldn't solve, and it struck you as something worth being proud of - the way you might be proud of any child finally settling into themselves. You thought, foolishly, that it meant good things for your sister's future.

You thought his warmth, however small, was being cultivated for her, and that one day she would be lucky to have it.

You were seventeen by the time you began attending the playdates less. School had consumed most of your attention by then - assignments piling up, a boy you were seeing on and off, a life slowly expanding beyond the narrow corridor your clan had built for you. You told yourself your sister didn't need you there every time, not when Satoru had grown fond of her, not when things seemed, on the surface, to be progressing exactly as they were meant to.

You didn't notice, not at first, how the shape of things had shifted in your absence.

It became obvious around the time his height started catching up to yours, his voice dipping into something rougher at the edges, his limbs stretching in the awkward, uneven way boys' bodies do when puberty finally takes hold. He'd try, casually, to take your hand the way he used to as a child, except now there was nothing childlike about the way his fingers lingered, or the way he'd pull back too quickly when you gently untangled your hand from his, muttering some flimsy excuse about your hands being cold, or his own being sweaty, anything to explain away the moment.

You noticed, too, the way his questions changed.

It started small, the kind of thing you almost didn't register until it had already happened three or four times.

You'd come by on a Sunday to find your sister had already gone to lie down in one of the back rooms, fatigued from the afternoon - she'd seemed more tired than usual lately, her training having ramped up to something far more grueling than it used to be. Satoru remained sprawled across the couch in the living room with some manga held up in front of his face, the pages angled just high enough to hide everything but the crown of his white hair. He refused to leave even when your sister wasn't in attendance anymore, and you'd long since stopped trying to convince him otherwise.

"Does your sister like guys with long hair?" he asked one afternoon, not looking up from the book, voice pitched carefully casual. "Or short?"

You glanced up from the coffee table, where you'd been grading through some notes for one of your classes. "I don't know. How would I know, Satoru?"

"Okay, then what about you?"

You blinked at him, pen paused mid-sentence. "What, what about me?"

"Short or long." He still hadn't looked up from the manga, though the pages had gone still, no longer turning. "Hair. Which do you like."

"I don't know - I guess short," you said, mostly just to get him to drop it, already looking back down at your notes.

There was a pause. You heard the soft rustle of the manga pages shifting, but he didn't say anything right away. You glanced back up, expecting him to move on to something else, but he was still there, still hidden behind the book, the silence stretching in that particular way that made you realize he was waiting for something.

"So, my length?" he finally asked, his voice quieter than before.

You looked at him properly then, taking in the platinum hair cut short - an outgrown buzz is what you could describe it as, that barely fell over his forehead, just enough to catch the light. You let the moment sit for a beat, long enough that you could feel him tensing behind the book.

"Nah," you said, turning back to your notes. "Longer."

There was another pause, this one different - almost satisfied. Then, quietly, from behind the pages: "Okay. Cool, cool."

The manga snapped back up to cover his face entirely, faster than the moment really called for.

You went back to your notes, unbothered, chalking it up to whatever it was boys his age fixated on.

"What about tall guys? Does she like those?"

You sighed, setting your pen down. "I don't know - most girls like tall guys, it's not that surprising."

"I'm just asking," he said, and there was something almost defensive in it now, the manga creeping back up another inch.

"If you want to know what she likes, ask her yourself. I'm sure she'd tell you."

Satoru didn't answer right away. The silence that followed stretched long enough that you almost went back to your notes, almost forgot the conversation had been happening in the first place, before he said, quietly, from behind the manga, "I'll be taller than you soon."

You blinked, glancing up. "What?"

"Nothing." The book snapped back up fully this time, covering his entire face.

You didn't think much of it beyond a passing, bemused sort of confusion, chalking it up to whatever strange, competitive instinct boys his age seemed to develop out of nowhere, the same way they suddenly cared about who could run faster or throw a ball farther. You went back to your notes and didn't bring it up again.

But the questions kept coming after that, disguised each time as concern for your sister's preferences before pivoting, inevitably, back toward you. What kind of things did you like. What you found annoying. Whether you preferred someone quiet or someone who talked too much. He'd always start with her name in the question and end with yours, as though he thought you wouldn't notice the sleight of hand if he moved quickly enough.

"You know," you said one day, setting your pen down with a huff, "you could just ask her these things directly instead of going through me every single time. It'd save us both a lot of trouble."

His face contorted immediately, nose wrinkling in something that looked almost like embarrassment, the manga finally dropping into his lap. "It's not that big a deal. I'm just asking."

"Sure you are," you said, unimpressed, going back to your notes.

"I'm just saying," he grumbled, arms crossing, ears reddening at the tips in a way that suggested the irritation wasn't nearly as simple as he wanted it to look. You rolled your eyes and kept grading, chalking the whole exchange up to nothing more than an irritating younger brother being an irritating younger brother, the way he always had been, the way you assumed he always would be.

The question that finally cracked something open came just after his fourteenth birthday, on one of the rare evenings you'd stayed late at the estate, your sister already sent off to bed by one of the house's attendants after a long day of formal obligations you'd never understand.

You and Satoru remained, the low table between you scattered with the debris of the tea neither of you had finished and the sickly sweet snacks he'd brought, the tatami cool beneath your knees in the quiet that settled once the house had gone still.

"Hey," Satoru said, too casually, not looking up from the book he was reading. "Have you ever slept with someone?"

You blinked, certain for a moment you'd misheard him. "What did you just ask me?"

"You heard me." He glanced up then, and there was something in his expression - equal parts nerve and performance, like he'd rehearsed the bluntness of it and was watching now to see if it landed the way he'd hoped.

"Satoru." Your voice came out sharper than you meant it to, some mixture of scandalized and unsure whether to laugh. "Where on earth did you even hear something like that?"

"I'm just asking," he said, that familiar shrug rolling through his shoulders, though the tips of his ears had gone faintly pink. "It's not that weird a thing to wonder about."

"It's exactly that weird, coming from you." You set your cup down, giving him the look you usually reserved for your sister when she'd said something she knew better than to say. "You're fourteen. You shouldn't even know to ask that."

Something flickered across his face - not quite embarrassment, but close to it, the confidence faltering for just a moment before he caught himself and smoothed it back into that familiar smugness.

"I know things," he said, vaguely, tilting his chin up like the vagueness itself was an answer.

"Clearly not the right things," you muttered, shaking your head, though you didn't push further. Whatever corner of the clan house he'd overheard something so inappropriate in, you decided, quite firmly, that it wasn't a thread you wanted to pull on tonight.

By the time Satoru turned fifteen, the countdown to Jujutsu High had become something he brought up so often it started to feel like a nervous tic, the kind of thing he couldn't help circling back to no matter what the conversation had originally been about.

"You know I'm leaving soon, right?" he said one afternoon, apropos of nothing, while you sorted through a stack of paperwork.

"Yes, Satoru. You've mentioned it. Several times." You didn't even look up from the papers.

"I'm just saying. It's not like a weekend trip. It's a long time." He was sprawled on the couch again, the same way he always was, though his legs took up considerably more of it than they used to.

"I'm aware of how the school works, yes."

"A really long time," he pressed, like the emphasis alone might make you understand something you clearly weren't grasping. "Like, I won't be back for holidays half the time. Maybe not even for a whole year."

"Okay." You glanced up briefly, more amused than anything, arching an eyebrow at the theatrics of it. "And?"

He seemed to falter for a second, like he hadn't fully thought past the announcement itself, like the reaction he wanted from you hadn't been "okay" delivered in that flat, unbothered tone. "And nothing," he muttered, looking away, jaw tight. "Just thought you should know."

"You've told me probably five times this week alone," you said, setting the papers down finally, unable to keep the smile off your face. "I promise it's registered."

He didn't answer that, just picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, expression unreadable in the way it got sometimes now that he was older, harder to parse than the porcelain stillness of his childhood or the easy brightness of the years after. You didn't think much of it. Boys his age got moody about all sorts of things, and leaving home for the first time - even to a place as prestigious as Jujutsu High - was reason enough for a little sulking, you supposed.

The morning he left, the estate was a flurry of quiet, controlled motion - attendants moving trunks toward the gate, your father exchanging low words with someone from the Gojo clan's staff, your sister standing beside you in her travel clothes, back straight the way she'd been taught, though her hands fidgeted at her sides in a way that gave her away.

Satoru stood near the car, dressed simply for once, none of the ornate fabric of his childhood, just a plain dark jacket that looked almost strange on him after years of seeing him wrapped in fine, deliberate cloth. He looked older in that moment than you'd fully let yourself register until then - fifteen, taller than you now, the outgrown buzz cut long gone, replaced by hair that fell messily over his forehead in a way he still hadn't quite figured out what to do with.

Your sister went first, wrapping her arms around you briefly, murmuring something about texting once she landed, and you hugged her back easily enough, distractedly, his gaze drifting toward you over the top of her head the entire time.

Then it was your turn.

You stepped forward and hugged him the way you always had, an arm looping around his shoulders, a quick press meant to say be safe and I'll see you eventually all at once. Except he didn't let go the way he was supposed to. His arms tightened around you instead, pulling you in closer than the moment really called for, his chin dropping to rest against your shoulder, and he held on for a beat too long, then another, long enough that you felt your sister shift awkwardly beside you, long enough that you had to be the one to eventually pull back.

When you did, his expression had gone tight, jaw set in that particular way he got when something wasn't going the way he wanted it to, mouth twisted at the corner - the same look he used to give when he was annoyed as a child, except sharper now, more deliberate. He looked, if you had to put a word to it, almost disappointed. Pissed, even, though you couldn't imagine at what.

"Hey," you said gently, misreading it entirely, reaching up to squeeze his shoulder the way you might have done for your sister. "I'll miss you too, you know."

His mouth twisted further, something flickering behind his eyes that you didn't have the vocabulary yet to name. "Yeah," he said, voice flat, already turning toward the car. "Whatever."

You watched him climb in beside your sister, watched the car pull down the long gravel drive until it disappeared past the gates, and told yourself it was just nerves, just a boy leaving home for the first time, dressing up his fear as irritation because that was easier than admitting to being scared.

That morning marked the last uncomplicated day of it - the last time you'd see him as simply Satoru, before Jujutsu High swallowed him whole and returned him to you as someone else entirely.

Thirteen years is a long time to hold onto a version of someone. You know that now, though you didn't back then, back when you still believed people stayed roughly the shape you left them in, like pressing a flower between pages and expecting it to bloom again the moment you opened the book.

You were thirty-two the evening it happened, coming home from work the way you did every other evening, keys already out of your bag before you'd even reached the front step, your mind somewhere between the grocery list you hadn't made and the emails you'd forgotten to answer. You hadn't seen your sister in person in five years, only briefly given permission for her to visit. You hadn't seen Satoru at all since the morning he climbed into that car and disappeared down the Gojo estate's gravel drive.

It wasn't that you'd meant to disappear on either of them - it was that leaving the clan estate had meant leaving behind the only channels that ever connected you to that world in the first place. Even reaching your sister had become its own small ordeal, routed through servants and schedules and whoever happened to be near enough to a phone that week, and somewhere in the shuffle of building an entirely separate life, the reaching had simply stopped happening.

You'd told yourself, eventually, that Jujutsu High swallowed people whole, and that it wasn't abandonment so much as distance, the kind built into the very architecture of the world your sister had been born into and you hadn't. You knew, somewhere underneath that reasoning, that you probably could have tried harder. You just weren't sure it would have mattered.

So when you looked up from your keys and saw a man leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted back against the wood like he owned the place, your first thought was that you had the wrong house.

Your second thought, arriving a half-second later with the force of something physical, was that you knew him.

He was taller than you remembered, though of course he would be, that had been true even at fifteen, his frame stretched out now into something lean and unfairly put-together, all long limbs and easy posture, like standing there cost him nothing at all.

His hair had grown past the outgrown buzz you remembered into something longer, messier, pale as moonlight even in the dim porch light. A blindfold covered his eyes - dark fabric wound carefully around his head, obscuring the startling blue you'd known since childhood. For a moment you wanted to ask about it, some question forming and dissolving before you could speak it, but then memory surfaced: by the end of his fourteenth year, he'd begun wearing those round, completely blacked-out glasses, something about the strain of seeing the way he saw. You supposed this was just the evolution of that.

Whatever it was that used to unsettle you about him as a child had only sharpened with age, blindfold or not - you could feel it in the way he held himself, in the careful attention of his posture even as he leaned against your door like he had nowhere else to be.

"Took you long enough," Satoru said, like you were fifteen minutes late to something, like this was a scheduled meeting and not an ambush on your own doorstep.

"What the hell," you said, because it was the only thing your mouth seemed capable of producing, keys still in hand. "Satoru?"

"Ding ding," he said, pushing off the doorframe with a lazy, theatrical flourish, spreading his arms wide like he was unveiling himself for an audience. "In the flesh. Bigger, better, taller. You're welcome."

You stared at him. You kept staring, waiting for some detail to resolve the wrongness of it, grinning at you like the years between hadn't happened at all. "How did you even find my address?"

"Jujutsu sorcerer," he said, tapping his temple with two fingers, "super strong, remember? Finding one woman who dropped off the map isn't exactly advanced technique."

"I didn't drop off the map, I - " You stopped, exhaled, tried again, more honestly this time. "It's nice to see you. It is. Why are you here, Satoru? Is my sister with you?"

"Mm." He rocked back on his heels, ignoring the question entirely, something flickering behind the easy grin, there and gone so fast you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it. "That's it? Thirteen years and I get 'nice to see you' like I'm a neighbor." His voice stayed light, teasing, pitched exactly the way it used to when he was being deliberately obtuse as a child, except there was an edge underneath it now, something coiled and simmering that hadn't been there before, or that you'd simply been too young yourself to recognize. "Not even a New Year's card in thirteen years. I'm hurt. Genuinely. Wounded, even."

You rubbed at your temple, guilt and irritation tangling together in a way you didn't have the energy to sort out. "You're being dramatic. You make it sound a lot easier to contact anyone out there than it really is."

"I'm allowed to be dramatic," he said, stepping closer, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to keep looking at him, close enough that you caught the faint scent of cedar and something colder underneath it, unfamiliar. "You left. That's not dramatic, that's just facts."

"I didn't leave, I moved. People do that. It's called having a life." Your back had found the doorframe somewhere in the last few seconds without your permission, and you weren't entirely sure when that had happened, only that he'd filled the space between you and the door so thoroughly there wasn't much room left to retreat into. "And you're one to talk about disappearing, you were the one who went off to some elite school and dropped off the face of the earth."

"See, that's different," he said, tilting his head, that same maddening, unreadable expression flickering across his face that you remembered from childhood, except sharpened now into something adult and far harder to read. "I had a good excuse. Special grade curses, world-ending stuff, very busy schedule. What's yours?"

"I don't need an excuse, I'm not the one standing on someone's porch like a stray cat."

Something in his jaw shifted at that, a muscle ticking there before the grin widened to cover it, too quick, too practiced. He leaned in another fraction of an inch, effectively erasing whatever space had remained between the two of you and the door at your back. "Guess you'll just have to let me in, then," he said, voice dropping into something quieter, something that didn't match the smile at all. "Been a long thirteen years."

The meeting room hadn't changed at all.

That was the first thing you noticed, sitting there with your knees pressed together beneath the low table, the same tatami beneath you that had been beneath you eighteen years ago, the same shoji doors diffusing the afternoon light into something soft and directionless. Even the air smelled the same, faintly of cedar and old incense, as though the room existed outside of time in a way the rest of the world hadn't been permitted to.

Except this time you weren't the girl kneeling beside her mother, told to keep her eyes down. This time you sat where the elders had once sat, cushion firm beneath you, spine held too straight because it was the only thing keeping you upright. And across the table, in the place where a ten-year-old boy had once perched like a doll too carefully made to be touched, sat Satoru. Grown now. His hair combed back with lazy effort and decided to ditch the pair of black glasses or thick blindfold he usually sported.

You still weren't entirely sure how you'd gotten here. The days folded into each other strangely when you tried to retrace them, fragments surfacing out of order, refusing to arrange themselves into anything you could call a memory.

The funeral.

You remembered that, though only in pieces - the black fabric of your own sleeve, the smell of lilies too sweet for the occasion, a line of relatives you barely recognized bowing in practiced unison. You didn't remember crying, though you must have. You remembered a phone call afterward, someone from the clan's outer household asking, with excruciating politeness, whether you'd be willing to return, just for a short visit, just to discuss a few matters concerning the family. You remembered thinking, even then, that the request had come too quickly, though you hadn't let yourself follow the thought any further than that.

And then the envelope. Pristine white, the Gojo crest stamped into the seal like a wound. The same one. You didn't know how they'd found your new address, though you supposed by now you should have stopped being surprised by things like that.

They hadn't even waited a month after your sister's death.

You didn't know why your sister had died - no one had told you anything beyond the vague, careful language people used when they wanted a subject closed - but you knew this: however she'd gone, whatever had taken her, the clan had grieved for exactly as long as it took to draft new paperwork, and not a single day longer.

You sat with that thought lodged somewhere behind your ribs, cold and immovable, while the room filled slowly around you. Elders you barely remembered took their places along the far wall, murmuring amongst themselves in tones too low to follow, occasionally glancing toward you with expressions you couldn't read and didn't want to. You kept your hands folded in your lap to stop them from shaking.

It was almost funny, in the bleak, airless way certain truths are, that you were even here at all. You couldn't see curses. Had never been able to, not once, not even as a child straining to glimpse whatever it was your sister saw clinging to that woman at the temple all those years ago. You had no technique, no lineage worth speaking of beyond the accident of blood that had made you useful to negotiate with, once, briefly, when you were only a body to be positioned beside another body.

You were thirty-two. Satoru was twenty-eight.

Even the arithmetic of it felt obscene, four years that had meant nothing when you were a teenager watching over a child and meant something entirely different now, sitting across from a grown man in a room built to formalize whatever came next.

You had nothing to offer.

And yet here you were, seated exactly where your sister knelt, waiting for someone to explain to you, again, what your life was going to be used for.

The elder nearest the head of the table shifted, papers rustling faintly in his hands, and cleared his throat with the particular gravity of a man about to speak words he'd rehearsed. Across from you, Satoru hadn't moved at all, his gaze steady, unreadable, fixed on you with an intensity that made the silence before the elder spoke feel unbearably long.

The elder's words had blurred together somewhere around the third sentence, something about formalities and timelines and the necessity of "smooth transition," until eventually you'd stopped trying to hold onto any of it and simply nodded when nodding seemed required. You didn't remember standing. You didn't remember being led anywhere. You only became aware of yourself again once you were sitting on the tatami of a room you hadn't chosen, knees tucked beneath you, hands folded so tightly in your lap that your knuckles had gone pale.

It was a nice room. That was the worst part of it, somehow - the care evident in every detail, the tokonoma alcove with its single, deliberate arrangement of flowers, the futon already laid out and waiting though it was nowhere near evening.

You weren't a guest. You understood that now, sitting here with your bag still packed at the door because unpacking it would mean admitting the shape this was taking. This was a preview. A room that belonged, technically, to Satoru's house, in the way everything in this house eventually belonged to Satoru, and you were meant to understand that once things were "finalized" - that word, chosen so carefully by the elder, still turning over in your stomach like something rotten - this would simply be where you lived.

You didn't know how long you sat there before the fusuma slid open with a sharp, careless scrape, no pause beforehand, no announcement.

"God," Satoru said, stepping through and dragging the door shut behind him with his foot, not bothering to look at you yet, "I cannot stand talking to those meatheads. Every single one of them talks like they're reading off an ancient scroll. You'd think after forty years of practice at least one of them would figure out how to finish a sentence without three unnecessary clauses."

He dropped down onto the tatami a respectful distance away, folding his long legs beneath him with the kind of ease that made the whole room feel smaller, more crowded, though there was nothing but the two of you in it.

"Honestly," he went on, tipping his head back to study the ceiling like it had personally wronged him, "I think that one elder's been saying the exact same six sentences since I was ten. Different order sometimes, if he's feeling adventurous." He glanced sideways at you, waiting, apparently, for the laugh that always used to come easily enough when you were younger, some rhythm built into you both from years of practice.

It didn't come.

You kept your eyes on your lap, on the small, useless motion of your own fingers twisting together, and said nothing at all.

Satoru's mouth twitched, some joke half-formed and abandoned before it reached his lips. He watched you for a beat too long, the playful cast of his expression flattening at the edges, though he didn't press. He simply exhaled, long and theatrical, and shifted closer across the tatami until his shoulder nearly brushed yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him even through the space you'd left between you.

"Hey," he said, softer now, though the lightness hadn't entirely left his voice. "You're quiet."

You didn't answer that either. Your hands stretched and then balled up in your lap, and then deciding to pick at the sleeves of your yukata.

"C'mon," he inquired with that gentle yet playful cadence, and then deciding to seat himself next to you, long legs stretching and folding out before he found it a comfortable position. "Tell me what's on your mind."

You craned your head to look over at him from its hung position, you felt nothing but pity when you looked at him, even when there was a small hint of a smile pulling at his face. He really had jewels for eyes, but his pupils were swallowing most of it with how dilated they were.

And just as much as you felt pity for him - this situation he was forced into - you felt the pull of searing anger. Everything reminded you of why you wanted to leave in the first place. You just wished you could've brought your sister with you too - maybe she would've been alive, talking to you about the wedding plans she had envisioned when she was younger.

"Satoru," you began, your voice slightly hoarse and cracking, "I'm sorry - this is just. God, I'm sorry."

His head perked up, his eyes moving in small movements across your face, you would've questioned the confusion washing over his expression, but perhaps he was already used to everything; fear and loss. You could only imagine how he had taken the news of your sister's death; whether he allowed himself to mourn if his clan didn't.

"What - wait," he stalled with a slight panic before leaning closer to you, you hated the fact that your vision warbled. "Don't be sorry, nothing is your fault." And then adding when a moment of silence stretched: "It's okay, it's alright. This is just - this is what they're like, how it's like."

You laughed, though it came out wrong, wet and broken somewhere in your throat before it could finish becoming a laugh at all.

"How's it like, Satoru? How does anyone explain how it's like to lose - "

You stopped yourself before the sentence could finish becoming something crueler than you meant it to be, something that would land on him too, because he'd lost her too, hadn't he. Whatever complicated, engineered version of loving her he'd been handed since he was ten years old, he'd still lost her.

"I don't know how it's like," he admitted, and for once there wasn't a joke folded into it, no deflection waiting in the wings.

His hands were doing something restless in his lap, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve the way he used to when he was younger and trying to look like he wasn't listening as closely as he was.

"I don't - I'm not gonna pretend I know what you're feeling right now. That'd be stupid. I just know it's not your fault. None of it is. Not the - " he gestured vaguely, encompassing the room, the elders long since filed out, the entire architecture of the arrangement pressing down on both of you, " - not any of this. You didn't ask for this any more than I did."

You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth, aware of how close you were to losing whatever tenuous grip you had left, and hating yourself a little for it, hating that after everything - after thirteen years of building a life specifically constructed to be far away from all of this - you were still capable of falling apart in a room in the Gojo estate like nothing had changed at all.

"Hey," Satoru said again, softer this time, shifting closer on the mats. "Hey, don't - c'mon, don't do that."

"I'm not doing anything," you said, except your voice cracked directly through the middle of the sentence, betraying you completely, and the first real sob broke loose before you could stop it, ugly and involuntary, the kind that arrived from somewhere lower than your throat.

"Oh - okay. Okay, yeah, you're definitely doing something." There was a beat of him clearly panicking, of him visibly deciding what to do with his hands, and then he simply gave up deciding and pulled you into him instead, one arm sliding around your shoulders and the other coming up against the back of your head, guiding you against his chest with more certainty than the fumbling moment before it had suggested he possessed.

The hug felt exactly like it had years ago. That was the thought that arrived first, absurdly, before grief had the chance to fully take hold - the same too-tight grip, the same refusal to loosen even slightly, his arms locking around you.

Except back then you'd been the one holding on, the fifteen-year-old boy stiff and furious in your arms on a gravel driveway, and now it was reversed so completely you almost couldn't stand it, his chin resting against the crown of your head, his hand pressed flat and steady against your back like he'd done this before, like some part of him had been waiting thirteen years for exactly this.

You cried into his chest for longer than you were proud of. Somewhere in the middle of it you became distantly, mortifyingly aware of the picture you must have made - thirty-two years old, sobbing into the front of a twenty-eight-year-old man's shirt like a child who'd scraped her knee, while he murmured things against your hair that didn't amount to much of anything, just soft, wordless sounds meant to fill space, the occasional "I know" or "I got you" that didn't mean anything and meant everything simultaneously. You felt, distinctly, like the child in the room. He was the one holding steady. He was the one who hadn't fallen apart, not visibly, not yet, and you weren't sure if that was strength or if it was simply years of practice swallowing things whole before anyone could see.

Eventually the crying wore itself down into something quieter, hiccupping breaths and the occasional tremor, and you pulled back just enough to press the heel of your hand against your eyes, feeling how swollen and raw they'd gone, how sore the skin felt already.

"God," you managed, sniffling, attempting something like composure and falling well short of it, "this must feel gross for you."

Satoru blinked. "What?"

"This." You gestured weakly between the two of you, your voice still thick and unsteady. "Crying all over you too like this. It's - I don't know, it's a lot."

He lifted one finger, like he was about to deliver a lecture on something painfully obvious. "Crying's normal. It's healthy. I cried when Future Gohan died."

You laughed - a real one this time, weak and watery, dragging your sleeve across your eyes. "No, I mean - " you tried again, shaking your head, "marrying me. This whole thing. It's got to feel like marrying your grandma, or something close to it."

He went quiet.

It wasn't the kind of quiet that preceded a joke. It was longer than that, heavier, his expression settling into something you didn't immediately recognize on him.

"I never thought of you like that," he said finally, and his voice had dropped into a register you hadn't heard from him yet. "Not once. Not as - old, or whatever you're trying to say. Not as anyone's grandma." He paused, and his eyes seemed to fix on you with an intensity that made you want to look away and unable to.

"Satoru - "

"I'm not saying anything," he said quickly, too quickly, the old deflecting rhythm trying and failing to reassert itself, some ghost of the teasing grin flickering weakly at the corner of his mouth before dying out entirely. "I'm just saying you're wrong. About the grandma thing." His hand hadn't left your back. It stayed there, steady, thumb moving once in a slow, absent line along your shoulder blade, like he wasn't entirely aware he was doing it. "I've thought about you a lot of ways over the years. That's never once been one of them."

You stared at him, unsure what to do with your face, unsure what to do with any of it.

The silence stretched long enough to become something else entirely.

You looked away first.

You weren't sure why - only that his eyes had taken on a quality you weren't equipped for. You focused on the far wall instead, the faint grain of the wood paneling, the pale light coming through the shoji screen, anything that wasn't the weight of his hand still resting against your shoulder blade.

"It's late," you said finally, uselessly.

"It is," he agreed. He didn't move.

The clan's letter had arrived three days after the formal meeting. Not hand-delivered this time - left on the low table in the room you had been assigned in Satoru's residence, as though someone had simply walked in while you slept. You'd unfolded it over your morning coffee, still half-asleep, and had to read the second paragraph twice before the language settled into meaning.

It was not a request. It wasn't even framed as one. The phrasing was precise and bloodless, the kind of language that had clearly been drafted, reviewed, and agreed upon by multiple people who regarded the subject matter as administrative rather than human.

Something about continuity of lineage.

Something about the particular urgency given the current holder's age and the window of optimal - you had stopped reading at optimal.

There was a date circled at the bottom of the second page. Clean, black ink. No explanation accompanying it, as though none was needed.

You had sat with the letter in your hands for a very long time.

The date on the letter was today.

You were acutely aware of that when Satoru slid back the door to the room that evening, shrugging out of something and rolling his neck the way he always did when he'd been sitting too long in formal company. He was in lighter clothes now, the structured formality he wore around the clan traded for something easier - a plain dark shirt, the collar open, hair a little disheveled. He looked, irritatingly, entirely comfortable in his own body in the way he always had.

"God, I was beginning to think they were never leaving," he said, dropping onto the cushion across from you. He reached for the small cup of tea you hadn't finished and drank from it without asking. "I could actually feel my will to live leaving my body during the last hour. Like - physically. There it went."

You watched him.

His ears were pink.

Not flushed red, not dramatically so - just faintly, at the tips, the way skin goes when blood comes up too quickly. He was talking a little faster than usual, his hands not quite settling anywhere, picking up the empty cup, setting it back down, pushing it slightly to the left and then back again. He met your eyes and then glanced to the side and then met them again.

He knew what day it was too.

"Satoru," you said.

"Mm."

"We need to talk about it."

A pause. His jaw shifted once. "Talk about what?"

"You know what."

He was quiet for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth came up in that familiar curve, the one that bought him time.

"I have no idea what you're referring to. You're going to have to be much more specific, I'm afraid, I have a lot going on mentally - "

"The letter," you said. "The - whatever they called it. The window."

The word landed the way you'd intended it to. His expression flickered for half a second before the performance reasserted itself, though it sat less easily on him now. He picked up the empty cup again and set it down again.

"Right," he said.

"I've been thinking," you started, keeping your voice level. "There are other ways. Medically. A surrogate - or insemination, there are clinics that handle exactly this kind of - "

Satoru laughed. Not unkindly, but genuinely - a short, startled sound that dissolved almost immediately into something more rueful.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm going to need you to picture the faces in that meeting room if I walked in and proposed clinical insemination as the solution to the Gojo heir situation." He tilted his head, performing consideration. "Actually, do picture it. Take your time. I want you to really see it."

Despite everything, something almost like a smile caught at the edge of your mouth.

"I'm serious," you said.

"So am I. Genuinely. Gramps would have a spiritual crisis. The older one - you know the one, looks like he was personally there for the Heian period - I think he might dissolve." He paused. "Besides," he added, more quietly, the joke thinning out at the edges, "that's not - it wouldn't be proper. They wouldn't accept it. You know that."

"That can't be the only reason," you said.

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes had drifted to somewhere around your collarbone, and he redirected them with what looked like a conscious effort.

"It's not," he said simply.

The room felt smaller than it had a moment ago.

You looked at him - the line of his jaw, the faint tension in his shoulders beneath the relaxed posture he was performing, the way his hand on the table had gone still with something that wasn't quite calm.

"I don't know," you said. "I keep thinking - this just feels wrong. Like I'd be taking something from you." You chose the next words carefully. "You should do this with someone you love, Satoru. Not because a room full of old men circled a date on a calendar and handed it to you."

The silence that followed was a different kind from before.

He didn't laugh. He didn't deflect. His mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again, and nothing came out for long enough that you watched the muscle in his jaw work once, twice, some internal argument resolving or failing to resolve behind his expression.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter, and the performance had gone out of it almost entirely.

"I'm not a kid," he said. "I know what I'm doing."

Some misguided instinct toward lightening to conversation made you raise an eyebrow.

"Do you?" you said, and it came out gently, genuinely meant as a joke, the kind of thing you'd have said to him at fifteen to ease the tension between you.

Satoru's lips pushed against yours after, kissing you.

No preamble - no warning, no gradual leaning in. He closed the distance between you in one motion and his mouth was on yours before either of you had fully processed the decision, warm and a little clumsy at the start, startled by his own momentum. You went completely still. Your hands, which had been folded in your lap, stayed there, suspended.

It lasted only a few seconds before he pulled back slightly - not away, just enough to breathe, his forehead nearly against yours, his eyes open and searching your face with an expression that held nothing of his usual armor in it whatsoever.

Your heart was doing something extremely impolite in your chest.

"Satoru - " you started.

He kissed you again. Slower this time, more certain. His hand came up to the side of your jaw, careful and then less careful, and you felt yourself lean into it slightly before your brain fully caught up with your body.

When he broke away that time his composure had lost the battle entirely. His face was deeply, helplessly red, from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, and his breathing had picked up in a way that he was clearly and unsuccessfully trying to conceal. But his hand stayed where it was, fingers warm against your jaw, and his eyes didn't leave yours.

Then his other hand found your waist.

It started careful, but the restraint slipped almost immediately, and what followed was less a seduction and more the collapse of something that had been held under pressure for a long time. His hands moved to your back, your hips, pulling you in with an urgency that bypassed graceful entirely. His fingers caught in your hair, your name half-formed in his throat.

"Hey - " you managed.

He didn't stop. His mouth found the side of your jaw.

"Satoru. Wait - "

Still moving, fingers pressing gently at your lower back.

"Okay - " you pulled back slightly, getting a hand between you, pressing lightly against his chest. Your face was so hot you could feel it in your ears. "Slow down, Casanova."

He stopped.

Immediately, completely - hands going still where they were, not withdrawing but not pressing either, just suspended mid-motion like something paused. His forehead dropped forward until it nearly touched your shoulder, and you could feel him exhale - one long, unsteady breath against the fabric of your clothes. He didn't move for a moment.

Then he lifted his head.

His face was extraordinary. Not embarrassed exactly, though the red had deepened considerably, but caught between two things he couldn't quite reconcile - the obvious, visible wanting that he was apparently done pretending wasn't there, and something else, the part of him that had always paid attention, that had always been better at watching you than you'd noticed.

"Okay," he said. His voice was rougher than it had been. He cleared his throat, which did very little. "Okay."

A pause.

"Do you want me to stop," he asked, low and direct, the joke entirely gone from his tone now, "or just - slow down."

His hands were still resting at your sides. Present, patient, making no assumptions.

The room was very quiet. Outside the shoji screen, somewhere further in the house, something creaked and settled.

You looked at him - flushed, undone, still watching you with an attention that had nothing casual left in it - and you took a breath.

And then you didn't say anything for a very long time.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable exactly, or maybe it was and you were just too overwhelmed to register discomfort as a distinct sensation on top of everything else. Your heart was going at a pace you were fairly certain was medically notable, loud enough that you were briefly grateful he couldn't hear it.

You were trying, very carefully, to sort through the tangled mess of what you were feeling - because there were at least two separate things happening and they were not the same thing, and it mattered that they were not the same thing.

There was the clan. The letter. The circled date and the bloodless language about lineage and windows, the whole machinery of expectation that had been running in the background of your life since you were thirteen years old and a white envelope had arrived and changed the shape of your future without asking. That thing made you feel small and managed and profoundly exhausted, and whatever you did tonight, you did not want to do it because of that.

And then there was - this. Him.

Satoru, sitting close enough that you could still feel the warmth of his hands even though they were barely touching you now, watching your face.

You were still working through this when Satoru made a sound beside you.

It was not quite a groan. It was the close relative of one - something swallowed halfway, bitten back, but not quite successfully. You glanced over to find him sitting rigidly upright, jaw set, staring at the far wall with the expression of a man practicing extraordinary self-restraint and finding the exercise deeply unpleasant.

"You're killing me," he said. His voice had gone slightly strangled. "I just want you to know that. Factually. For the record."

You blinked. "Satoru - "

"I don't wanna wait any longer." He said it quickly, turning to look at you, and caught whatever was on your face immediately, hands coming up in a gesture of surrender. "Not - that's not - I don't mean it like that. I'm not - " He exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand through his white hair and succeeding only in making it worse. "I mean I don't want to keep pretending. I don't want to do this because some ancient panel of miserable old men put a date on a piece of paper. That's what I mean."

He dropped his hand. Looked at you sideways.

"The waiting is still also genuinely going to kill me," he added, quieter. "But that part's not your problem. Just - stating it."

Despite everything, something close to a laugh escaped you before you could catch it. Nervous, a little strangled, barely qualifying as a laugh at all - but real.

"You're unbelievable," you said.

"I've been told." He turned toward you more fully. "I just - you should know it wasn't nothing. For me. It wasn't the clan, or the arrangement, or - any of that. It was never that."

You looked at him. Something in your chest did something complicated.

"I'm sure it was obvious," he said, and his voice came out flatter than it probably should have, like he was trying to make the words matter-of-fact and they weren't cooperating. "I liked you. Always have."

The nervous laugh came again, and this time it had a slightly desperate quality. "Satoru, come on."

"I'm not joking."

"You were a child," you said, hearing your own voice tip toward something almost pleading, like if you said it plainly enough it would reorganize the facts into something more manageable. "I was practically - you treated me like a sister. Like family."

His expression shifted.

It was subtle, and it was very specific, and it was the kind of shift that told you clearly he was deciding something - weighing it, measuring the distance between what was true and what was safe to say out loud, and coming to a conclusion that surprised even him.

The silence lasted long enough that you almost filled it.

And then he said it.

Quickly. Slightly strangled. Eyes wide and the color in his face gone from flushed to something approaching catastrophic.

"I masturbated to a photo of you practically every night."

You did not move.

You were fairly certain you stopped breathing.

"There was a photo," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, like he was trying to get them out before he lost his nerve entirely. "I know it's going to sound bad, but you went to the beach with your sister, and there was a picture of you in a - the bikini."

He stopped. His jaw worked silently for a moment.

"I kept it," he added, and the admission seemed to cost him something. His face went from flushed to a shade of red that looked genuinely painful, like all the blood in his body had decided to relocate to his cheeks at once. "I'm going to stop talking," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, and closed his eyes like he was genuinely considering whether he could will himself out of existence through sheer force of embarrassment.

You opened your mouth.

"Okay," you said, a little too quickly, your mind reeling with excuses, justifications. "Okay, well - you know. You were a boy. You go through puberty. That's - I mean, that's completely normal. That's just - that's a normal thing that happens."

You were aware, even as you said it, that you were reassuring yourself more than him.

Satoru's expression screwed up. Not embarrassment exactly - something more like frustration, like you'd handed him the wrong answer and he was physically pained by it. His brow furrowed, his mouth pulled to one side, and for a moment he looked so much like the fifteen year old who'd twisted his face when you said something he didn't like that your chest did something strange and complicated.

"I wanted to kiss you," he said flatly.

You blinked. "Satoru - "

"Not in a - " He exhaled hard through his nose. "I'm talking about - " He stopped. Pressed his mouth shut. Started again, slower, like he was choosing each word with more care. "I wanted to be with you."

"Okay," you said carefully, "I hear you, but my sister - "

He shook his head once, not unkindly, but firmly. The way someone shakes their head when they are done letting a conversation go in a direction that avoids the point.

"I wanted you," he said.

The words were quiet. Direct. Not performed, not rehearsed - just true, sitting in the open air between you with nowhere to go.

"I wanted to get my hands on you. I wanted you to be mine." His voice dropped slightly, losing the last traces of the playful register he usually hid behind. "When the arrangement came, the new proposal. I made sure it would be you."

You didn't say anything. Something about the last few words he uttered sat with you in a way that made alarm bells ring in your head.

And then he moved.

Not fast, not dramatically - just a slow shift across the tatami, closing the distance between you in the unhurried, deliberate way of someone who had already decided and was simply waiting to see if you'd stop him. His white hair fell forward over his face with the movement, shifting across his eyes, and he didn't push it back. He just kept moving until he reached you, until there was nowhere left to close, and braced himself there - one hand settling beside yours on the tatami, close enough that his warmth registered against your skin without quite touching it.

You leaned back instinctively.

Your hands found the floor behind you, palms flat, holding you up as you put what distance you could between your face and his without actually moving away. There was still space. He hadn't taken it. He was just - there, close and flushed, his hair half across his face and his eyes somewhere between earnest and absolutely unbearable, and he was not pushing further. He was waiting.

"Can we please continue," he begged, his voice a whisper.

You think your thoughts began to cloud with red, one idea - a horrible idea - sitting between it all in plain sight.

"Satoru," you said. "Did you - did you arrange this? The marriage?"

He didn't answer.

The silence stretched a beat too long, then another, and something cold started climbing up the back of your neck. You watched his face for the easy denial, the scoff, the what, are you kidding me that should have come immediately if the answer were no. It didn't come. His mouth stayed shut. His eyes, still close to yours, went carefully, deliberately still - not blank the way a child's face goes blank when it doesn't understand a question, but blank the way a door goes blank when someone has already decided not to open it.

"Satoru."

"They can't say no to me," he said finally. Flat. Matter-of-fact, the way he might have told you what he'd eaten for breakfast.

The dread didn't hit all at once. It arrived the way cold water finds the gaps in your clothes, slow and total, filling in everywhere at once until there was nowhere left dry.

"That's not - " Your voice cracked on it. "Satoru, that's worse. Do you understand that's worse? Think about how that sounds. Think about how I'm supposed to feel, hearing that."

"I did think about it." He said this plainly too, like an accusation of thoughtlessness was the one thing he refused to accept. "I thought about you. About this. For a long time."

"That's not the same thing."

"You'll - " He stopped, started again, more careful this time, like he was choosing the words for how they'd land rather than how true they were. "You'll learn to like it. I'll give you everything. Anything you want. As long as I have you."

You felt your stomach drop somewhere below the floor.

"Satoru, that isn't - you can't just - " You shook your head, grasping for the one thing that had to still mean something to him. "My sister. She was going to marry you. She - "

"I could've cared less about your sister." He said it without heat, without even the decency of cruelty, just plain and even like he was correcting a small error in your understanding. "The only thing I liked about her was that she looked like you. In some ways."

You went very still.

There was a ringing that started somewhere behind your ears, high and thin. You thought, distantly, that you might actually be sick - that your body might simply decide this was too much information to hold and reject it the way it would reject bad food.

"Satoru." Your voice didn't sound like yours. "That is my sister."

He didn't flinch. That was the part that undid you - not the words themselves, which were already enough to hollow you out. As though none of it had ever once occurred to him that this might be a monstrous thing to say out loud.

You started to pull back. Away from him, away from the warmth of him at your side, away from the whole shape of what you were only now beginning to understand had never once been a coincidence - not the letter, not the timeline, not any of it.

Something shifted in his face. A tightening around the eyes - not anger, not yet, but something that was waiting just behind patience.

"I don't - " you began. "I need a second, I need to - "

You moved to put your hand on his chest, to press back, to put even a few inches of deliberate space between you and the particular expression he was wearing. Not to push him away entirely. Just to breathe.

Your hand stopped.

Not because you chose to stop it. Not because he grabbed your wrist or blocked you. It just - stopped, a few centimeters from the fabric of his yukata, as though the air between your palm and his chest had quietly thickened into something solid. Your fingers stayed spread. Nothing hurt. You simply could not close the remaining distance.

You stared at your own hand.

You pressed forward, gently, experimentally. The resistance held.

"Satoru."

He hadn't moved. He was watching you with an expression that was very careful and very controlled, and that was somehow worse than anything else he could have done. His jaw was set. There was a quality to the space around him now - something still, something sealed, the dust near the hem of his yukata hanging at an angle that made no sense with the air in the room.

"Did you just - " You pulled your hand back slowly. Tested the edge of it. The invisible resistance gave as you withdrew, returned when you reached forward again.

Infinity.

The word surfaced with a cold, clarifying horror. You knew what it was. You had grown up in the orbit of this world long enough to have heard the stories, to have understood, in an abstract way, what the particular ability meant. That nothing reached him unless he allowed it to.

But it worked both ways.

For a moment, silence filled the room, a dreadful length of silence that made you wonder if you were dreaming everything.

And then, his mouth opened, his tone cautious and words punctual.

"I made sure that it wasn't painful - for her."

His voice was quiet.

It was also the most frightening thing he had said to you all night.

You lowered your hand to your lap. You kept your eyes on his face as horror began to sweep over your features.

Something in him flinched. Barely. A small contraction around the eyes, a tightening of the mouth that looked like the beginning of an apology and then stopped being one.

His hand lifted slowly. One deliberate movement, palm open, like he was trying to show you he was not holding a weapon.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "I'd never hurt you."

The air between you stayed still.

You stayed still.

Neither of you moved. Your eyes darted to where the hallway was, just behind the thin screen - just a few steps away. Your hands tensed on the floor, before your legs began to unwind themselves in one quick and panicked movement. You raised yourself, your eyes leaving his the moment you stood and darted towards the shoji screens.

Just as quick as you stood up to ran, barely getting in a half-step, an invisible and crushing weight engulfed your body. An invisible force pushing you down within seconds, your hands falling in front of you to cushion the fall, leaving you on all fours and the tremor of adrenaline coursing through every vein in your body. The force increased on your back like sand being loaded onto you, the air around you sounded like static.

"You'll forgive me - you will," he mumbles breathlessly as he comes up behind you, his figure engulfing yours. The words sounded more as though he was speaking to himself than he was to you. "You'll have to."

Everything happened so quick you barely had an opportunity to fight it - not that you'd be able to as he exploited the restraining force of Infinity. Your clothes stripped off of your body in one quick movement, his face had the pointed focus, every once in a while daring to look up at you before he shed his own clothes after. He cooed with wet kisses, when the tears began to roll consistently down the sides of your face, wiping them away with his hands that felt rough at the fingertips, soft at the palm.

The same fingers that would dip below the band of your underwear, experimentally prodding the lips of your cunt as is just wanting to feel the plushness of it. You hated how a bloom of red settled onto his face when his finger ran along the inner lips, sliding with enough slick and ease that made your heart pound harder.

His cock twitched in his own boxers, you could see the horrifying outline of it, the flushed and bulbous tip peeking out from the top. You could see the beading of pre-cum before slowly dripping down the head and collecting on his boxers.

It wouldn't fit.

Your muscles ached with energy, wanting to move, practically tensing with the sheer need to squirm. And yet you laid there, frozen by nothing, your hands pinned above your head.

Then, slowly, very slowly, he pushed a finger against a ring of muscle, pushing against his finger with a wet resistance. The force made something hot pool in your belly, feeling the muscles in your legs wanting to ripple with a shiver. You bit down hard on your bottom lip as he pushed with a bit more force, breaching it, and immediately feeling his finger pump against your walls eagerly. The room filled with the smallest hint of squelching alongside your muffled moans. You were sure your bottom lip was bleeding, just as bright and red as your face was, realizing that your body was betraying you.

He watched your face despite it all. His eyes obviously watching your lips with rapt attention, and then he'd look back down. Slowing his pace before adding another finger, pumping faster.

"Does it - ," he huffed out between a heavy and hot breath as he fucked his fingers into you with a brutal yet keening force. "It feels good, right?"

He met your face once more, looking at you with pure black swallowing blue. He looked manic if anything, as if he was the happiest man alive.

You whimpered before another sharp moan left your mouth, your bottom lip feeling too raw before being overshadowed with the slick drag of his fingers.

"Fuck," he muttered with a small groan.

There was one last drag against your walls, his fingers leaving your pulsating heat. Within one motion he had shimmied his boxers off with a feverish manner, his hands twitching with the movements when his cock bobbed against his lower abdomen. Needle thin hairs leading down into a tuff of white.

"I'll make you feel really good," he said, his hands gripping the meat of your thighs as he situated himself between your legs.

He ran his hands along your skin, momentarily gripping your waist before sliding back up to your legs. He gripped onto them with a bruising force, pushing them upward into your chest, your body folding into a mating press that had you wincing from the stretch of muscles trying to accommodate the position.

"We have to produce a heir," he said. "I'll make sure that it sticks."

A strangled sob left your mouth, something similar to a beg as his thumb pushed his cock between the folds of your cunt. His cock felt wet, even wetter than you did, rubbing along the inner lips with ease. You could hear it. The tip occasionally catching onto something when it dipped just enough, pushing against it. Your eyes widened in fear, the sheer pressure of only his tip teasing against the resistance was enough for you to realize that it'd be too much - he would not fit - he shouldn't.

"God, you're going to be so - " he cut himself off with a sound between a moan and a whimper as he pushed the tip in. " - so tight. Fuck."

He was going to split you in half. Tear you.

Your cunt fluttered as he attempted to push more of his length in, his cock twitching as he agonizingly scraped against your walls, meeting a slow resistance. Visible sweat began to perspire along his forehead as he attempted to completely sheath himself inside of you.

And when he did, completely bottoming out, you couldn't help but let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Your chest tightening and arms sore from its restlessness, but even worse, the shiver of pleasure running along your spine as his cock kissed all the right spots, the tip grinding into your cervix.

"I love you," he said breathlessly, his chest rising and falling as he met your eyes. "I love you so much."

The heat from the skin of his pelvis leaving you as he pulled away before snapping his hips forward with a sharp intensity. His head fell forward, an audible gasp before he repeated the movement, faster and harder.

It wasn't long before he developed a rhythm - a brutal pace in both speed and force as the slapping of skin filled the room. Your moans strained, but rivaling the sounds as every sticky kiss from the tip of his cock to your cervix had your skin pricking with heat. Something warm boiling at the pit of your stomach.

He began babbling amidst it all. Mindless words that you didn't want to pick up, repeating "mine" like a curse, "my wife", or small breaks between your name and "I love you".

The worst is when he forced your legs closer to your chest, impossibly folding your body into yourself more than you thought it could take. The lower half of your body no longer touching the floor as he pummeled. Contorting and holding your body in any way he wanted with ease.

"I can't wait," he managed to say, voice rough but coherent as he watched your face. "You're going to look so good - so, so fucking good when you're finally round with my baby."

You wanted to cry. Instead, everything went white at the edges, your vision fraying into static as sensation outpaced thought, his pace quickening, each movement harder and more erratic than the last. Something warm began to well around his cock, the plush and slick walls tightening like a vice around him.

"Fuck," he breathed, voice cracking. "Take it - all of it."

Something in him seemed to break loose, all at once. His whole body went rigid before folding forward, a broken sound leaving his throat like relief and devastation at once.

Satoru didn't move away. He stayed close, his breath ragged against your skin, white strands damp and stuck to his forehead. You felt hollowed out, wrung through, your body sore in ways you couldn't yet name and your mind refusing, point-blank, to catch up with what had just happened.

Your breathing fell into a similar rhythm with his, although his pants much heavier as if trying to intake as much air as possible.

Your hands still pinned above your head, muscles pulling to curl your fingers and expecting to meet resistance from his Infinity.

Your fingers curled despite it, moving freely with ease, as if nothing had been there to hold you the entire time.

Your family had returned for New Year’s Day, as tradition demanded. The visit was meant to be informal, where tea is shared and acknowledgments of another year passed. No elders were present this time. Only Naobito, a few siblings from both sides, and the quiet gravity that came with standing at the threshold of a new year.

While your parents were escorted inside to greet Naobito properly, you lingered at the gate with Naoya.

“Let’s go to the temple,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitated only a moment before nodding.

The path to the temple was already worn smooth by countless footsteps, the stone steps dusted with a thin layer of snow that hadn’t yet melted. You slowed as you reached the torii gate, the quiet broken only by the faint chiming of bells and the voices of visitors offering their prayers. The air smelled of incense and clean winter air.

The line to the shrine moved slowly, a quiet procession of visitors wrapped in coats and scarves, breath blooming white in the winter air. Snow lingered at the edges of the stone path, packed down by countless footsteps, and the low sound of the bell carried softly every few moments as people finished their prayers and stepped aside.

You stood beside Naoya, hands tucked into the sleeves of your kimono, shoulders brushing. Ahead of you, a couple waited together, whispering something that made the girl laugh softly before they reached the offering box. You watched them without meaning to, and felt envious that they were just a normal pair of lovers.

“Do you want to pray?” you asked Naoya, tone gentle.

Naoya followed your gaze, eyes flicking briefly toward the shrine before returning to you. “Sure,” he replied with a smile, when the line moved forward and you stepped closer to the shrine, he followed without protest.

When it was your turn, you reached into your purse and took out a five-yen coin, and Naoya produced one of his own. The two of you dropped your coin into the offering box, then grasped the thick rope together to ring the bell. 

You and Naoya simultaneously bowed deeply once, straightened, then bowed a second time. You brought your hands together and clapped twice, the sound crisp in the winter air, then let your palms rest together as you lowered your head.

You prayed for good exam scores and to make it into a good college. Although you wanted to ask for a good marriage and husband, you felt like things of that sort did not matter to be prayed for anymore.

Beside you, Naoya remained still. You didn’t know what he prayed for, but you definitely had an idea. 

You stepped aside together, letting the next people approach the shrine, and only then did your attention drift to the nearby stall lined with omamori. They hung in neat rows, fabric charms in soft colors and careful embroidery, bright against the muted winter tones.

“Naoya-kun, let’s go look there,” you took his hand to drag him along, and he let out a laugh and followed.

You moved closer, eyes scanning them instinctively. Your gaze lingered on omamori marked for luck in passing entrance exams. As you looked, Naoya stepped away as something else had caught his eye.

After contemplating for a while, your hand moved to go reach for it.

“Y/n-chan!” Naoya’s chirpy voice stopped your movements, and you turned around to see Naoya walking back to where you stood.

He held out his hand, palm open, showing a pretty red omamori with stitches of birds. “I got you one for peace.”

You blinked, then your face brightened all at once, the happiness showing immediately. “For me?” you asked, even though the answer was obvious.

He clicked his tongue lightly. “Who else?”

You accepted it with both hands, bowing without thinking, fingers curling around the fabric as if it might slip away. “Thank you,” you said, smiling so wide it almost felt embarrassing.

Naoya watched you for a moment, something like quiet satisfaction softening his expression. “You really are easy to please.”

“Only when it’s you,” you replied, then flushed faintly, quickly tucking the charm away into the inner pockets of your kimono.

Side by side, you left the shrine grounds, snow crunching softly beneath your steps, the omamori warm against your chest and your heart lighter than it had been when you arrived.

When you and Naoya returned to the estate, the servants lead the both of you to where the guest entertainment chamber, where the sliding doors were already open, revealing the courtyard beyond. Tea had been set out. Plates of traditional sweets rested neatly on the table. Naoya’s father, Naobito, sat at ease with his tea cup in hand, watching the two of you arrive with a fond expression.

You knelt properly beside Naoya as conversation drifted around you, and your families talked about the weather, the new year, and small updates on current events. Steam rose from your cup of tea, and you sipped it to get warm from the cold.

At some point, Naoya set his cup aside, and looked to his father as if sending a signal. Then Naoya turned his head to look at you.

“Y/n,” Naoya said, addressing you first, gaze steady. “Will you spar with me?”

You turned toward him, surprised by the directness. “…Now?” you asked.

He replied, “it would be appropriate.”

You knew what his implications meant, as did everyone else.

Naoya shifted his attention then, inclining his head toward your parents with the same composed respect he used when asking for something he already believed would be granted. “If I may have your permission, I ask to spar with your daughter.”

The air changed immediately.

To suggest a formal spar like this in front of your parents means Naoya is asking for your hand in marriage. Naoya knows as much as anyone here that in order to marry a daughter from your clan, the man must beat her in a sparring match, conditions being what the parents decide.

Naobito’s eyes gleamed with interest, a grin tugging at his mouth as he let out a low chuckle. “Oh?” he said, clearly entertained. “That’s rare.”

“It concerns Y/n, so I must take this seriously,” Naoya replied evenly.

Your father folded his hands behind his back, expression thoughtful, measured. “You’re suggesting a formal spar,” he said, contemplating with a hum.

“Yes,” Naoya answered.

Your mother’s fingers tightened around the edge of her sleeve. “Is that really necessary?” she asked quietly, her voice gentle but uneasy. And you knew it was not because she did not want you to spar, it was because she was concerned you would lose too badly. 

Naobito laughed, sharp and amused. “Necessary?” He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s tradition for the L/n clan, right? My son has to be good enough for your daughter.”

Your father exhaled slowly, eyes moving from Naoya to you. “They grew up together, yes, but I’m not sure my daughter can measure up to him now.”

The words weren’t meant to be degrading, it was meant to be out of concern for you.

Naoya was pushing you to a corner to accept this, and if you decline you lose face, and everyone will know you can’t win and Naoya will have your hand in marriage. If you fight him and lose, then you lose face and Naoya is still able to marry you. Whether you fight or not fight, it doesn’t matter.

You wouldn’t be able to win against Naoya, you know it. So there’s not a scenario in your head where you win.

You lowered your gaze for a moment, contemplating before straightening your back, and looking your parents in the eyes. “If this is what is expected and unavoidable, then I would love to spar,” you said calmly.

Naoya looked at you then, truly looked at you. Although Naoya knew he pushed you into a corner, hearing you accept was of his wildest dreams. He convinced himself his feelings were already returned. After all, how could it not? The two of you grew up together, and spent so much of your youth together.  

Naobito clapped his hands together, sharp in the cold air. “Good. No weapons. Hand to hand combat. Let’s see how you’ve both grown.”

And your parents agreed to the terms.

The venue was the nearby training courtyard that was cleared quickly, snow crunching softly underfoot as space opened between you. You changed from a kimono to a hakama like Naoya, wearing his opposite colors.

Both families watched from the sidelines, and many of Naoya’s older siblings appeared to watch.

You took your place opposite Naoya, the cold seeping through your ankles, trying to stay calm despite the way your heart pounded.

How long has it been since you sparred or even killed a curse? Last year? Two years ago? You can’t remember.

Across from you, Naoya loosened his sleeves, unable to hide his confidence.

He said teasingly, “You don’t need to force yourself.”

You let out a faint, humorless breath. “You don’t want me to force myself, but you still proposed to spar?”

All you saw was him at this moment, the white snow behind the two of you blanketing the garden felt so distant. You wondered if he was understanding the expression of defeat on your face right now, and you pressed your reddened lips together to hold back from saying more.

“Yes,” he replied. “I did.”

You set your stance, hands raised. The winter air felt sharp in your lungs as you shifted the way you inhaled, the silence heavy from the audience.

Your father cleared his throat, addressing the rules politely, “The rules are: no weapons, whoever either gets knocked out of the boundary line, loses consciousness, or surrenders first will lose.”

Are you striving to win? You found yourself asking that question to yourself as your eyes traced the boundary line behind Naoya. 

Years ago, when one of your older sisters was going to be engaged, she smiled and yielded in her sparring match, as if she had never stood a chance to begin with. She hadn’t even tried, not because she couldn’t, but because trying had never been the point. 

You inhaled slowly, feeling the air settle in your lungs, and made the decision quietly, firmly. You would give it your all. If you lost, then you would lose honestly. 

Naoya moved first.

His cursed energy shifted sharply, the telltale snap of Projection Sorcery rippling through the space as his movements fractured into precise, accelerated frames. To anyone else it would have looked like he vanished and reappeared, but you saw it so clearly. 

You were never strong in physical strength, or talented in combat techniques, but all you had was speed to make up for your shortcomings.

You reacted on instinct, pivoting just as his presence snapped back into place in front of you, the wind of his movement brushing your sleeve.

You clashed immediately, your speed matching his. Your foot slid over the gravel as you twisted aside, his palm narrowly missing your shoulder as he redirected himself again, movements clean and efficient, never wasted. 

He wasn’t striking to hit you, you could feel that much. Instead, he aimed to guide your momentum toward the edge of the circle, trying to force you out of the boundary.

“You’re hesitating,” he said under his breath, not taunting.

He didn’t dare to actually hit you. 

You surged forward, fists cutting through the air toward his ribs. He blocked every strike with ease, forearms snapping into place, cursed energy reinforcing his movements as he stepped into your space. His hand shot out and caught your wrist, twisting just enough to threaten a lock, pressure biting into your joint.

You reacted without thinking, letting your body go loose for a split second, slipping free before the hold could set. You spun low, sweeping past him, but he adjusted instantly, Projection Sorcery carrying him ahead of your movement, palm slamming into your collarbone with controlled force.

The impact knocked the air from your lungs.

You skidded backward, boots scraping harshly against stone, the boundary of the circle flashing dangerously close. At the last moment you twisted sideways, letting your body tilt with the momentum instead of fighting it, one hand brushing the ground as you kicked off hard and lunged back in, closing the distance before he could reposition.

Your fist connected and slammed into his side just beneath the ribs, cursed energy flaring instinctively as the strike landed. You felt the impact shudder through both of you.

Naoya staggered half a step.

The sound he made was sharp and unmistakable, a cough torn from his chest as blood flecked against the snow-dusted stone.

Your heart lurched, since when have you ever hit him? And when you did, you felt guilt wrack through you.

For a second, you hesitated, hand half-raised as if to reach for him. 

That moment cost you everything.

His eyes sharpened, focus snapping back into place, and he moved before you could recover. His palm struck your shoulder with force, his Projection Sorcery amplifying his speed just enough to send you flying backward. 

You stumbled as your heel slid over loose gravel, and you were unsuccessful in burning yourself back up.

You fell hard outside the boundary line, the cold knocking into you as you fell onto your side on the ground. Your breath heaved and half expecting to be coughing up blood like Naoya, only you didn’t.

The match was over, you lost.

Naoya was at your side instantly, dropping to one knee, one hand braced behind your back as he helped you sit up. “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, his hand coming up to smooth over your cheek. No one deserved his kindness other than you.

You looked at him, breath still uneven. “You’re bleeding,” you said, eyes fixed on the faint smear at the corner of his mouth. “Did I hurt you badly?”

He shook his head once, “No, I’m fine.”

Applause rose around you, and approval in your family's voices murmured praise. They complimented how capable you both were, how impressive the exchange had been, and how Naoya had clearly won. Your parents nodded in approval, your siblings watching with expressions you couldn’t quite read.

Maybe if you had trained more, you would have beaten him. Maybe.

Thus, you tried to reason with yourself that this doesn’t mean anything. 

Naoya helped you to your feet, an arm wrapped around your waist and hand resting on your hip. Now he deserved to hold you like this, because he won the fight.

You stood there, listening to the sound of clapping fade into the cold air, knowing something no one else would say aloud.

You had given everything you had in the fight, while he held himself back from really doing anything. Within ten hits from him, you would have surely died. Likewise, within twelve hits from you, he might have died.

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

It was mid-February, and graduation was only a month away. The thought sat heavily in your chest now, that you will be finishing your third year of high school, and going to college. Such a life was something you never imagined you would have had ten years ago. 

After school on Friday, you went straight back to your apartment to change clothes, turning down the offer to go shopping with your friends in Shibuya. 

You headed to Tokyo Station as evening settled over the city, boarding a bullet train to head back to Kyoto.

You wanted to see Naoya. You wanted to tell him about your graduation next month, about the college you’d chosen, and how the two of you can be together soon in a few years. You planned to ask him if he would come to your graduation.

Naoya’s side of the estate has its guest entertainment chamber, where the low lacquered table was set for hot tea, and the tatami mats always looked new.

You felt like you were dressed far too nice to just come and see him, but Tokyo girls taught you that if you were going to be seen, then you must be seen properly. 

Your own family’s idea of proper was an expensive kimono, and they almost forced you to wear one when they heard you were going to go see Naoya. Instead, you arrived from the bullet train straight to the Zenin Estate to see Naoya, with minimal makeup that enhanced your features, and wearing a pink blouse with a long black skirt. 

You’ve been in his wing of the estate countless times growing up, but today the atmosphere feels heavier, as though the space itself is holding its breath.

You were seated beside him at the table, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed when you shifted. You could feel the warmth of him without looking. He could have sat across from you, but he had chosen not to. One of his knees angled subtly toward you, his sleeve grazing yours when he moved. 

The sliding door behind you was already closed, improper for a meeting between just the two of you.

“You’re graduating soon,” Naoya said at last.

You nodded, “My graduation ceremony is next month, actually.”

His voice was even, calm, the way it always was when he believed he was in control of a situation. “Have you thought about what you’ll do after?”

You nodded, fingers curling faintly in your lap. There was a strange pressure building in your chest, a sense that the timing of this conversation was wrong in a way you couldn’t quite articulate. “I’m going to go to-” You never finished the sentence.

“We should marry,” Naoya said.

You stared at him, a bit speechless.

“I’ve spoken with my father and the other clan elders,” he continued calmly. “Your family will agree. We’ve known each other our whole lives. You’re strong enough to stand beside me, and you’ve already proven you won’t embarrass the clan.”

Your heart began to race with a slow, sinking dread that settled heavy in your stomach.

You were about to graduate, had already chosen your college, and mapped out your entire career. Being married to Naoya was something only after all of that, but now you felt like he would not give the opportunity for you to accomplish any of that.

“On the fifteenth of May is a great day, it’s the most auspicious time,” Naoya told you with a smile.

You drew in a steadying breath. “I can’t right now, Naoya.”

Naoya paused. “What do you mean?”

The air felt brittle, like one wrong movement would shatter something neither of you could put back together. You hadn’t planned for this to be cruel, but there was no gentle way out.

“Can you just wait for me a little longer?” you said quietly. “We grew up together. I care about you. You’ve always treated me better than most- I know that, but I can’t. I don’t want this life with you right now.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent.

Then he huffed out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving, his arm lifting to drape around your shoulders as if the familiarity itself could correct you. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, “that’s not what this is about.”

“It is to me,” you replied, slipping out from under his arm. “Ultimately, I don’t want to marry into the Zenin clan, but if I have to then give me a few more years.”

The faint smile on his face vanished.

“But do you want to marry me?” and Naoya sounded heartbroken. “I used to tell myself that as long as we get married in the end, then I would be happy. But that was when you were at my side and where I could see you.” But what if you start to like someone else? How many more years does Naoya need to wait, and hope someone better than him won’t take you away?

You needed to force yourself to say that you had no feelings for him, yet you could not bring yourself to. “Naoya, don’t make things difficult for me,” you whispered.

“I’ve waited so long for you, don’t you understand?” Naoya asked in a soft, pleading way. “I know how women are treated in my clan, I’m not blind. But I thought you understood that my position changes that for you. Please, Y/n, I don’t want to make you have difficulties, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

There was something wrong in the way he looked at you now. Naoya wasn’t angry, but his expression looked like he was desperate. You never seen anything like before, and it made your heart twist in guilt.

“I thought you understood,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. “I’ve always wanted an ordinary life. I never cared about clan matters or being a sorcerer, it may sound selfish, but I don’t have anything I want to do as a sorcerer.”

“That’s the problem.”

“What?”

“You’ve always been wrong about that,” he continued, leaning closer, presence pressing in. “You’re not ordinary. You never were.”

A chill crawled up your spine.

“I’m not saying I am ordinary,” you insisted. “I knew what I was giving up when I left, including the choice to not marry you.”

“You chose to waste yourself,” Naoya snapped, composure finally cracking. “I watched you throw away everything you were given just to play house with people who’ll never understand you. You were more talented than any of your siblings, you could have been a powerful sorcerer. Why couldn’t you have been satisfied with that? I have been in love with you for my entire life, but you still chose to not acknowledge my feelings.”

You shook your head, placing a hand against his shoulder and pushing him back firmly. “If no one understands me, then do you understand me?”

Naoya shook his head in denial. “I want to, but I don’t understand why you can’t admit that you love me.”

“Naoya,” you continued, “believe it if you want, and if you don’t believe it then it doesn't make a difference. You can’t decide on my marriage anyways.”

He stared at you as if you’d said something fascinating. “You really don’t think I can? I’m taking you as my wife,” he continued, voice low and unwavering. “If that means doing it right now, I will.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You really think,” he went on, “that after everything- after knowing exactly what you are- I’d let you walk away just because you don’t feel ready?”

“Naoya,” you said softly, his name slipping out the way it always had, “would you really be happy if I were your wife?”

Once, long ago, you had loved him. Maybe the seven-year-old version of you would have been thrilled to hear this. But you weren’t that version of yourself anymore. You and Naoya had become different people, too different.

“The way you are,” Naoya said, leaning into your space, “I love you.”

You turned your head away, but his hand came up to caress your cheek, fingers tilting your face back toward him.

“You can hate me if you want,” Naoya murmured, breath brushing your skin. “No matter what you do, in the end we will be married, just like we talked about when we were kids.”

Your heart pounded. “Naoya-”

His smile sharpened. “I love when you say my name in that voice.” His eyes were dark now, focused with frightening clarity, all pretense of restraint stripped away. “You owe me a love debt.”

Then he leaned in, his lips kissing upon yours.

His grip tightened as he guided you backward, the tatami meeting your back, making you gasp softly into his mouth.

Naoya braced his weight carefully, one hand planted beside your head, the other sliding to your waist as if to anchor you there. His presence was overwhelming, all controlled strength and simmering restraint finally allowed to break. 

When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours, his voice a quiet, dangerous murmur. “You’re not pushing me away, you’re finally not leaving, right?” 

His pupils were blown wide with happiness, each exhale and heavy, like he was savoring the fact that you were finally within reach, unable to ignore him anymore.

“Even if I love you, Naoya, I don’t want to change,” you breathed out, tears burning at the corner of your eyes.

“Y/n, you weren’t an ordinary woman. You had the status and a background of a noble lady.”

“So what? It’s too late, I don’t want to go back.”

But Naoya did not want to listen, and leaned down to kiss you again, this time more desperate and claiming. 

His mouth moved against yours with an urgency that bordered on worship, as if he were trying to show just how much he wanted you after all these years. The kiss deepened not because he forced it, but because you kissed him back. His hand slid higher at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your blouse as though to remind himself that you hadn’t vanished yet.

Naoya kissed you like someone terrified of being abandoned again, every press of his mouth desperate in a way that made your chest ache. 

He was trying to convince himself this was real, that you were finally choosing him. 

And for a heartbeat, you almost let yourself believe it would all work out. 

Your fingers tangled in his bleached hair, pulling him closer as if proximity alone could erase everything that felt wrong. Your heart raced with your own longing. You kissed him back more recklessly, as if trying to drown the doubt rising in your chest. 

His breath shuddered at the response, a gasp escaping him, and he leaned fully into you, trusting you in every way.

Then you opened your eyes.

This wasn’t love the way you had dreamed it would be. It was too unfair to Naoya.

Your hands stilled.

Naoya felt it instantly. “Y/n?” he murmured, breath still warm against your mouth, his voice unguarded.

“We can’t do this, Naoya,” You pressed your palm flat against his chest and pushed.

He didn’t resist at first, startled more than anything, enough for you to slip out from under him and rise to your feet. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you smoothed your skirt with shaking hands, the sensation of his touch still burning on your skin.

“This is wrong,” you said, voice unsteady but firm. “I shouldn’t have let this happen, I'm sorry.”

Naoya sat back on his heels, staring up at you in heartbreaking confusion. “You kissed me back,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, tears finally spilling over despite your effort to hold them back. “That’s why I have to leave, it's not fair to you if I can't keep my word.”

You grabbed your purse with trembling fingers, slinging it over your shoulder as if the weight might calm you down even a little bit. 

“We can’t do this anymore,” you continued, forcing the words out before you completely lose your sanity. “If we keep meeting, it will just keep hurting you.”

Naoya watched you with an expression you couldn’t quite name, something wounded and calculating all at once, as if he were memorizing the entirety of this moment too. His hands rested loosely in his lap, knuckles pale.

“…So this is you leaving again,” he concluded.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

Then, finally, you turned and slid the door open.

You didn’t look back when you walked away.

And Naoya let you go, not because he accepted it, but because he knew it wouldn’t matter if you left or stayed.

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

It had only been two weeks since you fled back to Tokyo.

You had barely begun to settle into the rhythm of city life again, and finishing your final month of school, a message had come from your family.

Your father has passed away.

The words didn’t make sense at first, until the meaning caught up all at once and knocked the breath from your lungs. There was no time to process it properly. 

You were summoned immediately, urged to return to Kyoto at once. Grief and urgency were tangled together so tightly that you could not separate them, and before the shock had time to clam down you were already on the bullet train.

By the time you arrived at your family’s estate, night had fallen.

The place you had grown up in felt unfamiliar under mourning lanterns. Pale silk lights lined the stone paths, glowing softly. 

You were guided to the main hall by quiet servants in a rush.

Inside, the elders of your clan were already assembled, seated in a careful semicircle that left no room for disruption. Your siblings and cousins knelt in order of age, dark robes pooled neatly around them, their expressions blank. You took your place among them automatically, knees settling against the tatami, hands folding in your lap.

Only then, forced into stillness, did the weight of your father’s absence finally press down on you.

His portrait rested at the front of the hall, incense burning steadily before it, smoke curling upward in thin wisps. 

Your great uncle cleared his throat.

“We will now read the final testament of the late head of the L/n clan,” he announced, his voice a bit crackly from his old age. “All present will listen.”

“First,” your great uncle read, “in accordance with bloodline, capability, and the consensus of the council, the position of clan head shall pass to the fourth son.”

Your fourth brother bowed immediately, his forehead touching the floor in respect. You watched him from the corner of your eye, expecting to see a bit of surprise or hesitance from him, but found none. 

“Second,” your great uncle continued, “the remaining duties, lands, and financial responsibilities shall be divided as follows-”

Names followed along with titles and obligations, and your name did not appear. You listened, but the words washed over you without anchoring, your mind still caught on the image of your father’s portrait, the steady burn of incense that would not falter even now.

“There is one final matter. In order to secure the future of the clan and strengthen longstanding alliances,” read your great uncle, “the late head decreed that his fifth daughter, L/n Y/n, shall be wed as primary wife to Zenin Naoya of the Zenin clan.”

The hall remained utterly still just the same as when the previous decrees were issued. Yet, you felt like your ears were deceiving you.

No one turned to look at you, as though this had already been accepted long before.

“All arrangements are effective immediately,” your uncle concluded. “The formal wedding ceremony may be scheduled at a later date.”

If you had not already been kneeling, you would have collapsed.

Your breath caught painfully in your chest, the edges of the room blurring as the weight of it all pressed in at once.

It wasn’t until much later, when the majority of the lights in the estate were off, that you sought your fourth brother out in his room.

The two of you rarely talked, if at all, but you were almost sheathing in anger and you had to ask him. You didn’t bother with knocking on his door or dealing with the formalities.

He looked up as you entered, guilt flickering across his face before he could hide it. “Y/n,” he said quietly.

You closed the door behind you and snapped, “Why was my marriage written into Father’s will?”

He exhaled slowly and gestured for you to sit. When you didn’t move, his shoulders sagged.

“It was discussed when father fell ill,” your fourth brother said. 

“With whom?” Your throat tightened, “because he never told me… Even in my own marriage I can’t make the choice.”

“It was more of a practical decree, because the Zenin clan is powerful and Zenin Naoya is committed to you,” your brother replied, eyes lowering. “You know father just wants you to be happy, and mother right now is in depression. I also want you to be happy, so me and Zenin Naoya came to an agreement."

“You... you conspired with the Zenin clan?” You whispered, horrified.

His face changed, just for a moment.

“You killed Father, you and the Zenin clan?” you breathed, unable to believe your conclusion, but it was the only thing that made sense. 

He moved fast, crossing the room and covering your mouth with his hand, eyes sharp with a glare. “Lower your voice,” he hissed. 

Your heart pounded violently as he released you.

“This was the only way,” he sighed. “Succession would have torn the clan apart. Father refused to step aside. This ensured stability, just understand for once.”

You stared at him, horror blooming slowly. Not just at what he’d done, but at how easily he justified it. You couldn’t bring yourself to say it was wrong or incorrect, because if you were actually involved in your clan then maybe you would side with him as well. 

“What about my marriage?” you asked, your voice barely holding together. “That was part of a deal you made with Naoya? All for your positions to be ensured?”

“No, Zenin Naoya just helped me kill father, he knew about the clause of your marriage already,” He hesitated, then added, almost pleading, “This was still Father’s wish, it wasn’t something only Zenin wanted, and I’m sure you knew.”

You understood that the only thing Naoya and your fourth brother did was to accelerate your father’s will. In the end, it was all for the name of the clan, but at least Naoya did love you. So, you tried to see the positives.

“I… I understand,” you gritted out.

If it was your fathers last wish, then so be it.

You stepped back, the lantern light blurring as tears finally spilled over. Succession had hollowed something rotten in your family, turning blood into leverage, and unfortunately you were standing at the center of it and taking the aftermaths.

“Don’t cry, Y/n, Zenin Naoya already decided on an auspicious day for the wedding,” your fourth brother tried, and he patted you on the shoulder in an attempt to comfort you.

You already knew that, though.

“Then… Then I will follow everything you have planned, clan leader,” You bowed your head down.

In a sense, you always knew you would have to come back home to deal with clan matters, and perhaps one day never leave them again. You just did not expect it to be so soon. 

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

The next morning still came, and life moved on within your family’s estate.

Servants moved through the corridors as they always did, footsteps soundless against the wooden floors, sliding doors opening and closing. Someone rang the bell to mark the hour. Somewhere, water was being drawn. Somewhere else, incense was replaced on your father’s altar.

Life continued, but some were still in mourning, like your mother who closed herself off to the world after your father’s passing.

For you, Tokyo still existed, as did your apartment and the rest of your high school third year. Your classmates would still be sitting at their desks, counting down the final weeks to graduation, and you should do the same.

You stepped into the corridor, dressed in plain clothes.

A servant stopped you before you reached the outer hall, bowing low. “If you intend to leave the estate, Lady Y/n, you must first inform the head of the clan.”

“What? I have to inform my brother now about where I go?” You snapped, irritated.

“It’s just what the clan head ordered, please don’t take it out on us servants.”

So you turned, feet carrying you down a familiar path that no longer felt like yours, toward the study in the east wing. The door was half-open when you arrived. Inside, your fourth brother sat behind your father’s old desk, scrolls and documents neatly arranged before him.

“I’m returning to Tokyo,” you said, standing just inside the threshold. “I need to collect my belongings and finish school.”

He didn’t look up at you right away. His pen continued to move, annotating a document as if you’d commented on the weather. “You won’t be going,” he replied calmly.

You took a step forward. “What?”

Only then did he lift his gaze, looking at you not as your fourth brother, but as the new head of the clan. “I’ll have people sent to your apartment,” he stated, “they’ll retrieve whatever you require. Your school will be notified of your withdrawal.”

“Removing me from school when I’m about to finish? Are you crazy?” You gasped.

“Since when have you ever spoken with tones like that? You certainly have changed.”

You frowned and looked to the side.

Your brother shook his head, “Your position has changed, after father's will was put into effect, you aren’t part of the L/n clan anymore.”

“Since father’s will? Are you slapping my face? I am still here, if I can’t leave then I am a part of this household,” you replied in disbelief, anger boiling under your skin. “I haven’t married Naoya yet, and you’re saying I’m out of the family?”

He regarded you for a moment, something like pity flickering and vanishing just as quickly. “Sister, you are Zenin Naoya’s wife in name and standing. That supersedes everything else.”

“I don’t care, he’s not my husband!” 

“You no longer fall under the jurisdiction of the L/n family,” he continued persistently, voice rising. “Until the wedding ceremony, you will remain here. After that, you will move to the Zenin estate.”

You closed your eyes briefly, steadying your breath, as if your anger hadn’t made you speak out of turn enough. Pleading would also achieve nothing.

“Then let me see Naoya,” you asked. “I want to talk to him.”

Your brother hesitated, “He doesn’t wish to see you right now.”

Of course. This was Naoya’s punishment towards you. You swallowed, bowing your head just enough to maintain dignity. “Fine, then I’ll wait.”

Your brother studied you for a long moment, then nodded once. “He did send something for you, it’s your wedding clothes. I saw it myself, there’s peonies and other flowers embroidered on it. You should go try it on, and if any adjustments need to be made, then I will forward the request to him.”

“No need,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the way your throat burned. “I’ve seen enough.”

Your brother inclined his head, accepting the refusal without argument.

You turned away.

As you stepped back into the corridor, the weight of it all finally settled into you. You were only eighteen, and just two weeks ago you had been worrying about exams, about graduation photos, about if you should leave your hair down or tie it into a ponytail. You had a whole life to still live, and now you’re going to be married off.

Halfway down the corridor, soft footsteps followed you.

Your little sister lingered just behind your shoulder, her presence small. You weren’t sure how long she had been standing outside the study or how much she had heard, but you didn’t have the energy to care. She reached out and tugged lightly at your sleeve, the way she had when you were both younger and she wanted your attention.

“Hey, sis,” she said, tilting her head up to look at you. “Why aren’t you happy about getting married? I thought you liked Zenin.”

You let out a breath that was half a huff, half a laugh, stopping just long enough to look down at her. “I can’t even decide my own marriage,” you said, the words slipping out sharper than you intended. “Of course I’m mad.”

She blinked, absorbing that, then hummed thoughtfully as you resumed walking. After a moment, she brightened, as if struck by an idea she thought was clever.

“Then why don’t you run away?” she suggested, “like in the TV dramas, where the bride always runs away when she doesn’t want to get married.”

For just a second, an image formed in your head of you running away, never looking back. How free would that feel? It was almost laughable, in reality.

You didn’t tell her what running away would actually mean, it was always easier said than done. Naoya would find you, and your family would hunt you down.

“There’s no running from family duties,” you stated, "there’s more to gain if I marry Naoya, he’s going to be the head of the Zenin clan one day. Our family needs more partnership than ever right now, after all our older siblings married smaller clans.”

She went quiet at that.

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

The wedding ceremony felt brief, due to your anxious heart unable to relax.

The path of pale stone that led toward the temple seemed far shorter than it ever had before, as if the distance had been folded inward by fate itself. Cherry blossoms drifted down from the trees in soft showers, petals brushing your sleeves and Naoya’s shoulder. At the height of spring was when Naoya decided the most auspicious day was, and indeed, it was the beautiful sight you have ever seen.

You walked beside Naoya.

Not a single glance was spared upward, not because you did not wish to look, but because you were too scared to even mess up any of your steps. To the guests gathered along the path, it must have looked perfect.

The temple gates stood open.

The bells rang once, deep and resonant, and the murmurs of the crowd faded into silence. Each step you took echoed faintly against the stone, and you began to see the peak of the altar.

Offerings had already been arranged with careful care, there was rice, salt, sake, and folded paper charms marked with prayers for continuity and strength. Everything had been prepared in advance, everything in order and perfectly done according to tradition.

You and Naoya knelt together.

The priest’s voice rose and you drowned out his dialogue, only hearing your name being spoken, then Naoya.

You lifted the sake to your lips, hands steady despite the faint tremor in your chest. The liquid was warm and the burn lingered on your tongue. You and Naoya both did it three times. With each exchange, the vow was for heaven, earth, and humankind; past, present, and future.

When the final cup was set down, you were officially married. 

Outside, the wind stirred.

Cherry blossoms fell more heavily now, petals gathering at your feet like offerings of their own. Somewhere among the guests, a soft sigh was released. Somewhere else, someone whispered that the scene was beautiful.

Naoya rose first, then offered you his hand.

You placed your palm in his without hesitation. His hand was warm, and a side of you did feel happy that you finally married him. You and him, married at last.

As you stood together and walked outside beneath the blossoms, framed by the temple gates and the watching sky, you enjoyed the beautiful cherry blossoms that brought upon spring. “Naoya, do you still remember that year when you carried me up temple stairs?”

“Of course I do,” Naoya replied softly, then he held your hand.

For a bit, you felt very happy, that you could look away from all the wrongdoings he committed. 

Naoya’s eyes drifted away, before looking back at you with wavering guilt. “I’m sorry, Y/n-chan, I didn’t want you to leave me again. I won’t give you the chance to either.”

That decision came quietly, only two days after you moved into the Zenin estate.

The statement Naoya issued to the clan was delivered without much explanation, and he did not need to provide a good explanation either. 

He stood before the elders with his back straight and his expression composed, and no one asked questions, especially when it came to a woman they did not care about.

“From this day onward, the north wing of the Zenin estate shall be guarded by my command. The lawful future wife, L/n Y/n, of the Zenin household shall reside therein under my protection and governance,” Naoya stated, “Lady L/n shall no longer be summoned to clan assemblies, ancestral rites, or any public or private engagements without my permission or word, due to her poor health. From this moment forward, she is not to leave even half a step out of the Northern Wing of the estate, and will stay until she dies.”

No one objected, although no one believed your health was fragile, they just assumed Naoya wanted to lock you up in a twisted romantic way. In truth, that was technically the case.

And so it was decided.

Already imprisoned in the north wing of the estate, you were only informed of the fact by Naoya after the fact.

You were leaned into his arms, as he gently ran his fingers through your hair as if to coax you. 

“You will live here forever,” he said simply. “Everything you need will be provided.”

You said nothing.

“I told them you are unwell,” Naoya whispered. 

“You think keeping me here will change anything?”

“I wouldn’t have taken such a dangerous route if I did not love you,” said Naoya, “if it weren’t for you. I wouldn’t have worked with your brother. I wouldn’t have gone that far. Do you think I wanted to kill your father? I did it so you could finally be mine.”

The word felt wrong in the air between you.

“You will stay,” he said. “You will remain my wife until the day you die.”

He reached out then to straighten a loose fold in your sleeve, the gesture intimate.

“Even if you keep me here my entire life, will you really get what you want in the end?” You asked sadly. 

“You belong here with me,” murmured Naoya desperately, “what I want is you, all of you.”

And his hand reached up to caress your cheek gently, admiring how you looked, your beauty cold and refined. 

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

“Won’t she kill herself?” his father asked, as though discussing the possibility of poor weather rather than a human life.

Naoya stood with his arms crossed, posture composed, eyes fixed on the garden beyond the screens. “She won’t,” he replied without hesitation. “Not while she can still see the outside sky from the walls.”

His father glanced at him, a bit skeptical.

“Even if all she sees is a courtyard,” Naoya continued evenly, “she will keep living. She believes freedom comes later. After a few years, she should be fine, and I’ll take her outside.”

And Naoya was right.

You spent long hours standing at the edge of the courtyard, fingers resting lightly against the cool wood of the railing as your eyes traced the height of the walls. You imagined streets you had once walked, train platforms humming with life, faces you would never see again. You imagined a future that no longer had a shape, only distance. Sometimes you wondered if it had ever truly been yours at all.

You never begged him to let you go outside, since you understood that he would agree only if you behave. 

Your family had not come. No letters. No protests. You were no longer their daughter, you were now only the wife of the future Zenin clan head.

Still, you couldn’t help but ask sometimes, “Can we go outside, Naoya?”

He had shaken his head gently, as if indulging a child’s misunderstanding, and pulled you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you with a familiarity that made your throat ache.

“Maybe one day,” Naoya murmured into your hair, voice soft, almost affectionate. “If you behave, dear wife.”

After that, the garden changed.

Naoya ordered peonies to be planted along the paths, their lush blooms filling the courtyard with heavy color and fragrance. He ordered magnolia trees to be moved from one part of the Zenin estate to his, where you would surely like to see it bloom. He told himself it would make you happier.

You only smiled faintly when you noticed them. So what if it’s a peony or two? Or even a lotus or cherry blossom? All flowers are doomed to bloom, fall, and whither. It was only a matter of waiting.

“Thank you, Naoya,” You said.

“You deserve the best because you’re my wife.”

It was beneath the magnolia tree that he found you later, the same one that had stood there since your childhood. Its branches were heavy with pink blossoms, petals drifting lazily through the air as the wind passed through. You were asleep at its base, leaning on the trunk, expression peaceful in a way that made you look like an immortal.

For a moment, memories of past years came back to him.

He remembered when you had leaned on your shoulder, flower petals falling all around you. Back then, everything was just more simple because you could ignore any problems or trouble you wanted. 

Naoya sat down beside you slowly, careful not to wake you. Without thinking, he leaned against you until your shoulders touched.

Even as children, he watched you trade your lessons in combat and traditional instruments for playing at the playground with your non-sorcerer friends, choose to go over to your non-sorcerer friends’ houses to play house instead of brightening your cursed techniques, smiling brightly when you talked about wanting a life that didn’t revolve around curses.

When you were both nine, he wanted get through to your head.

“You’re wasting time,” Naoya told you once, sitting beside you during a clan gathering (he chose to sit next to you instead of his father), expression sharp even then. “People like us don’t get to be ordinary. You’re talented too, so why waste your time with those people who can’t even see curses?”

You looked at him before looking down at the pretty food in front you. “I don’t want to fight curses, it’s a hassle,” you said it in your child-like, simple way.

Even as the two of you were both the same age, nine, he shook his head when your answer was unsatisfying, and said, “No, girls are supposed to follow behind their husbands,” he pouted, “I’m going to be heir one day, and you have to follow behind me.”

You hummed and tilted your head, “If I follow behind you, will you protect me?”

At that, he brightened up a bit, “Of course! You’re going to be my wife, I will protect you so you don’t have to do anything.”

You thought to yourself that you won’t even need to be protected if you just chose to have a normal life, plenty of people don’t fight curses and live happy lives. Like your school friends, who know nothing about curses or jujutsu, or the expectation of holding up clan values that felt so outdated.

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

When you and Naoya were both thirteen, the playdates and visits to each other were more orchestrated by yourselves instead of parents. He has gotten more brash, from what you could see, and always hated when you talked about your non-source or friends, so you stopped talking about them. 

“There’s some weird curse down at the river, I’ll show you!” Naoya held your hand, pulling you along.

The curse had crawled out of the riverbank like something embarrassed to exist, its form half-liquid, half-wrong, dragging itself over wet stones with a sound like breath pulled through rot. Naoya felt it before he saw it, cursed energy pricking unpleasantly against his skin as he clicked his tongue in irritation, already annoyed that this had been assigned to the two of you instead of something worth his time.

“Stay back, I’ll protect you,” Naoya grinned, fingers flexing as he prepared to strike. “I’ll handle it.”

But you didn’t care for him showing off because you just wanted that curse erased. “Such a pitiful thing, I’ll pray for the peace of the people it harmed,” you sadly lamented, and before Naoya could register your words, you had pulled a kaiken out from the obi sash of your kimono, revealing the blade of the small dagger. 

You moved when the curse lunged, your body flowing forward with the dagger in your hands as you brought it around and traced a clean arc through the air. Your kimono didn’t shift and not a hair was out of place, even the cluster of flowers and hairpins in your hair did not move. 

The sound that echoed was a soft whistle of air, and then the curse was no longer whole. One moment it was reaching to attack you, and the next it split cleanly down the center within one move.

The monster’s cursed energy unraveled in a quiet collapse that dissolved into nothing before it even had time to scream.

Naoya stood frozen, lips parted.

You straightened slowly, the kaiken’s blade tilting downward as residual cursed energy bled harmlessly away. Your expression was still that of a composed young mistress, you didn’t even look particularly proud of yourself.

“Is that it?” you asked lightly, glancing back at Naoya.

For a moment, Naoya did not know what to say.

Something hot and unfamiliar twisted in his chest, sharp and breathless and ugly. “You-” Noaya started, then stopped, frowning.

You tilted your head, curious. “Hm?”

He swallowed, eyes dragging over you in a way that made him angry at himself. You were beautiful like this, he realized suddenly, so beautiful and strong and unruffled, like you could kill anything in the world including him without batting an eyelash.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he snapped finally.

You blinked, “Do what, Naoya-kun?”

“Don’t move ahead of me,” he said sharply. “You’re not supposed to outpace me.”

Kids are easily impressionable and learn from adults, which is why slowly Naoya began to act more like his male relatives. Even as a thirteen year old, you knew that the rosy-cheeked boy you had a crush on back when you were both nine was gone. He was far from the man of your dreams now.

You stared at him for a second, then laughed softly. “I wasn’t competing, it wasn’t a competition, I wanted to kill it sooner because it looked like it was suffering.”

That answer struck deeper than any insult could have.

Naoya looked away, fists clenched at his sides, heart pounding with something that felt too much like awe and resentment tangled together. He told himself it was irritating because you outperformed him. 

But even then, even at thirteen, he knew the truth he would never say out loud. You were beautiful when you fought, you were strong and talented. It left him speechless and that’s when Naoya accepted that he fell in love with you, and only you. 

And the idea that you might choose a life where that strength and brightness was wasted-

That was the first thing he decided he would never forgive about you. 

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

Before you left for high school, you met with Naoya in the inner courtyard of his wing in the Zenin estate, sunlight spilling across the stone path and catching on the hem of your navy skirt as you twirled in place. You were smiling before he even looked at you, excitement buzzing under your skin, fingers fidgeting with the pleats of your uniform as if you couldn’t help yourself.

When Zenin Naoya finally lifted his gaze, his expression hardened from annoyance to disappointment.

The two of you are about to enter high school; he will receive a formal education in his clan, and you will enter a normal high school in Greater Tokyo, a school for students who worry about their grades instead of curses.

“A normal school?” Naoya scoffed quietly, eyes flicking over you, “you’re wasting your potential, Y/n-chan.”

You laughed, turning again, letting the skirt that reached your knees flare just slightly as you moved. In the sunlight, your hair caught the light and the subtle change you’d made became visible. You had dyed your hair a chestnut brown, instead of leaving it the dark black it once was.

“Hm, am I?” you asked lightly. “I’m still fighting curses. I just want to be an ordinary girl too. Isn’t that enough? Plenty of sorcerers go to normal schools, too.”

Naoya looked away, jaw tight, because he could not accept how happy you looked. He couldn’t believe you would even compare yourself to those no-name sorcerers that went to the normal schools. You were not just a regular sorcerer, you were a young mistress from an old jujutsu clan that had respect. Someone of your status should not be going to a normal non-sorceror school.

Naoya decided that your desire for a life that is so-called ordinary is wrong, after all, you were going to be his future wife. How could your life be anything but ordinary?

And yet, despite his words, you still left. You still went off to Tokyo for high school, to enjoy the city lights and train stations and unfamiliar streets swallowing you whole, leaving him behind in the estate that suddenly felt too quiet.

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

When you returned for summer break after the first semester, you barely recognized him at first when you arrived at his residence. 

His hair was no longer its natural black color, but dyed a dark blonde with small piercings glinting at his ears, catching the pale light. It was a look you’d seen before only on boys in the city. 

You stared, eyes beginning to sparkle. “Wow, was it me that went to Tokyo or you? You’re experimenting with style, Naoya-kun!”

Naoya stiffened, looking away to hide his awkward upturn of the lips.

“You look so cool, Naoya-kun,” you added, smiling at him the way you always had, “it suits you.”

You didn’t know, or couldn’t have known, that he had done it for you.

When you left, he had begun imagining the boys you’d meet. City boys with dyed hair and easy laughter, boys who walked beside you without knowing your surname meant anything at all. Boys who could touch your shoulder on crowded trains and call you by your first name without fear. Boys who didn’t need to be Naoya to talk to you like a close friend.

The thought had eaten at him.

So he changed himself, not because he wanted to be like them, but because he refused to be less.

Your compliment hit him like validation, intoxicating his ego, and that was enough to convince him that he was right in his method of keeping you within reach.

Naoya muttered, turning his head slightly, “Don’t get weird about it.”

You laughed warmly, already moving past him and talking about something else.

Naoya stayed where he was, fingers brushing one of the piercings absently.

Hours later, under the pink magnolia tree in the garden, the sky was softened by the early summer evening. Flower petals drifted lazily through the air, pale and weightless, falling all around you.

You had meant only to sit for a moment with Naoya, but before you knew it, your head tipped sideways to rest against Naoya’s shoulder, and you sighed quietly as you dozed off. 

Naoya stiffened at first.

He shifted just enough to make sure you were comfortable, careful not to wake you, as though the moment might shatter if he moved too much. After a while, he leaned into you in return.

Your hand lay between the two of you, and without thinking, his hand came down to cover it, palm warm against your skin. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles, a slow, absent movement, as if he could figure out your ring size.

For now, he stayed still beneath the magnolia tree, and told himself there was no need to rush. Summer was long, and there’s still a long time to wait for the right moment to propose marriage between the two families, yours and his.

And you had nowhere else to be other than Tokyo and his arms. 

Surely, you understood his feelings, and loved him back just as much.

In the second semester of your first year in high school, Naoya decided to come to Tokyo to seek you out under the guise of a mission.

Naoya appeared at your school gates the moment the final bell rang, and the iron gates slid open as students poured out in clusters, laughter and chatter spilling onto the sidewalk. Then there Naoya stood, leaning casually against the stone wall as if he belonged there, wearing a green kimono and grey hakama. 

Your phone buzzed in your school bag.

Zenin Naoya: Come out.

You stared at the screen for a second too long before sighing, fingers tightening around your bag strap. You sent a quick message to your club group about having to leave early, and followed the stream of students toward the gate.

You felt his cursed energy before you saw him, and as you stepped outside, you became acutely aware of how many eyes were on him. The girls slowed down to look at him a bit longer, and they whispered and giggled among their friends. 

Someone near the gate audibly gasped, and you heard your name carried on a breathy giggle.

“Y/n, wait,” one of your classmates chirped and caught up with you, grabbing your sleeve. “Isnt that guy cute? He’s just your type, wanna ask for his number?”

A group of five girls ran up to you, asking how you felt about the guy. One of them even mentioned that they wanted to flirt with him. 

“I want to get his number, he’s so cool!” Miki-chan gasped at the group.

Flirt? Get his number? But Naoya was your Naoya- he wouldn’t choose these non-sorcerer, plain, unrefined girls who can’t even use jujutsu as his wife.

Something in your heart skipped, and an unknown feeling of a hotness burned inside your heart. “Oh, he is… He is here for me. We’re going on a date.” A bit of regret hit you, because why did you claim that? That was a total lie but they ate it up anyways.

The girls squealed, half-disbelieving, half-thrilled, their eyes darting between you and Naoya like they were watching something unfold. 

You ran off and didn’t look at him as you reached where he stood, grasping his sleeve firmly and tugging him away from the gates before the attention could thicken.

“What are you doing here?” You asked calmly once you’d put some distance between him and the crowd. “I don’t think you came all the way here from Kyoto just to pick me up from school.”

Naoya glanced over his shoulder once, expression cool, eyes lingering a moment too long on the students still drifting past. There were those boys who had been looking at you only moments ago. Annoyance flickered across his face before it smoothed out again.

“Just checking on you, as per your family’s request because you don't call enough,” Naoya said lightly. “Seeing if you were doing fine at a school full of knuckleheads.”

You frowned. “Really? All the way from Kyoto for that?”

He hummed, dismissive. “Maybe I had an excuse.” And really, he wanted to complain that you don’t text or call him enough, if at all.

His strides matched yours without effort. His presence felt larger here, a bit out of place among convenience stores and crosswalks, like something old forced into a modern frame. He keeps thinking back to some of those boys from your school who had dyed hair.

After a few steps, his tone shifted.

“Who were those boys?” Naoya asked.

You glanced at him. “What boys?”

“The ones who were walking behind you,” he clarified, voice calm, eyes forward. “They seemed comfortable.”

“They’re just classmates,” you said, confused. “They were just walking behind but, uh, we weren’t walking together? I don’t really talk to them, they are second years.”

He stopped walking.

You took another step before realizing he wasn’t beside you anymore. “Naoya-kun?”

He looked at you fully now, expression unreadable, gaze assessing in a way that made your shoulders tense.

“Do they want to marry you?” He asked bluntly.

Your stomach dropped, and you were aghast with disbelief. “What? No?! I don’t even know them like- at all?!”

“I don’t like them, one of them looked at you,” Naoya said simply.

You stared at him, “Well, I think you’re over thinking it.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that it felt private despite the passing crowd.

“I came because there was a curse reported nearby,” explained Naoya, “you’re guiding me around, ‘kay.”

“Oh, that was it?” You tilted your head slightly, the tension easing out of your shoulders. “I thought maybe something important happened in your clan for you to visit all this way.”

Naoya watched you for a moment, eyes narrowing just a fraction as if measuring the sincerity in your expression. Then he looked away, gaze shifting toward the road ahead.

“The curse was reported in Ikebukuro,” he said instead, tone clipped, and showed you his phone that had the relative area’s address. “Near a bunch of old hotels.”

You nodded immediately, already adjusting your grip on your bag. “That’s not too far from here, let’s take the train.”

The two of you walked toward the station together, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. The city swallowed you quickly as traffic noise got louder and people started to leave work and school.

“I probably won’t be much help,” you said after a moment, almost apologetic. “I haven’t used my cursed technique in a while, or killed any curses, I’ve mostly been just focused on school work. I don’t have a cursed tool on me either.”

Naoya’s eyes flicked to your waist, to where he knew that your kaiken used to be there in the past, but now you gave that up as well. To you, however, you did not want to get caught with a knife in school, that could lead to expulsion.

“That’s fine,” Naoya replied coolly. “I’ll handle it.”

You smiled at that, relieved. “Thank you, I didn’t want to slow you down.” 

He scoffed softly. “You won’t.”

You didn’t notice the way his hand flexed at his side, or how his gaze lingered on the reflection of your face in the station windows as you descended the stairs into the station. To you, this was familiar, Naoya being blunt, a little rude, but reliable. The same older boy who had always stepped forward first, who had always insisted on taking responsibility whether you asked him to or not.

On the platform, you stood close out of habit, speaking quietly over the rush of air as a train passed through the station. You told him about your classes, about how different Tokyo felt depending on the neighborhood, about how you were still getting used to navigating it all after living your first year here alone. 

He listened without interrupting, eyes on you with a warmness that felt almost flattering if you noticed it at all.

“I’m doing great,” you added, as if to reassure him. 

Naoya hummed in response.

As the train arrived and you stepped inside together, Naoya thought of the way those boys had laughed behind you, of the way your friends had clung to your sleeve so easily, of how naturally you belonged here.

And he decided, quietly and without asking you, that it wouldn’t last because you simply shined brighter as a sorcerer. He was sure of it.

You got off the train together, the station emptying into the city and it took about ten minutes of walking before reaching the destination.

Heart-shaped neon signs weren’t turned on yet, but you could see the curtained entrances tucked discreetly between narrow buildings.

It was a district of host clubs and love hotels, which you don’t step into often unless needing to cross by. 

“Better during the day than the night,” you piped up.

At night is where places like these come to life, and it’s no wonder why this place would fester with a curse or two. 

Naoya noticed your pause and glanced around, unimpressed. “Let’s get this over with before it gets dark, then the prostitutes will start to come out.”

You nodded, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I know Shinjuku has an area like this, but I only come to Ikebukuro for the shopping mall.”

“If we don’t find the curse before nightfall,” Naoya added casually, “we could always stay in one of these hotels.”

You stopped short, then laughed, covering your mouth out of reflex. “Naoya-kun, you’re awful. Don’t say things like that so seriously.”

He looked at you sidelong, grinning. “You’re the one laughing.”

You shook your head, still smiling, and continued walking, missing the way his gaze lingered on you for just a second too long before turning forward again.

The curse made itself known a few blocks in.

At first it was just pressure that the two of you felt, a stagnant cursed energy clinging to the alleyways between hotels like damp fog. Then one curse crawled out from behind a dumpster, followed by another, malformed and twitching, their bodies looked like a twitching ugly swan.

“Multiple,” you murmured, stepping back.

Naoya moved immediately.

His cursed energy flared as he cut through the nearest curse without hesitation, exorcising it in a clean, brutal strike. Another followed seconds later, dissolved before it could even shriek.

You watched, feeling impressed but unsurprised. That was just Naoya, and you cheered him on with a lighthearted jest, “Woo, Naoya-kun is so fast!”

Then you felt it, a thread of cursed energy slipping away, retreating deeper into the alleyways.

“Naoya,” you said calmly, pointing, “one’s getting away. I’ll get that one.”

He turned to look, yet you were already moving first.

You didn’t carry your kaiken anymore, but your body remembered what speed felt like, your hand plunged into your school bag as you ran, fingers closing around a ruler.

You imbued cursed energy into the ruler while keeping an eye on the fleeing curse ahead of you. 

You closed the distance in seconds, arm moving in a clean, precise arc. The ruler cut through the air and through the line perfectly.

The curse split apart, unraveling mid-motion, dissolving before it hit the ground.

You stood there for a moment, chest rising and falling, then looked down at the ruler in your hand like you’d only just remembered what you were holding.

“I guess nothing really changed,” you mumbled to yourself.

Naoya’s eyes wide, seeing how his prior thoughts were proven correct: you shined like this even more.

Bright, skilled, terrifyingly suited to a world you insisted you didn’t belong in.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said at last.

You blinked at him. “Do what?”

“You shouldn’t use something like that as a weapon,” he replied flatly. “It’s unreliable. Come back to Kyoto with me, and we will find you a weapon that suits you.”

You smiled apologetically, “Sorry, Naoya-kun, maybe I’ll start carrying a box cutter around.”

He didn’t respond right away. His gaze lingered on you, something dark and possessive settling behind it.

Even without the blade at your waist, even pretending to be ordinary, you were still this dangerous and beautiful.

And Naoya thought that the world had no right to look at you like this, and let you walk away.

Not when you shined so brightly as a sorcerer.

“You’re wasting your talent here,” Naoya pointed out.

“I think I also have a talent for math and science, according to my grades,” you rebutted. “So how about staying in Tokyo for a few days?

“I have my own lessons tomorrow, I’m heading back soon.”

You frowned, “So soon? Naoya-kun showed up just to make me be a tour guide for an hour?”

Naoya shrugged then reached out his hand, beckoning you to come with, “My transportation leaves in two hours, so why don’t you show me around?”

You instantly brightened up at that, nodded and went to his side, your school bag swinging on your shoulder. “Mn! Naoya-kun is the best! Can we get parfaits?”

“Whatever Y/n-chan wants,” Naoya laughed.  

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

After your first year of high school, you came back to your clan’s estate to a dinner hosted for you. 

Dinner was loud in the way your family gatherings always were, voices overlapping across the banquet hall as family spoke over cups of sake or juice. Lantern light warmed the room, catching on lacquered wood and porcelain, and Naoya sat beside you on the tatami as if it was the most appropriate place to sit at, rather than next to your older brothers.

You were about to eat a piece of stewed lotus root, when your younger sister leaned forward suddenly, eyes bright with mischief. “Ah- speaking of school, mother,” she began, grinning, “did you know Y/n onee-san got so many love letters on White Day?”

The room paused for half a second before erupting into amused laughter.

“Oh?” one of your aunts chuckled, “my, my, is that so?”

You froze, chopsticks hovering midair, blushing a bit, “Well- it was only three.”

That was a lie, because it was actually ten love letters.

Your sister only laughed harder. “Boys kept giving her letters and chocolate, she even mailed some to me!”

Your mother smiled over the rim of her teacup, amused. “My, you’ve become popular.”

Another relative chimed in teasingly, “That’s what happens when you send a pretty girl to the city.”

You felt your face warm, flustered despite yourself. “It wasn’t like that,” you said quickly, “I rejected them all.”

That earned another round of laughter, but some people’s gazes flickered uneasily over Naoya.

“Well, at least she’s honest,” an uncle said.

Your younger sister raised her hand. “I want to go to a normal school, father, Y/n onee-san is having so much fun there!”

Your father laughed softly and shook her head, “Now the older ones are teaching the younger ones bad habits.”

Your mother glanced at you then, expression fond rather than scolding. “If there ever is a boy you like,” she added lightly, “just make sure he treats you well.”

You nodded, embarrassed but smiling, “Of course.”

Beside you, Naoya had gone very still.

You didn’t notice the way his hand tightened slightly around his chopsticks, the way his gaze flicked toward you and lingered just a moment too long. He didn’t speak until the conversation moved on, until laughter softened back into idle chatter.

Then, quietly, Naoya leaned to whisper, “You didn’t mention that to me before.”

You blinked and turned toward him, “Mention what, Naoya-kun?”

“The love letters.”

You hesitated, unsure why the question made you feel awkward all of a sudden. “They’re just letters.”

“Letters still mean something,” he insisted.

You shook your head gently. “Not really. Words are just words. I didn’t even read them.”

Naoya studied your face, as if searching for something beneath your calm explanation, something you weren’t saying. Slowly, his expression smoothed again, composure settling back into place like a mask.

You smiled at him. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

He didn’t smile back right away.

To Naoya, those boys being bold enough to write you love letters were proof that others were already reaching for what he considered his, even now, even while you laughed innocently beside him, unaware of how tightly his jealousy coiled beneath the surface.

Later that night, after the estate had settled into silence and the corridors dimmed to the warm glow of lantern light, Naoya came to your room.

He knocked politely enough to give you time to answer before he slid the door open at your invitation. Your room was simple and traditional, far removed from the modern apartment you kept in Tokyo, which he had only seen through the pictures you’d sent him before. Tatami mats stretched beneath your feet, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air, and your futon had already been laid out neatly to one side. A low vanity and its mirror rested near the wall, your hairbrush and a small bottle of oil set beside it, evidence of your routine winding down for the night.

Your hair was still damp, brushed smooth and gleaming softly where the overhead light caught it, the nice scent of hair oil being combed through your hair. You turned toward him with a gentle smile, still relaxed from the warmth of the evening.

Naoya stood just inside the doorway for a moment, as if taking in the scene and imagining it as a glimpse of a married life with you, before stepping closer. From within his sleeve, he produced a small dark wood box.

“I meant to give this to you earlier, Y/n-chan,” Noaya said, trying to keep his tone casual, and he slid the door shut after entering.

“Hm?” You hummed.

“I wasn't there to celebrate your birthday when you were in school last month, but I did get you a gift.”

You blinked in surprise, turning your head to face him. “Naoya-kun, you didn’t have to-”

“I know,” interrupted Naoya calmly, “but I wanted to.”

He sat down on the tatami without a mat, and handed you the box with both hands.

You accepted the box, fingers lifting the lid to see a jade hairpin inside, pale green and cool to the touch, with peonies carved at the end.

With a surprised expression, you said, “You still remembered that I liked peonies?”

“It suits you. Peonies are the queen of flowers, but I never really asked why you liked them.”

With a shy smile that reflected your joy in receiving such a gift, you looked up at Naoya to recite a poem in explanation, “‘The withered flowers still hold fragrance on the stems; they never surrender or fall in the northern wind’, I like peonies because of their integrity, because even in winter they are in full bloom.”

He nodded, adding on, “I always liked how they are spring and winter flowers, shining on their own even amongst snow.” But in truth, Naoya only liked them because of you.

You smiled brightly, delighted, and without hesitation you rose onto your knees, turning slightly toward the mirror. “Will you help me put it in?”

“I don’t know how,” he admitted after a beat, almost embarrassed because he couldn’t fulfill your request.

You laughed softly. “It’s easy, I’ll show you how I do it, then.”

You guided him closer, settling back down on the tatami. You lifted your hair, gathering it loosely, and gently took his hand, placing it where it needed to be. His fingers were warm against yours, unfamiliar in this careful, domestic closeness.

“Like this,” you murmured, guiding his hand.

Naoya followed your movements with intense focus, shoulders tense as if afraid of doing something wrong. His fingers brushed the nape of your neck by accident, and you flinched faintly, though you didn’t pull away. With your guidance, the pin slid into place, securing your hair neatly into a half-up half-down style.

When you looked up at the mirror, the jade rested perfectly, making you look radiant like a cold beauty when illuminated by the overhead light within your room.

You sighed, smoothing a strand of your damp hair, “See? You did it.”

For a moment, he forgot to look away.

The hairpin sat in your hair like it belonged there, as if it was to be yours from the beginning of time when that jade was being formed under the earth. “Yes,” he agreed, “It looks beautiful on you, Y/n-chan.”

Somewhere, quietly, you understood that a gift like this could be an intention to marry, or be a gift for betrothal. 

But you did not linger on the thought.

You told yourself it was simply Naoya being Naoya, he was raised in a tradition that clung to birthday gifts being more grand. If you acknowledged the implication, it would make the impending knowledge of marriage to Naoya that you weren’t ready to face. And so you smiled instead, choosing the safer interpretation, the one that let you keep pretending his feelings aren’t close to romance, and that he treasured you like a sister.

You aren’t ready to handle the reality that this might be the man you have to marry.

“Thank you, Naoya-kun,” you chirped warmly.

Noaya smiled and took the comb from your vanity, and began to comb out the bottom of your hair more, as the both of you admired the jade hairpin in the mirror.

“When I become the head of the clan, I’ll commission a kimono embroidered with peonies for you,” Naoya promised.

It wasn’t that he can’t do the same now, but the significance is that it would be the kimono which marked you as his wife. 

You thought back to when you were little kids, where he happily came to you after finding out he would be the next head of the clan.

(“Y/n-chan! Y/n-chan!” Naoya, only eight years old at the time, met with you in his courtyard, where his rosy cheeks were only overshadowed by his bright smile. “I’m going to be the next clan head! Me!”

Gasping, you jumped up in joy for him, “Naoya-kun is so cool! Really? You’re going to be the next successor?!”

Naoya nodded quickly, “Mn!”

But even as a child, you couldn’t ignore the jealousy festering in your heart. He was the youngest of his father’s sons, yet he was made the heir. That wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair.

There was no future for you here, you will just only ever be another daughter in your clan, struggling to live up to expectations that were too high and demanding. Is the only thing you’ll truly be good for is to be a chess piece for marriage? Marrying into the Zenin clan, at that. Where women were treated like servants? 

Is that why your family makes you interact with Naoya, a son from the Zenin clan? To marry him? 

“That’s great, Naoya-kun,” You clapped your hands.

Naoya was smitten as he took in your bright smile, and looked at the peony flower tucked in your hair. 

“When I become the head of the clan, I’ll commission a kimono embroidered with peonies for you,” Naoya promised.)

“Thank you, Naoya-kun,” you replied after pausing for a bit, not sure what you really wanted in the very end.

When he finished combing through your hair, you knew it was time for him to leave.

Yet, you so badly wanted to grab his hand and tell him to not go. After all these years, does he even understand you? Will he come to understand you even a little bit? Maybe f he does, then you would have no more hesitation in wanting to love him.

“I shall excuse myself, I’ll see you in the morning,” and he stood up, smoothing out his hakama and turned to leave.

You wanted to grab his hand and tell him to stay, but decided against it. “Goodnight, Naoya-kun.”

“Goodnight, Y/n-chan.”

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

It was the end of your second year of high school, the point where exams were finally over and spring had fully settled in. Cherry blossom season had arrived all at once, petals blooming so thickly that the world felt washed in pale pink. 

You had returned to your family’s estate for spring vacation, as you always did.

Your clan’s temple stood deep within the land your family owned, nestled at the center of a mile-long stretch of cherry blossom fields. The trees had been planted generations ago, their branches arching over the stone paths, petals falling constantly no matter how still the air was. Visiting the temple this time of year was customary, to pray for the coming months, for health, and for fortune.

You and Naoya went together.

Both of you wore a hakama, the fabric brushing your ankles as you walked side by side along the path. Your sleeves swayed with each step, and petals caught in the folds of your clothing and in your hair, clinging there stubbornly. Naoya walked slightly ahead of you, hands tucked into his sleeves, posture straight and familiar in a way that felt grounding.

“You always walk too fast,” you said, half-teasing.

He glanced back at you. “You’re just slow.”

“I’m enjoying the view,” you replied, lifting your eyes toward the blossoms overhead.

He snorted quietly but slowed his steps anyway.

The temple came into view soon after, its wooden structure partly hidden by falling petals. The stone stairs leading up to it were scattered thickly with blossoms, the surface slick where petals had layered too deeply. You stepped forward without thinking, lifting the hem of your skirt slightly as you climbed.

Your foot slipped, not in a dramatic way, but just enough to throw you off balance. Your breath caught sharply as you tilted forward, immediately steadying yourself.

Naoya’s hand shot out to grab your arm. “Told you to watch your footing,” he said, irritation threaded through his voice.

“I was watching,” you protested softly, “it’s just slippery.”

Naoya clicked his tongue and, without warning, bent down and lifted you off the ground, carrying you in his arms.

“Naoya-!” you gasped, your arms flying to wrap around his neck for support. “What are you doing?!”

“Carrying you,” Naoya replied flatly, as if there were no other option. “You’ll slip again if I don’t.”

“You don’t have to…” you started, face heating.

“I do,” he interrupted. 

You went quiet, heart racing, as he adjusted his grip and began walking up the steps with you in his arms. Petals drifted down around the two of you, catching in his hair, settling against your sleeves. From this close, you could feel his warmth.

“Thank you, Naoya-kun,” you muttered.

He looked down at you briefly. “You wanted to look at the view, right? Just look at the cherry blossoms.”

When he reached the top of the steps, he set you down carefully beneath the temple’s eaves, hands lingering just a moment too long at your waist before pulling away. You smoothed your hakama, trying to ignore how your heart was still beating too fast.

Naoya turned his gaze toward the temple, expression teasing. “Don’t slip again.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Behind you, the cherry blossoms continued to fall, covering the steps and stone path.

After you finished praying, neither of you moved to leave right away.

The temple bell had long since stilled, the incense you lit thinning into the air until it was barely there, and the world beyond the steps looked unreal beneath the cherry blossoms. 

You walked together toward the edge of the platform, stopping just before the stairs, where the view opened wide to show rows of cherry trees stretching out endlessly.

You rested your hands against your sleeves, gaze unfocused, letting the moment settle in.

“Remember when we used to come here in summer too?” you asked.

Naoya followed your line of sight without answering right away. “You mean when it was too hot and you complained the whole way?”

You laughed softly. “And you’d say it was good training.”

He gave a small huff, “It was.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes still on the view. “We’d sit by the lake near the back of the grounds. You’d skip stones, and I’d just watch.” Your voice softened, memory pulling you back.

The breeze picked up, petals brushing past your shoulders, catching briefly in your hair before slipping free.

“‘The spring waters are like the cloudless skies’,” you recited, voice low and even. “‘And we sleep on boats to hear the soft rain’.”

Naoya’s gaze shifted to you then, “You still remember poems like that?”

You smiled faintly. “What else was there to do when I didn’t want to develop my cursed technique?”

“You still can, it’s never too late to become stronger.”

“Even if I become stronger, will I ever be the strongest?” You asked almost sadly.

“Even if you don’t become the strongest, you will always be the prettiest,” Naoya insisted.

The two of you stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, holding onto the view just a little longer, as if leaving it behind would mean  never seeing it again.

₊˚⊹₊ ⋆ 𓂃𓈒𓏸

(You had been the only friend Naoya had since childhood, meeting when merely toddlers and building up years worth of memories since forever. The first time you roughly remember having other kids be thrusted into your friendship was when the two of you were seven.

The Zenin estate had been loud that afternoon, voices of children echoing across the stone paths and inner courtyards as they were ushered together under the vague instruction to play together. You had been seven, the sleeves of your kimono felt too long and you hated how tight your clothes felt, the hem brushing your ankles as you lingered near the engawa. Naoya stood at the center of it all, already carrying himself with an ego and air of self-importance that did not suit a seven years old boy. Other children had gathered around him, or at least tried to play with him.

Naoya didn’t tolerate it for long.

“Go away,” Naoya said sharply, pushing the other kids away when they got too close. “You’re annoying.”

One of the boys laughed nervously, trying to turn it into a joke, but Naoya’s glare made him shrink away. Another girl reached out, trying to hold his hand, and Naoya stepped back before kicking her leg.

“You’re not worthy of talking to me,” he said coldly. “Don’t stand so close.”

They scattered quickly after that, retreating with tears and downcast eyes, leaving the courtyard suddenly too quiet. You had watched it all from where you stood, a bit of pity in your stomach for the other kids who just weren’t important enough in the Zenin clan. 

Naoya turned then, gaze snapping to you. “You’re fine,” he said, tone changing instantly. “You’re going to be my wife someday.”

The words hit you like a sudden gust of wind.

Your face burned hot, the sensation unfamiliar and overwhelming. “Eh?!” you exclaimed, stamping your foot, voice trembling between embarrassment and indignation. “You’re being mean! I’m not marrying you!”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that reaction.

Before he could say anything else, you turned and ran, shoes slapping against stone as you fled down the path, heart pounding, laughter bubbling up despite yourself. You didn’t know why you were laughing, only that the moment felt too strange.

“Hey-!” Naoya shouted, startled.

Then he was chasing after you, calling your name as he followed, that slowly dissolved into breathless laughter of his own. You cut around a corner, nearly slipping on the smooth stones, and he grabbed your sleeve just in time, the both of you stumbling together before collapsing onto the grass in a tangle of limbs and giggles.

“You’re- you’re stupid,” Naoya said between laughs, pushing himself up on one elbow.

“You’re mean,” you shot back, cheeks still flushed.

You never went back to check on the children he had chased away. You didn’t speak up for them, and never stopped Noaya from bullying any of them in the coming days. At seven years old, it was not you being cruel on purpose, but you allowed things to be the way they were, simply due to the fact that this was the Zenin household.)

At seventeen, in your third year of high school now, you returned to the Zenin estate for the summer to visit. The gates opened for you without question, servants bowing as they always had, the long stone paths unchanged despite the months you’d spent away in Tokyo since your last visit. The cicadas were loud, the heat heavy, and the estate was still as big as you remembered.

You hadn’t intended to find Noaya so soon on the way to his wing of the estate.

The sharp sound of impact carried across the training yard just as you passed that side of the building. You slowed, and turned toward the noise. Naoya stood there, wearing a black compressed shirt, and at his feet was a girl, way younger than you, her body pressed to the ground beneath his shoe. 

She barely moved, breath shallow, fingers trembling against the dirt.

Naoya was looking down at her with mild disinterest when he noticed you.

His expression shifted instantly into a joyous smile. “Y/n-chan!”

“Bullying another one?” you asked calmly, yet there was a frown that you didn’t bother hiding.

He lifted his foot without urgency, letting it rest on the ground beside her instead, and turned fully toward you. “She’s just some useless cousin,” Naoya explained dismissively. “Don’t mind her.”

Naoya took a step toward you, attention already pulled away from her entirely. “Why are you here? You didn’t say you were coming today.”

“I came to see you, of course,” you replied easily, the words coming out before you could weigh them. Then your gaze flicked back to the girl, still crumpled on the ground. “Just let her go. If you think women are weak, then don’t show such violent tendencies toward them, they can’t handle it.”

“All of them are weak and trash compared to you,” Naoya said simply.

The words were meant to be a compliment, but it didn’t make you any happier.

You still didn’t smile.

This wasn’t your household, and these weren’t your rules. You had grown up in a clan that was less cruel in its hierarchies, even if tradition still pressed down on women in subtler ways in your clan. You knew better than to lecture him here, or criticize the Zenin household that you did not belong in.

Still, you hadn’t looked away, and hadn’t stopped frowning.

“Fine,” Naoya said at last, sighing, “I won’t bully her again, how about that?”

“At least you know,” you replied, turning away before he could see the conflict in your expression.

You didn’t wait to see if the girl stood up or if she was even carried off by servants. You only felt Naoya fall into step beside you as you walked through the stoned path of the estates, his pace matching yours without effort, as if this had always been the way of things. Together, you made your way back toward his courtyard in the north wing of the estate, the air between the two of you becoming clearer now.

“Do you remember that summer when we were kids, when lotuses were planted in the ponds?” Naoya asked.

You glanced at him. “Hm? Of course I remember, I ate a lot of lotus seeds that year.”

As the two of you passed through the last corridor and stepped into his courtyard, you stopped in your steps when you saw his garden.

The pond stretched across the center of the courtyard, broad and carefully tended, its surface broken by wide lotus leaves and pale blossoms floating serenely atop the water. The lotuses were in full bloom, layered and luminous, their long stems disappearing into the dark depths below. It wasn’t wild or overgrown, rather every plant had been placed with intention, arranged so the blooms faced the engawa and caught the light just right. 

The air carried a faint, clean scent.

“…Naoya,” you murmured, genuinely stunned.

He had prepared an entire pond full of lotus flowers for you.

He watched your face closely, chest lifting just a fraction as if he’d been holding his breath. “I had them planted and made sure they bloomed in time for when you came back,” he confessed softly.

You stepped closer to the pond, kneeling at its edge, fingertips hovering just above the water’s surface. “They’re beautiful,” you said softly. “I haven’t seen this many lotuses in such a long time, thank you, Naoya-kun.”

“That summer when you were kids, you came back from the pond with an armful of lotus flowers and lotus pods,” he recounted. 

You glanced back at him, smiling faintly, still caught in the quiet wonder of it all. “You really remembered something like that from so long ago?”

He nodded, fixing his gaze on the lotus pond instead of you, “That was when I decided that I wanted you to be my wife.”

The words landed gently and all the same, they stopped you cold.

You rose slowly to your feet and turned to face him, searching his expression for some hint of humor, some sign that he meant it lightly. Finding none, you let out a quiet laugh instead, soft and disbelieving, shaking your head as if the idea itself were harmless.

“Those were what we said when we were kids, we shouldn’t remember things like that.”

“Y/n-”

“In the future-” you added quickly, trying to sound as calm as you can and not to let your nervousness show, “-we can talk about things like that properly. Not now.”

The courtyard fell silent again, broken only by the faint sound of water shifting beneath the lotus leaves as the breeze drifted by.

Naoya studied you for a long moment, and then nodded. “…Alright,” he agreed, as if he were granting you a small kindness.

Relieved, you turned back toward the pond, unaware of the way his fingers curled slowly at his side, or how his gaze lingered on your back.

yandere!Suguru trying to get you out of the corner in his room, the one you like to hide in, and into the kitchen because you won't eat the plates he leaves you!

yandere!Suguru thinks maybe you don't like eating where you sleep? He'll help you come out of your shell!

yandere!Suguru having to gently manhandle pick you up and place you on his lap at the table so he can feed you

yandere!Suguru cooing at you when you start to try and claw your way out of his grasp, he thinks you're like a baby kitten for him to take care of

yandere!Suguru keeping a firm but not painful never painful grip on you as he slowly starts bringing up the chopsticks to your mouth to feed you

yandere!Suguru growing a little tired of your fighting and softly scolding you for not cooperating, he only wants the best for you!

yandere!Suguru titling his head down to look at you as you hesitantly tell him you'll eat if he shares the food with you

yandere!Suguru growing confused at first but understanding that you're only offering this because you think he might've put something in the food! Now why would you imagine such silly things? He'd never poison an angel like you!

yandere!Suguru condescendingly reassuring you that the food is safe and poking at your lips with the rice the chopsticks hold, to finally get you to open your mouth

yandere!Suguru sighing in defeat when you turn your head to the side again, some rice sticking to your cheek as you refuse the food once more

yandere!Suguru giving in and indulging your totally unreasonable fears as he brings the chopsticks to his own mouth instead and starts chewing calmly

yandere!Suguru cooing at you once again, telling you it's safe to eat as he smiles down at you. You finally calm down as you see him swallow, the food was safe after all.

yandere!Suguru bringing the same chopsticks to your mouth to feed you, of course he'd use the same chopsticks, why wouldn't he? What kind of question is that? Don't make him upset now.

yandere!Suguru watching you hesitantly open your mouth so he could feed you, he'd take the win even if his heart grew a little heavy at your mistrust, hasn't he been nice to you all this time? You'll come around eventually

yandere!Suguru happily eating with you and petting your head after you're all finished, praise falling from his lips before he leans in and places a soft kiss to your forehead

yandere!Suguru getting a bit carried away as he places a few more kisses on your cheeks, not minding that you're starting to claw at him again, he'll deal with the small cuts and the way you dig your nails into his shoulders to push him away if it means he'll get to show you his affection and rewards for eating well!

Bonus:

yandere!Suguru taking advantage of your fear from earlier as he licks at a popsicle first before sliding it along your tongue, both your salivas mixing while he watches your mouth intensely.