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˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated that you weren't talking to him anymore. you barely looked at him in class. last monday he'd known for a fact that you scored higher than him in the recent test— but you didn't even look his way. let alone shove it in his face like he was hoping you would. what? was he nothing to you now that you fucked his brother? he couldn't make sense of it. even moreso, he couldn't understand why it upset him. he missed your rivalry. missed how you made class and academics fun again. most of all, he missed how you didn't back down to his belittling. you dished it back. made him want you. and now you were just. . . gone. all because of his fuckass twin.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ had gotten a bit tired of your games and the way you blatantly avoided him, so he made sure to utilise his greatest collection. . . videos. that he took of you when you so carelessly decided to go back to his dorm. featuring a fucked-out, glossy-eyed you taking his cock and whining on it. satoshi always did this. took videos of the girls he was with. but he rarely kept them. either forgetting about or deleting them later. yours though? he couldn't stop looking back on them. couldn't stop fisting his cock to them and remembering how your sweet cunt took him better than anyone ever did. head limped back on his couch and breathing shaky as he spurted all over his trembling fingers.

he sent one of the videos to you. with a cheeky little caption.

“ignoring me when I made you feel like this babydoll? c'mon. missing you. know you're missing me too.”

your reply was a heated voice note. telling him to delete your number. calling him a creep. but he could hear the fluster. it had him grinning. he sent one back, voice all velvet and rasped. “don't think I will. don't think my favourite girl wants me to.”

because whether he knew it or not— he was right. despite your shame, you hadn't stopped thinking about it. how good he felt inside of you. how he's the best fuck you'd ever had. the things he said to you swirled your mind on the daily.

you touched yourself to him some nights. rubbing your clit in a desperate attempt to replicate the callouses on his thumb. and you fucking hated it. because he was just some player. just some guy.

and not the guy you thought you were actually falling for.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was in the library when you finally approached him. it's been two weeks. no banter, no jabs, not even eye contact. so he did well with keeping his stare in his book. how'd you even find him here? no one came to this corner of the library and yet, here you were. maybe if he ignored your presence enough, you'd go away.

“so. . .” you started, he could feel you fiddling. then you sighed. shoulders sagged. “look, I just wanted to apologise for being such a bitch at start semester.”

his heart fluttered.

“the day before that your brother flirted and I didn't appreciate it. the next day I saw you in class and well. . .”

then sunk.

your face flushed. “it's stupid I know, but— I thought you were both the same person. I'm sorry. I should have figured it out.”

satoru's mind was spinning. he'd spent years creating his own identity separate from his twin brother. how the fuck did you think he and that thing were the same person?

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't care about how you flinched when he abruptly stood, the chair skidding behind him. with his eyes sharp and venom stuck to his tongue. he snapped.

“so what, fucking my brother put you in a good mood or something?” why was he acting like this? he wasn't sure. he didn't know why he was so angry.

actually, he did. he just didn't want to admit it.

and you, he's not sure what he expected other than your eyes growing just as cold. you were the same girl who butted heads with him in every academic suite after all. a part of him felt glad that you didn't take his shit. this felt nice. felt normal.

“what the hell, satoru? I'm just being honest. and how the hell do you even know that?”

“that's gojo to you.”

he corrected in a hiss. little did he know how familiar you were with the name. how you moaned it in pure bliss rather than his brother's.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ really shouldn't have been surprised with the banter that went on between the both of you. it was natural. your souls were like two negative poles. theory of repulsion. repulsed. he was repulsed by you. by the fact that you compared him to his brother. by the fact that you fucked that same. idiot. brother.

he's not even sure where the argument was going. only that it was pissing him off and that he almost didn't want it to stop.

he couldn't stop picking on the fact that you did it. that you actually went ahead fucked satoshi. he could see how flustered you got. how you didn't even try to deny the accusation but got all the more defensive.

but then you just had to go and say that.

“you know, since it pisses you off so bad maybe I'll just go fuck satoshi again.”

and that's. when he finally snapped.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ had more strength than people gave him credit for. you learnt that today. not because of how he gripped your jaw or shoved you into the bookshelf, knocking off a few books— but because of how his mouth crashed onto yours.

pure, unadulterated strength and even more roughness. with the way his mouth greedy clamped on yours. how your teeth meshed and your tongues tangled. the hard grip of his large hands. one firm on your waist and the other squishing your face.

if anything, he was rougher than satoshi.

wrestling your tongue and swallowing your whines. kissing you like he was trying to consume your very soul. maybe then you'd be his. his. all his. not fucking satoshi's.

you're not sure how many times he kissed you. every time he parted, it'd be for just a second before he was back at it again. swapping spit and strangling your hiccups. all you know was that when he did pull away, you were quivering. mouths webbed in stringy saliva and eyes hazed on one another.

that's when you felt it. hard and thrumming heavy on your thigh. your hips instinctively bucked up.

he grunted, squeezed your jaw tighter and pressed your head back into the shelf. “you serious right now?” he sneered. “your rival kisses you and you just what? get all soft and submissive? already tryna hump me like a bunny?”

fuck. the way that your eyes glossed over. . . he just couldn't help himself.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ can't believe he had you here now. pinned to the bookshelf with one hand clamped tight over your mouth and the other buried beneath your skirt. panties drenched and twisted to the side while two fingers messily fucked you raw. curling, and twisting, and pumping your squeezing walls.

he didn't care about making you cum. not really. all he cared about was fucking you stupid since you wanted to act like a dumb whore.

but he still did. staining your hand in his slick and forcing himself to pump faster. harder. just to see the way your knees shook and feel your slutty moans against his palm.

he was rough. clumsy. not as experienced as satoshi and it showed in the way his fingers pummelled your poor pussy into a creamy mess.

he might not have been experienced but he sure as hell studied female anatomy enough to know that his thumb was on your clit. rubbing shaky and sharp circles on the nub to send you spasming more.

satoru sneered into your face. jaw tight and eyes cold. “can't believe you're just another college slut. just like every other fuckin' girl in this place.”

his fingers sped up. wrist flicking. he curled just right on your sweet spot and rubbed the little spongy bundle of nerves into a merciless spasm.

he loved the way your eyes rolled back. how you bucked into his hand and whined. for him. this was for him. you were whining his name all muffled and moaned into his palm.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ drew his hand back to observe the sticky mess between his fingers. pulling his hand up to see the stringy cum all over his hand. webbed and musked. fuck. he was throbbing. glasses all fogged from his heavy breaths.

“the fuck is this, huh?” he grunts, hold his fingers for you to see. he slipped the hand on your mouth around your jaw again. pressed his messy middle and index fingers flat against your tongue and rubbed your cum on it.

his voice was a hissed grumble to your ear. “a few fingers and you shut right up? not so smart after all huh, sweetheart?“

and then he was burying them back into your flooding pussy all over again. he didn't care if you were shaking like a leaf. if you were overstimulated. he didn't even know what that meant.

all he cared about was making those pretty eyes flutter back. making you cum around his fingers cause he was addicted to feeling those velvety rings clench around his knuckles.

but most all? all he cared about was that it was him doing this to you.

even if he hardly knew what he was doing. that puddle between your legs? the trembling in your thighs? your pussy pulsing and sobbing all over his palm?

that was because of him. gojo fucking satoru.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was panting himself by the time he was done. his arm was jittering and his wrist ached. but he still dragged his tongue and licked your trickling sweetness off of wrist and the back of his hand as he drew it to his mouth.

you were more than a mess. whimpering and weeping. limp on the shelves as you clung to his arms.

he felt something akin to pride.

but then you started grinding that slick, creamy cunt on his crotch. right over his bulge. hot and wet and smearing it all over his throbbing erection. his breath hitched.

your eyes were sweet and fluttery. but your whines were sweeter. you tried to humping on him. catching your clit on the curve of his hard-on to bring yourself friction. greedy girl. hadn't he finger-fucked you enough?

“please,” you whimpered. “please please please satoru, I'm sorry. just please. I need more. please fuck me.”

his breathing was thin. here you were. the girl he was obsessing over for months. begging him to fuck you in some corner of the library.

and the worst part was?

he was gonna deny you.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ felt his heart ache as you looked on the verge of tears when he pulled away with nothing but a grunt. he fixed your skirt and swiped off his stained hand on your inner thigh. “we've got studying.” he mumbled. he didn't know why he was doing this. didn't know why he was running away.

but every time you pawed at him. every time he saw that desperate look in your eye. that plea to just fuck you— he couldn't. no.

his mind starting spurring with what ifs. berates and insecurities and embarrassment because he just did that. he just fingered you in a public setting. uncoordinated and probably hopelessly clumsy.

his face was red. glasses fogged. but he wouldn't let you see that as he denied each of your advances and shuffled out of the library.

he needed a cold shower. forget that all of this happened.

forget the voice in his head telling him he'd fuck everything up if he even tried to fuck you.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ felt horrible, but now it was his turn to avoid you. he stopped talking, stopped looking, stopped interacting. and all of a sudden? you were trying to get back to normal. but for other reasons. he heard those little comments. knew that fucking beat inside of you was trying to make him snap. he couldn't take it. he almost did.

but he denied every advance you made. ignored the eyes you were giving him. the comments, the innuendos, everything.

he couldn't fuck you. you'd fucked satoshi. you'd know. you'd know.

he couldn't. he wouldn't embarrass himself like that. and you were getting frustrated.

because the guy you thought was one person. the personality you'd been falling in love with— you finally had a taste of him. you dreamt of that day in the library. how he held you. how he kissed you. how he spoke to you.

you wanted more. needed more. and when he didn't give it to you? well. . .

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ was quite surprised when he opened his dorm door one night to be greeted by your lips. greedy and hasty as your hands snatched his collar. he stumbled back, grunting and wide eyed. but his body fell into rhythm. hands gripping your waist, heel kicking the door shut.

he scooped you up by the backs of your thighs, groaned loud and wrecked into your mouth. “fuck yeah babydoll. attagirl. knew you missed me.”

as he tumbled you both into his couch. hands roaming every inch he'd been dreaming of for three weeks straight. mouth worshipping your skin in a way he never did for any other girl.

completely unaware that as his head ducked between your thighs, as his tongue lathered all over and your hands gripped tuffs of his white hair in them—

you were imagining a pair of glasses perched atop it instead.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/_teaforgods (ig).

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His room was insulated in a similar manner to yours; a lovely wave of warmth washed over you. You supposed every bedroom in the castle had similar trimmings to keep the heat in. Drapery across the obsidian walls to prevent the stone from absorbing away the heat, curtains as thick as carpets drawn across the windows, a hearth roaring with endless magicked fire, plush flooring and a canopied bed.

A far cry from the open-flung windows of the Summer court, the cotton curtains, the cobweb-thin blankets, the inescapable blinding sunlight.

Nightmare’s room was... different to what you expected. Everything was lovely deep blues, blacks and silvers. The ceiling had been painted like a map of the constellations, the carpet was embroidered with runes lost to time. There was an easel set up near the curtained window - a pile of canvases on the floor beside. A large dark oak bookshelf, stacked with equal parts leather bound tomes and scrolls, sat right beside an ornate desk almost overflowing with papers and quills. The black fireplace was decorated with many a treasure; a crystal ball with a large shimmering crack through the centre, a small hand-carved statue of a snake with wings. An old inkpot full of owl feathers, a beautiful dagger forged with a wavy blade. A bundle of dusty dried flowers tied together with twine.

The real standout, though, were the walls. His wall drapery wasn’t just patterned fabric - it was large tapestries, masterfully woven with the finest detail, each appearing to depict some historical or fantastical scene. You could see a grand tree, a sunset, a war, horses and storms, rivers and forests... there were clear signs of evolving styles and talent across each piece, proportions and colours growing more accurate and artistic as time went on. You had no idea how old they were.

Nightmare was in a leather chair, by the fire, his cloak laid over the back. He had an open book on his knee. 

... You expected him to look smaller without his cloak. He did not. He was still broad and impressively tall, but now, he resembled a man more than a bear. He wore only dark linen pants and a long-sleeved shirt with pearl buttons - the first three of which were undone, revealing the top of his sternum and the shape of his shoulders. His crown sat on the table beside his chair, glittering.

He was looking across the room at you. Face and eye utterly unreadable. The only sound filling the chamber was the crackling of the fire.

...

He gently shut the book in his lap. Suddenly, you felt... well, you felt many things, but mortification was chief among them. Embarrassment, confusion, regret - a twinge of fear, too. What were you thinking, just stumbling into his bedroom in the middle of the night? A few bad dreams didn’t give you the right to invade his privacy. Your breath came out shaky. Was he mad at you?

You opened your mouth, but shut it again. No appropriate words came fast enough. Only a pathetic “Sorry, I-I'll...” managed to fumble its way past your lips, perhaps not even loud enough for him to hear.

“come.” He spoke very gently. He held a hand out to you. “don’t let the warm air out.”

... He was inviting you in?

...

You stepped forward, a little. Encouraged by his gentle gaze, and still desperately not wanting to be alone, you made your way across the room to him. The heavy door creaked closed behind you.

The carpet muffled your footsteps. As soon as you were close enough, feeling the fire's glow on your skin, Nightmare reached out and took your hand in both of his. Though his large, fuzzy eyelight held you in place, he spoke like he feared too much volume would make you flee.

“bad dream?” he murmured.

You looked down at him, nodding. You didn’t know how he knew. Perhaps he had other powers you didn’t yet know of; perhaps he could just see the puffiness in your eyes or the weary grief on your face. Perhaps you hadn't done as good of a job at wiping the tears off your cheeks as you thought you had. Either way, his concerned face and attentive touch made you feel better.

He drew you even closer. Before you knew it, you were in his lap, curled against him with your head on his chest. He was warm, very warm; he smelled like fur mostly, but underneath it you could smell lavender and rosemary. Summer plants? Strange. I thought he’d smell colder. He tucked his cloak over your knees, the firelight-soaked fur warmed your icy feet. Just like that, arms now around you, he picked up his book and opened it again. 

No more words needed to be passed between the two of you. You liked that. Sniffling, quietly, you just hid your face against his collarbone.

... You couldn’t help but think about how, at the slightest hint of negative emotion, Dream would pounce and try to ‘cheer you up’. Your sadness would become the focus of the conversation, no matter how much you tried to indicate that you didn’t want to talk about it. He wanted to know everything about what was upsetting you - he wanted it all laid bare, in the sunlight, where he could pick it apart and question it and ‘help’. Conversely, it just encouraged you to bury your unhappiness ever-deeper. To Dream, bad feelings were something to be solved. Something to be cured.

But Nightmare... he hadn’t pressed. He hadn’t even asked what your bad dreams were about; as if to him, it didn’t matter what was upsetting you. All that mattered was that you were sad, and wanted his comfort, so he kept you company as the feelings came and went. He wasn’t trying to make you fight the tide. He just gave you somewhere safe to sit, as you watched it come in, then go back out again. As all things did.

... With your head against his chest, and his shirt significantly loosened, you could see his sternum and part of his shoulder very clearly. You couldn’t help but notice something on his dark bones - marks, the same colour as his eye. Marks like scars. They curved ever-so slightly, disappearing under his shirt, cutting across his shoulder and chest from the same point of origin; if you drew a straight line from their bases they all traced back to his missing eye. As if something had struck him in the eye, and it had been so powerful that its impact lines had left grand scars behind on the rest of him, like hot light bursting out from a star.

You stared. You... had never once considered that his eye could’ve been the result of an injury. You had just assumed Nightmare always had one eye. He just seemed so powerful, so invincible. You couldn’t imagine something capable of hurting him. 

...

You averted your eyes. Perhaps another time, when you were less shaken and weary, you’d inquire about them.

“... What are you reading?” you asked, voice worn and quiet, looking down to his book. Firelight made the words on the page sway, like branches in a breeze.

“poetry. a very old love story, about a prince and a princess.” He turned back a page. “i can read aloud, if you’d like.”

“Yes please.”

“it’s in cornish. is that alright?”

“Mhm.”

His eyelight skimmed back a few lines, to the start of a passage. He held the book with one hand and began to read.

“ev a diras diogel, arâg y ger canoel,” His voice was even softer and darker than usual. It was so soothing. The tongue he spoke in sounded old, but it had a musicality to it that was pleasing to the ear. “ha blanchefleur ev a ros inter dêwla y seneshal roald, marrak len, a dal hy gwitha saw dëdh ha nos.”

Your eyes were closing already. A few tears slipped out, but it felt less like grief, and more like the last dregs of something unpleasant finally being pulled out of you.

“arlydhy meur aga lu a dheuth dhodho a bùb pluw ha’ga thus ervys gansa. oll y êth poran dhe’n gas: rivalen a’s hùmbrynkyas, dell yw devar mytern dâ." His free hand gently held your shoulder, his thumb brushing back and forth over your arm. He seemed to want to touch your wings, but resisted. "pell blanchefleur a wortas cafos nowodhow a’n gas: meur o hy fienasow. rivalen a veu ledhys: bÿth namoy ny dhewhelys...”

You exhaled, nuzzling into his chest. For a moment, he paused. But he kept going.

“... in d despît dh’y fejadow. indelma, ha’y holon trogh, y feu genys dhedhy flogh, meppyk teg kepar hag el.”

You had woken up tormented by the memories of the things you left behind in the human realm. The faces you would never see again, the people who were probably hundreds of years gone by now. Regrets you could never settle, regrets you suspected would haunt you for eternity.

Sion, Louisiana, the looming town was always cradled in a thick haze of warm clouds, every morning a heavy fog rolled in over the swamps, giving the whole place the vibe of isolation and the unknown. It had everything from an oversaturated neon shopping mall with sour-faced teenaged employees sneaking reefer in between shifts, to murky emerald swamps with downed trees and gators lurking just below the fog waiting for their next meal, somewhere between all this chaos lived Adelaide Cadieux a 23-year-old woman with sun-kissed skin, dotted in a constellation of scars, her eyes, almond-shaped and honey brown seemed to have permanent bags underneath them.

This was because while growing up, she spent many long insomnia-filled nights with her eyes glued to the small TV in her living room. Reruns of old boxing matches looping one after another, there was something about watching humans in their prime, it truly fascinated her, the primal brutality, the blood flying across the mats with every well-placed strike, she was permanently hooked after the first fight she caught, it was a night she'd snuck into the living room after her pops passed out on the sofa, bottle clutched tight in his hands, she was certain if a fire broke out right then and there, the only thing that man would grab was his bottle, watching her and her mother burn and lighting his cigar on the flames. "Never waste a smoke, hein? (huh?)" she could hear him say it, that slow southern drawl spitting out words like venom.

She inherited a lot of things from her father, the unfathomably deep well of anger in her chest was the main thing though, that and his hair. God she hated her hair growing up, it made her look like him, and that was something that made her stomach ache like she drank spoiled milk.

That was mostly the reason she kept it short as an adult, cropped in a pixie cut and bleached a pale white blonde, the regular bleaching kept her wild curls at bay, straightening the usually untamed tufts, she hated having it long when she was younger, how the loose black curls stuck to her skin during summer nights, the final straw on the matter came in the form of Elodie Parks.

Elodie had set her sights on Addie one day in the small locker room just before soccer practice, picking on the tall girl was something Elodie liked to do a lot, first was the usual routine, mocking her height, her quietness, her poorness, her appearance; "Oh, pauvre chérie, (poor dear) You try so hard, it's almost... cute. Almost." A crowd of teenage girls, Addie's supposed peers began to crowd the scene, circling like a pack of wolves, trapping her in on all sides, she felt her chest tighten uncomfortably at the close proximity, their faces blurring into twisted sinister expressions, Addie did her best to ignore the brunette-haired girl much to Elodie's aggravation. Sucking her teeth, Addie shook her head slightly, she begins to lace up her soccer cleats with more force than necessary, the only sign of her growing irritation.

Elodie, not satisfied with the lack of reaction began to dig deeper, circling her like a shark that smelled blood, "You know Adelaide, you'd be a lot prettier if you took a brush to that rat's nest on your head, hein? (huh)" Her voice had a saccharine sweetness as she berated Addie. "That's if you could even brush through that mess, poor thing." Addie didn't care about the taunts, she was used to them, and worse having grown up in the public school system of Louisiana. What made her turn around and finally address Elodie, was the last mistake of a comment she spat; "Besides, aren't you dykes supposed to have short hair?"

Addie felt her temper flash like a lightning fire, the veins in her temple throbbed, Elodie sounded a little too much like her father for her taste,

so like always she didn't think, she moved. Before anyone could blink Addie was kicking her cleated foot into Elodie's shin, the brunette crumpling to the ground in a sobbing heap, her green eyes full of tears as she cradled her bruised flesh, a crimson splotch began to appear on her high gym sock where she'd been kicked; "Miséricorde!" (Mercy!) you psycho bitch-" Addie didn't let her finish, instead balling her fist, cocking back, and throwing all her strength into the other girl's face, her fist landed harshly on the girl's left cheekbone, not once but twice in rapid succession, Thunk! Thunk! Addie's calloused knuckles split the skin of Elodie's cheek, and blood began pooling down her tear-stained face.

The pack of girls that had once been circling the scene dispersed in fear, now, in Addie's opinion anyway, dramatically crowding around the sobbing Elodie, who held her face, blood spilling between her manicured fingertips.

This earned Addie a month's worth of suspension and a swift backhand from her father when she was sent home early, "You trynna' ruin your life?" he yelled shaking Adelaide by her shoulders, he didn't wait for her response before pushing her away, "Stay in that damn room for the rest of the night, I better not see your face until the sun comes up."

She did her best to avoid him during the break from school, having long ago memorized his schedule for this exact purpose. She spent her time by the water, sometimes from dusk till dawn just watching the stillness of the bayou, getting lost in the subtle ripples dancing across the green surface, catching fireflies in her hands and letting them go, she spent so much time on that overgrown dock that the gators began to get used to her presence, showing themselves when they felt like it, just watching her, she often wondered what went on in their heads.

She liked watching the local wildlife do its thing. They seemed so content with their place in the world, doing what they pleased when they wanted, storm or shine, she envied them a bit but mostly admired their free nature.

The morning of her first day back, her father burst into her room, quietly mumbling about her being old enough to take herself to school, he tossed her the keys to his beat-up old Ford F150 leaving without another word. She took it as his way of apologizing for his violent reaction to her suspension.

She'd stared long and hard in the mirror, gazing at her reflection until her eyes went blurry, she hated what she saw, her breath began to quicken the longer she stared, and all she could hear were the taunts Elodie had hurled at her, and all she could see was her father's disappointed gaze staring back at her. Addie sees her pupils dilate, the brown of her iris almost completely disappearing, her chest heaving as she lifts a pair of sharp steel kitchen sheers to her head, tapping the cool metal against her temple before roughly tugging at her shoulder-length hair, fisting a handful of long black curls in her left hand, she began cutting and hacking away at it with her right.

By the time she was done, she hardly recognized herself, and suddenly she could breathe again. She steadied her breathing, angling her head in every direction, she liked how different she looked.

It was only after catching a last-minute Billy Idol music video on MTV, that she decided to bleach it with peroxide, lightening it until it was a dusty white, the curls straightening out from the harsh chemical treatment. With a head full of wet hair, she began to dress, her clothes feeling different as she slid them on. "Come on now Adelaide you gon' be late!" she hears her mother yell from the kitchen, "Yea'," she responds over the blaring radio, she tugs on an oversized Cramps T-shirt she'd scored over her impromptu break from school, and draped over that, a long red men's flannel, her jeans baggy and ripped at the knees, hiding her body, just the way she liked, always on the defensive, she enjoyed something she could move in, the leather boots she wore were a precious hand-me-down from her mother Antoinette. They made her feel stronger, stronger than any fight had ever done, and it was there in that moment, fifteen minutes late for her first day back, she swore to herself she'd get out of this town no matter what, away from all the bullshit, away from her father's unyielding gaze of disappointment, from her mother's never-ending worry, from this nothingness inside her.

It was then and there she decided nothing she did in this town mattered because she fully intended to leave it in the dust and never look back.

Her mama's nickname for her, 'Trouble', seemed to stick around her whole life. It followed her, even as a young one, she was getting into fist fights with the boys in her class over who got to play the knight during recess, always ready for a brawl, and scared of nothin'.

Her mother Antoinette Cadieux knew Addie would be a handful from how difficult her birth was, it was a home birth, and Antoinette had only her trusted Doula by her side, Beau said he didn't have the stomach for this kind of thing, leaving shortly after she'd gone into labor, the Doula, Maggie, wiped at Antoinette's sweaty brow with a wet cloth, breathing with her, Addie took her time entering the world, arriving a week later than anticipated, at 5:55 am on November 1st, the rain was heavy, hard and relentless the night Adelaide first opened her eyes and let out a fierce cry, stormy and wild, tree branches smacking against the windows, the wind pounding against the front door angrily. Some say the lights of the bayou could be seen hovering over the old Cadieux house that morning.

She was born to a mother who had to work three shifts a day as a nurse to keep the lights on, and her father, Beau Cadieux, was bitter as he was useless, an old drunkard with hate for the world that ran deep, so deep it bled out and infected everything about him, if you asked Beau he'd have an endless list in which the world has slighted him, screwed him over, and this poison, this anger, it infected his family.

Addie's oldest memory of Beau is holding a bowie knife to her mother's throat for burning the gumbo the day he'd gotten fired from his job, he was a volatile man with little advice to offer her other than, "This world's gon' tear apart a no good troublemaking fool like you Adelaide." he'd slur, before leaving the house in a storm of loud footsteps, curses leaving his whiskey-soaked lips, this often left the young girl home alone, Addie kept busy though, learning to cook for herself and survive without parental supervision, being raised by the singers of Depeche Mode and The Smiths, their lyrics and melodies a comfort during the stormy nights her mother was working a triple shift at the hospital, her father was down at the local bar drinking his sorrows away, Addie quickly began to enjoy being alone, finding the solitude a cold comforting blanket.

When she wasn't watching the dark skies of Sion pass her by, or sneaking food to the strays in her neighborhood, she was planted firmly before the living room television, eyes wide as she watched the furious and fast-paced movements from the fighters dancing around the ring, this channel was one of the only things her rickety old TV got without static, watching the fights gave her something to focus her rage on at first, but it didn't take long for that to not be enough, in five minutes she'd transformed her small living room into a makeshift gym, dragging her twin bed mattress out from her bedroom, the tattered fabric of the corners getting caught on the floorboards, she stood it against the wall, walking over to her house entrance, she props open the busted screen door with her hip, grabbing two heavy decorative crawfish statues from her mothers garden, the stone hot to the touch from being on the porch all day, palming one in each hand, it took a few moments of fumbling to work out the awkward grip but eventually she got it, with that she began to look over her shoulder at the television screen, she'd mimic the moves of the boxers with the weights in her hands, fists striking her upturned mattress with anger and passion, she did this until she was out of breath, dripping in sweat, arms burning from the exertion, she'd go on like this for hours, until her fingers were raw, until all she could feel was the pain she was responsible for.

It was the only thing that soothed the tsunami of hate and burning anger she'd known since she could remember.

On evenings she had the lonely house to herself, she'd spend all night pounding at her old used mattress so long, the sun would be rising by the time she stopped, not that you could see it with the heavy fog that seemed to lurk over the town like a ghost haunting an old house.

She'd go until all the anger and rage she had at the world dissipated, until the heat in her chest died down, even if only for a moment. Those few seconds after practice where the world was just her throbbing knuckles and her pounding heart, that's what she chased after. That rage served her well in the rough town of Sion though, most kids were meaner than shit, looking to prove something to their classmates by picking on anyone they sniffed out as different, they tried in vain to bully the reserved girl during her adolescence, be it for her tall height as she stood at 5'10 in middle school, bulkier than most of the boys in her grade, or the fact that she simply ignored their taunts, she was targeted.

There was one thing she was grateful to inherit from her father, he got tired of her coming home bloodied and bruised so he taught her how to fight one night, he was impatient and mean about it sure, but it was the one time they came close to bonding over anything. Her anger mixed with that small desperate part of her still begging for his approval made for a deadly combination, the worse off she left the other guy at the end of a fight, the better, in her eyes anyway.

She loved fighting, lived for it, the thrill, the adrenaline pumping through her veins, she couldn't get enough of it. If someone so much as looked at her the wrong way on the wrong day, well let's say she's been thrown in juvie for aggravated battery once or twice.

She moved out of her mother's house at 19, unable to take the misery of her parents any longer, she packed her bags and left in the middle of the night, walking the streets of Sion with nothing but a duffel bag across her shoulders, She found herself knocking on the one person's door she knew she could count on, Jessica Vidrine.

She was a girl Addie had met in 10th grade, after the whole Elodie incident she didn't have many people lining up to hang out, all except Jessica, She'd been partnered with her for a science project, and instead of acting weary around her like most of her classmates, she treated her with kindness, no fear in sight, like she was a normal person. It immediately put her on Addie's good side, which turned out to be a good thing for them both, they both got a friend, and Addie got to direct her anger somewhere, the assholes who tried to screw with Jessica.

Jessica was a sweet redheaded girl with vibrant green eyes and a kind, dorky sort of grin, she wore thick coke bottom glasses, something that got her teased before she started handing out with Addie, no one messed with her anymore, not since she started being seen with 'Psycho Adelaide', the rumor that she was a headcase started going around after she brutalized Elodie back in 10th grade, anyone who knew her was smart enough not to mess with her, especially now that she grew into her muscles.

After high school Addie skipped college, she had no desire to go through any more hellish school than she already had, instead, she started working as soon as she could, and eventually, she settled as a bartender at Hex's, the dark southern gothic bar sat square on the main street of Sion, she liked it there, she could dress how she wanted and they played good music. She had a few coworkers she liked, but Harry Lebasque had to be her favorite, he was a grumpy bastard, way too young to have the hardened stare he held, she liked him because he didn't ask questions, didn't bother her with small talk, whenever the quiet male would speak it was always something worthwhile. It was the first night of Mardi Gras and she was working the mid-shift at the bar, wiping down the counter she watched the clock, counting down the seconds until she was relieved by Harry.

When he finally showed up she didn't bother to say anything instead handing him the keys for the night, and patting him on the shoulder.

It was another stormy night in Sion, the thick clouds and sprinkles of rain did little to nothing to deter the locals from their Mardi Gras festivities, as she walked the short walk home from the bar, she allowed herself to be swept up in the sights and sounds of the city, every inch possible was decorated in purple, gold, and green, performers roamed the streets in traditional costumes, a clown masked stranger handed her a flower as she passed him, watching her walk away until the crowd absorbed him.

She thumbed the single Louisiana Iris, stopping at a small cart selling freshly fried desserts, she grabbed a greasy bag for her and Jessica, then headed home to her small second-floor apartment.

The main celebrations in New Orleans, about an hour away from her town, seemed tame compared to what the locals in Sion did. The young adults found at Sion University were a special breed, drinking until they couldn't, snorting their parent's medicine cabinet, throwing empty glass bottles at pedestrians' feet as they passed by in their cars, doing donuts in their pickup trucks so hard their cars went on two wheels, the fact that the cops didn't give a rats ass about the debauchery that went on didn't help much.

Addie, now twenty-three, both enjoyed and disliked the holiday and the taste of chaos it brought to her town. Her favorite way to spend it was in her second-story apartment, people watching from her living room window. A small crooked grin stretches across her scared face as she observes the growing decadence in the street. She could smell the catfish po'boys from up here, her legs hung outside the window, dangling in the stormy hot winds of Sion.

She was barefoot enjoying the warm wind on her exposed skin, her hand dipping into the greasy white bag in her lap, it was full of pipping hot sugar-coated beignets sitting squarely on her thighs, she heard the jingle of her front door, and didn't even need to look to know it was Jessica, the frizzy-haired redhead coming over every Mardi Gras like clockwork to watch the large parade go by her street.

"Aye Yi Yi, Jessie! You grab the bubbles?" Adelaide asks, her cajun accent thick as she eats a beignet, the powdered sugar sticking to the corners of her full lips. "Mais yeah! it's the good stuff too." Jessica replies taking off her long green coat and hanging it by the front door. She joins Addie by the window pushing her glasses up on her large nose. "Whoo whee! Them college boys goin' crazy this year hein?(huh)" Addie says sucking her teeth at the sight of a rowdy group of fraternity brothers "They that crazy at school hm?" Addie opens the bottle of cheap champagne taking a large swig, her face turning bitter at the taste of the liquor, Jessica gives a weak laugh wincing at the sight of her classmates below them, "faut pas demander." (You shouldn't ask.) She responds weakly.

Addie sucks her teeth, "And them boys messin' with ya again hein? (huh?)"

Jessia sighed weighing her options, she could try to lie to Adelaide, a doomed task, or she could tell her the truth, but she knew where that would lead.

"The years almost over Addie, just forget about it." Jessica tries to dismiss her friend's concern by grabbing a beignet and quickly shoving it in her mouth, but Addie's not having it. She nods her head before taking another swig and suddenly launching the mostly full bottle toward the group of rowdy men. The glass shatters in an explosion of liquid causing them to erupt in drunken screams, they begin shouting obscenities at Adelaide, stumbling over one another.

Before Addie could respond a woman smeared with what looked to be red paint burst through the crowd, the people around her were too busy drinking and indulging to pay her any mind, she was in a short bright purple sequin dress, and something about her seemed so familiar, she looked around frantically before taking off deeper down main street.

"Did you see that?" Addie says her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Yeah, I saw you lose your shit on those guys- damnit Addie."

"No there was a woman-"

"There's tons of drunk people stumbling around I'm sure it was nothing."

Your eyes burn with tears as you glare up at him, pout sharp and full of fire—but the real storm crackles lower, hotter and wetter, between your thighs.

You're soaked, and he knows it—the smug fuck.

Geto knows you need him and you do.

Ever since Lieutenants Gojo and Geto joined your unit, you’ve been their favorite little project—deciding, as your so-called superiors, to take you under their wing “for your own betterment.”

Though frankly, their version of leadership feels a hell of a lot more like bullying than mentorship.

Like sharks scenting blood, they zeroed in on your inexperience—you might as well be fresh meat in fatigues.

You couldn’t eat a single meal without one of them bumping your tray, couldn’t march a straight line without Gojo making obscene gestures just out of frame—yet worst of all?

Every little fuck-up is magnified and they make sure to catch you in the most minor of infractions—nothing escaping their eagle eyes when you were the prey in their sights.

When you'd smarten up to their game, trying to keep 2 steps ahead, they'd up the ante and go as far as giving you misleading directives so you'd break a rule you didn't even know existed.

Rules they told you to break in the first place!

They would of course deny that and given their pristine military record, who would even believe you?

All of it they perfectly orchestrated to justify, as they put it—'your much needed discipline if you were to become a proper combat soldier'.

“You heard him, Private...”

Gojo chimes in, lounging back against the sofa in his and Geto's shared office. He pushes up his sunglasses, still wearing them indoors. Yet the teasing way they sit on the bridge of his nose does little to hide the mischievous gleam in his eyes behind them.

“...be a good little Bunny girl before we add another fifty for insubordination, hm?”

Gojo’s charm is boyishly dangerous, all tilted head and sugar sweet smiles—like he’s asking for a favor, not ruining your life.

The kind of charm that would’ve had someone’s mom—yours especially—offering him pie and a spare bedroom without a second thought.

And yeah, shit, maybe you fell for it too in the beginning when you thought he was just being helpful.

But now?

Now you know better.

"...Fine."

You spit out, clearly forgetting yourself.

“What was that, Private?”

Geto asks full of amusement, hand cupping his ear. He pauses and waits.

Gritting your teeth, you swallow your pride with a huff.

“Y-yes, sirs.”

Geto nods and Gojo leans back further—that’s your go'ahead.

Completely bare from the waist down, you straddle Gojo on the sofa.

His cock is already at full attention, leaky and twitching like its saluting you.

Gojo doesn’t even try to hide it, not that he ever does. He’s always hard when you’re near—always ready to pull you behind the barracks and ruin you—especially when Geto's not around to keep him in check.

You align yourself, swallowing the whimper building in your throat.

When they told you to “give them fifty,” you knew they didn’t mean pushups.

Not anymore.

Not since last week’s “corrective training” ended with you on your knees and their cum dripping down your chin like warm frosting on a cupcake.

So here you are.

Preparing to bounce on your superior officer’s cock like your career depends on it.

Because it does.

You'd have to pump your lil' cunny, up and down on Gojo's massive length, fifty times or until he came—which, let's be real...the cruel white haired beauty beneath you could barely make it through twenty.

But that's where Geto came in. He'd make you do fifty more plus what was still owed to Satoru.

You shake away those thoughts for now, focusing on the task at hand.

Lowering yourself, hips trembling as you spear yourself on Gojo’s thick length barreling through your walls like a tank. No matter how many times he fucked you, you'd get just as tight, like you'd never taken him before.

You’re always struggling with those last few inches.

At this point, it’s practically tradition.

“All the way now… Private.”

Geto’s voice is syrupy smooth, but there’s no mistaking the smirk behind it.

You sniffle, cheeks hot, thighs shaking as Gojo’s cock presses right up against your cervix—it's too much. You haven’t even fully bottomed out yet and already your body’s quivering around him, clenching like it’s trying to keep him out and pull him deeper all at once.

You swear you hear him stifle a laugh through his own low moans.

Sweat beads at your brow as you rock your hips forward, just barely managing to slide down the rest of the way with a low, shaky moan.

There.

Fully seated, you're now split open on your superior officer’s cock like the good little recruit you are.

"Good girl, Bunny—now begin."

Geto gives you his words of approval while Gojo hisses, your tight heat already making him gasp for air.

You lift your hips just enough for his thick cockhead to catch at your slick entrance—he won’t slip out, of course. Gojo’s far too big for that.

But it always makes for a good show, and it never fails to get him close faster, turning him to jelly right beneath you.

Taking pride in that as it's the only thing you'd ever have on him, you brace yourself as you start your count.

"One..."

Slamming your hips back down, both you and gojo simultaneously moan.

“Fuhh—uck!”

Gojo groans, voice cracking like a whip, as your clit smacks against his pelvis. The soft scratch of his white hair on your swollen bud sparking through you like static and you savor a bit longer grinding down at the base.

Your body goes taut, drenching his cock as you clench him even tighter and he’s instantly undone—eyes fluttering, neck slack, fighting the urge to roll his head back and bust immediately into your messy, dripping cunt.

"Two..."

"HAH-FUHHCK!"

Gojo cries out, his pitchy moans making Geto sigh in exasperation at the pure display of weakness.

“Shiiit, Bunny—you’re tighter today…”

Gojo groans, panting.

“Been thinkin’ about us, huh baby? Bet you fucked up on purpose just to get punished...not enough I already made you cum on my tongue in the mess hall earlier?

If anything his dirty talk is only doing himself in more. Gojo's blunted nails dig into your thighs, grip shaky like he’s holding on for dear life.

Your face burns, but you don’t answer.

You just keep your count, voice low and breathy.

By four, Gojo’s already sweating.

By six, his abs are twitching.

Your army fatigues are bunched up past your chest, tits out and jiggling obscenely with every slam of your hips. The clink of dog tags against your collarbone echoes with each thrust—his and Geto’s both—tangled together like they own you.

They made you wear their dog tags instead of your own.

Gojo bites down on his lip—hard, blood staining his pretty lips. He's trying to keep it together.

He’s close—too close.

Gojo's eyes flick to Geto in silent panic.

Geto sighs, sharp and unsurprised, like he saw this coming before you even got to five.

“If you don’t make it to twelve this time, Satoru, I’m punishing you next.”

Geto drawls, watching lazily from his chair like a disappointed coach. 

Yet the sight still has him palming his own rapidly hardening cock.

Something about Geto using Gojo’s first name to scold him—like the bratty schoolboy he acts like 80% of the time—tickles you, and you giggle.

Just a little.

Gojo doesn’t find it nearly as funny.

His palm cracks against your ass, sharp and sudden, cutting your laughter short as you cry out. The sting blossoms instantly and the sounds of skin on skin echoing off the office walls like a warning shot fills the room as he does it again.

"....Seven"

Tears begin to pour as Gojo gives you a harsh smack each time only causing more to fall and you get even tighter around him—the pain's never stopped you though, you can't stop.

You'd show them you were a fine military recruit—you wouldn't give up.

You hit ten with a cry, but your mouth doesn’t form a number—just a mess of breathy vowels and drool pouring salaciously from your lips.

You know you have to count though or start over so you take a brief pause to push out the word before making your hips rise once more.

“...T-T-Ten—”

“Wrong. Nine.”

Geto corrects you sharply, eyes narrowing.

“You were on nine, Private. Cock already turning you into a dumb pleasure Bunny? Is that all you are recruit? or should I say slut?”

You mean to shake your head no, but you only end up unintentionally bobbing it 'yes' as your head luls with the wave of your hip motions, hopping up and down Gojo's shaft again and again.

Slick flowing out of you all the more as a twisted part of you enjoys being their little plaything.

As far as Geto and Gojo were concerned, you take cock too well—Far more skilled and obedient than anything else you did as an enlisted soldier.

You weren't built for fighting—you were built to be their perfect little fuckdoll.

You lose count.

Twelve. Thirteen... Fourteen?

You don't even know.

Your plump ass slams back down on Gojo, making him jolt beneath you.

He’s not even spanking you anymore—too far gone. His toes curl in his boots as he grips the fat of your hips like rocking you on him faster, slick with sweat like he’s the one who's been putting in the work all this time.

The next time you lift your hips you can't even say a number—your brains gone utterly smooth, blended up by Gojo's fat cock.

"...mrgh..."

Your eyes roll back.

Geto's brow twitches.

“Pathetic—the both of you.”

Geto mutters, already unbuckling his belt.

By the time he walks over, Gojo’s nearly gone.

He’s just moaning now, holding onto the last shreds of sanity.

Snapping you both out of a fucked out haze, Geto fists your ponytail and pulls.

Ow!

You jolt, dazed and ruined, only to find his cock flushed and furious, impatiently pressing against your thick lips.

“Bunny, if you’re not gonna use your mouth to count, you can use it to serve.”

He pushes your face forward, long sinewy hands wrapping around your head to grip the sides of your face.

Your lips part instinctively, taking him in. Geto doesn't ease in, too aroused by watching the two of you fuck yourselves stupid he attempts to thrust into the hilt causing you to gag and push him out.

“Tsk. None of that now. Show some goddamn gratitude, Private.”

Geto sneers, cock too excited to be lodged past your tonsils.

“You’ve got two of the best officers in the division to mentor you. The least you can do is open that throat pussy a lil' wider."

©𝐛𝐥𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐟𝐱, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.

—

You weren’t a harlot. A traitor, perhaps, but not some whore he randomly found on the street. 

You were that man’s servant— by choice, might you add. 

Going to work in a grand estate sounded better than marrying your neighbour the moment you turned 20. You would’ve been his servant too, along with being forced to pop out dozens of that gremlin of a man’s kids, so off you went to work directly under the lord of the province you had grown up in.

Life before him felt empty— pointless, almost. Sukuna was his name. Is.

There’s no doubt he’s still out there somewhere. 

Despite how cruel he may have been at first, lashing out at you at times like some wounded, feral animal, you loved that man. That cold, broody recluse of a man— one whose skin had apparently never felt the sun's warmth, whose beauty that only a scant few had laid eyes on. It was a pleasure, if anyone had asked you, though they never did during your rare visits home. The villagers kept their distance from his compound during the day and locked themselves indoors at night, scared of the beast their parents, and their parents before them, have told tales of. Your parents included.

They would’ve never believed you anyway— there was a point where you also imagined Sukuna as a hideous monster after all. But no, the man who spat the ugliest of words turned out to be the handsomest of them all. 

You did everything you could to put a smile on his face, and then some to keep it there. Even his temper, as bad as it was, you had grown to adore. He knew how you felt— he saw that adoration in your eyes grow with each passing day. He could claim he didn’t like it all he wanted, yet the way he let you speak freely, to the point where you’d chide him over his impossibly high standards for his home, which no one visited, showed his acceptance long before he admitted it out loud. 

He was a grump. The little pout that’d form on his face made it easy to talk to him that way. At first, he just barelytolerated the way you spoke to him without permission, all the stupid questions you asked him. Then there were the times you’d break something, like a plate… or the ancient vase he had long before cleo-fucking-patra was born. 

You tried to blame it on the vase itself, and in that moment, he swore he’d drain every last drop of blood from your lifeless corpse. But then your eyes began to well up. 

You had no idea how old it was, you just knew it was something he seemed to care about, and you began apologizing over it— offering to glue the thousands of ceramic shards back together, offering to have your wages cut for however long needed. You would’ve been indebted to him for the rest of your life, so would the generations after you too— that was the last thing he wanted. 

At the time, he thought it was because he’d rather not deal with the same clumsiness for centuries, only for him to later realize that he just didn’t like to see you cry. It came out as frustration, his concern just barely concealed by his irritation as he tried to get you to stop. His words fell on deaf ears as you continued to convince him (and yourself) that you could fix it, searching for whatever pieces you missed on the floor. 

Tears still streaming down your cheeks, nothing but sincerity in the words that trembled out of you, not at all considering the risk of cutting a finger on a shard. 

It was pathetic.

He couldn’t handle it.

“Stop it,” he snapped, the sharpness of his tone snapping you out of it and pulling you back to reality. 

“But there’s patterns,” you said, sniffling like a guilty child. “It’ll be like a puzzle game–”

“I don’t need you playing with pottery shards,” he cut you off, making you realize how ridiculous it all sounded. “It’s just a fucking vase.”

It wasn’t just a fucking vase, but it was somehow easier to watch that break into pieces instead of the clumsy woman in front of him.

Things changed between the two of you after that. You wouldn’t say he was more cautious— quite the opposite, actually. Comfortable was a better word. Your questions were met with a hint of amusement rather than annoyance. He would still roll his eyes, sometimes going as far as letting out a long, disappointed sigh, but he still indulged in the exchange. The conversations were no longer one-sided— he began to continue them… somewhat begrudgingly at first, but the interest was obviously there. 

Sukuna was still Sukuna, of course. He’d try to poke fun at you here and there in his own rough, sometimes dark, way. His demands became requests that were followed by subtle threats. Were they bluffs? Yes… most of them at least. It was sometimes difficult to tell. His idea of a joke was talking about someone’s death, then following it up with quite possibly the most evil laugh you had ever heard. You got used to it in the three years you worked for him and lived at the estate. 

By that last year, it was him who’d start to seek you out. Again, in his own way, like calling for you the moment he’d catch a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye. 

“Yes, my lord?” was usually how you’d answer him. You weren’t close enough to call him by his name yet. Who knows how he would’ve responded to that during the time you worked for him. 

“What are you doing out of your quarters at this hour?” he asked rather accusingly, despite not actually caring if you broke the rules. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

“Oh?” you responded, feigning innocence as you looked around his study for a clock. “Past 11 already?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Taking your employment for granted once again, I see,” he grumbled, setting his book down with a sigh. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he looked you up and down. “Perhaps it might be time to give your position to someone else?”

“Perhaps not, my lord,” you responded, kindly shutting down his proposal as if it were some silly little suggestion. “I’d actually argue that I’m your best worker.” 

The battle within himself was lost in that moment, having to look away from you as he barely suppressed a laugh. 

The crystal glasses that he ordered you to polish over a week ago had yet to be touched. Not to mention you’ve successfully killed every single plant that’s been put under your care. Hell, even his recent victims have had more humane endings, not like yours, that’ve had to suffer, parched and ignored for weeks. 

And yet somehow, probably by the grace of the gods that've turned on him long ago, you were still there. There’s only one other servant who had worked under him longer than you had, but the difference between you two was that she actually listened to him. 

Something had blossomed between you two that night. The funny thing is, you two spent centuries arguing over who started it. He always claimed it was you, dropping yourself down onto his lap, when you could’ve simply left. Yet he was the one who took hold of your waist and led you there. 

You may not have been a whore, but he sure fucked you like one on top of his desk that night. Pinning your knees to your chest, leaving you open for him to do as he pleased with you, as if that were your only purpose in life. 

To make him feel something other than the boredom and bloodlust he spent his entire life ricocheting between. To satisfy a hunger he didn’t realize he had until you wrapped your legs around him. A hunger that only seemed to grow from the way he had you whimpering under him and clawing at his back as he drove his cock into you— showing you what it meant to belong to someone like him, which hardly meant anything at the time.

To be with him was to be ruined, to be consumed. It was as natural as a wildfire tearing through a field, reducing even the most beautiful flowers to nothing but remnants of what once was. Was it cruel? Of course it was, but you wouldn’t criticise a fire for burning all that’s in its path. 

So he takes, and takes, and takes. Too selfish to even consider your fate afterwards, or what should’ve been. He was fucked the moment he realized he liked how his name sounded when it rolled off your tongue, all breathy and desperate, sounding like a prayer for once rather than a curse. He sealed his own fate that night when he spent the entirety of it making you say it over and over, relentlessly hitting your sweet spot until you were crying and cumming around his cock, again, and again, and again.

He went from taunting you to talking you through it, to crashing his lips against yours as he fucked you through each one. 

Sukuna wasn’t going to kill you. 

Not that you knew that— you didn’t know anything at that time. You were just a girl with her first love. Naive, too, just like everyone else before experiencing heartbreak for the first time. But if you asked Sukuna, he’d say you were more foolish than naive. He teased you for years over it, how you just offered yourself to him on a silver platter. It wasn’t every day the prey decided to run towards their predators, yet there you were, with all the trust in your heart. All the stars in your eyes. 

His dumb little lamb. 

He thought it was sweet how your feelings blinded you from all the signs of danger. Even after your relationship with him had begun and he started giving you signs and leaving little clues, you didn’t see them. 

At one point, he came back home in the early morning, with unwiped blood on both sides of his mouth, and you still didn’t mention it. It was as if you refused to see it. You didn’t even bother to ask where he’d been. Any question or comment that could’ve led you to find out what he had been up to, you avoided. 

He didn’t actually think you were dumb, but he definitely thought you were smarter than you let on after that day. Truth be told, he didn’t have much of a plan— if you actually said something to him, there was a chance it could’ve ended badly for you. 

He was far from perfect at the beginning of the life you shared with him.

The blatant signs stopped after that night. Aside from him randomly being gone until the early mornings, he was normal. The sunlight didn’t burn him to ashes whenever it hit his skin. He ate meat, seared and always rare, and drank wine when having dinner with you. You never asked if he’d like to have a bite of your food. He was said to be a picky eater when you first started working for him, and you never questioned it. He already had the personality of one anyway. 

You were happy with the life you had with him, and despite never saying it, you knew Sukuna loved you back. You were convinced that you’d never hear him utter those words, and it was something you were okay with. He was better at showing it anyway, whether it be through gifts he’d randomly give you or choosing to take care of you himself instead of the servants whenever you got sick. 

Then it happened. 

The night you thought it’d be okay to be less cautious was the same night he thought it’d be fine to be less discreet. He was tired, hadn’t had a real, fresh meal in days. The servants stayed in their quarters during those hours anyway, there would’ve been more than enough time for Uraume to clean up the mess before work started for them. 

Unlucky for him, he just had to start a relationship with the one servant who always took curfew as a suggestion rather than an order. It’s no different now that you’re no longer one either.

One could imagine his irritation at hearing a stifled breath while he tried to feed in peace. You were quiet enough for most people, but, unlucky for you, his hearing was better than most. Maybe you would’ve just gone back to the room had he just kept his head down, but then again,  he turned the room he chose to sit into a fucking mess. 

Not to mention, there was an entire dead body right in front of him. He was also fairly certain they were in the early stages of some sort of disease, judging by the taste. It was one thing after another— nothing seemed to be going for him that night.

But what set him off? 

Looking over his shoulder and seeing nothing but pure terror in your eyes. It was the kind of look people gave him when they realized that they weren’t going to just be killed by some bad guy. With that, there was some hope— whether it be hope that he had a change of heart or hope that he’d get caught and punished one day. But then they realize they’re just food. His food. 

Which is somehow worse since they didn’t do anything to deserve it. It wasn’t some divine punishment for something they had done. He was just hungry.

At least with humans, you could govern them, give them a set of rules to live by, and punish them whenever they broke one. There’s always a sense of comfort in having safety and order. There were obvious exceptions, though. Animals? That’s fine. People need to eat, they need to feed their families. Animals kill and eat each other all the time. 

Just don’t forget that Sukuna also has to eat.

Just because it’s inevitable doesn’t mean it’s wrong. But he was human once— he understands the hopelessness of it all, he just didn’t expect to see that in you. Not after he’s shown you he could take care of you when you were physically at your weakest. Not when you go to sleep and wake up next to him, every single day. Unharmed. He knew that somewhere deep down, you knew what he was— he’s shown you. There was no reason for you to look as surprised as you were.

The silence between you dragged on for what felt like forever. You usually had something to say, something that would take attention away from the blood he’d sometimes have on him. But it was everywhere this time— the floor, his hands, actively dripping down his chin as he continued to stare you down with this bored, unimpressed look. He was angry, to the point where he didn’t even know how to express it.

But he suppressed it, pushing it down just enough for him to try to give you a chance to say something that wouldn’t worsen his mood.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked in a tone softer than usual. All it did was send your heart racing— he was able to hear that, too. 

“I– no. It’s nothing, I just–,” you lightly rambled, still at a complete loss for words. All he did was mock you, humming each time you stumbled on your words, as if he understood how nervous you were despite how pleased he seemed to be by it. “I thought I heard something. Just wanted to see if it was you.”

“You sure?” he continues to question you, slowly getting up from the seat and turning to fully face you. “You’re usually happy to see me. You look more…”

“Sorry,” you murmured, struggling to keep your eyes on his as he slowly began to walk up to you. “I’m just tired. I think I’ll– it’s probably better if I go back up to bed. I can– do you want me to wait for you? Before I go back to sleep?”

He smiled and looked back, looking over the room and the body on the floor, then returned his gaze to you. “Wait for what?” 

“Just… until you’re ready to go to sleep,” you mumbled, clearly not wanting to say what he wanted you to say, nor giving him the acknowledgement he wanted. 

“Is that what you want?”

“Why wouldn’t I want that?” You let out a little laugh, one that was too forced and way too nervous.

He laughs with you as he starts going through all the different reasons in his head. “Just wondering, you looked disgusted earlier when you first interrupted me.”

He didn’t even try to hide how offended he felt from just that alone.

“I— no, I didn’t.”

“And then you started looking really scared,” he continued, clearly not looking to argue over what he saw with his own two eyes. The hostility in his tone only grew as he kept going. “Terrified, actually, even though I never actually tried to hide this from you. You just looked the other way—” he suddenly cuts himself off and slightly snaps, “I need you to stop looking at me like I’m about to fucking attack you.”

“I’m- I’m not,” you swore, feeling the tears begin to well up. “Why would I—”

“You’re not?” he barely scoffed, too tired yet too angry to completely let it all go. He continued to get closer, backing you into the corner. “Why do you keep stepping back then?”

You wondered if he even realized how unfair he was being— the way he began to intimidate you, just to prove his point. Yet with the way he was acting, telling him that you were just in a state of shock at first wouldn't have helped. There was no point in telling him that being scared that you bothered him was different from being scared of him either. He seemed too delirious to even think straight, let alone tell the difference. 

Too scared to admit it and too scared to deny it, left you wondering if there was even anything you could say to calm him down. You always look back at this day as the one and only time you truly feared Sukuna. 

And how he managed to make it so much worse. Slamming his hand down against the wall, right next to your head, making you startle out of your fucking skin in the process. He leaned in close so you’d hear every last word he threw at you. 

“You know… I already knew you wanted to avoid this for as long as you could, and I tried to respect that,” he began to mutter, low yet as threatening as ever. “But you’ve been running around the estate, playing the bratty, spoiled-rotten wife. You even dressed the part with all the clothes you asked for, and I gladly gave you. I wanted to make you happy and took pride in that, but I didn’t just fucking spoil you— I took care of you. Every time you got sick and weak and fucking vulnerable, I took care of you. Whenever your body was so frail from how hard a common cold hit you, I was gentle with you— I didn’t want to break you. And not once did I ever fucking complain, I just wanted you to be healthy and NORMAL again,” he says, starting to lose his temper again, hearing the pain in his voice as those last words tore through him. “Yet the moment you see me doing what I need to do to survive, you can’t even try to hide how fucking disgusted you are at the sight of me.” 

“I wasn’t disgusted by you, Sukuna!” you tried to argue, but your words continued to fall on deaf ears. He didn’t believe you.

“And if I knew this was where we’d end up, with you fearing me and keeping your fucking distance from me, I would've snapped your neck the moment you stepped foot into this house,” he added, managing to make that last blow the most painful out of everything he’s said by far. 

You believed him, even if it was only true for the time being, while his own brain forced him to run laps around it until he ran himself into the ground.

Not that it hurt any less. 

Unable to keep up with how fast your chest rose and collapsed, failing to control the breaths and heaves it created. There was nowhere for you to go, and for a moment, you genuinely believed he was going to follow through with what he felt he should’ve done to you at the start. But that was just one of the million things going through your mind, all while trying to get over everything he’d just said to you in his own rage. 

“I don’t— I don’t even know what to say to make you believe me,” you whispered, voice threatening to break after each word, unsure where to even look as he continued to stare at you. “I wasn’t scared, just… shocked. Then you turned around and you were— you looked mad. I thought I was bothering you. I told you I’d wait for you. I ju- I just didn’t want to bother you.”

The explanation made him take a step back, and only then did you begin to feel like you could start breathing again slowly. Though the tears continued to flow uncontrollably. 

The sight of you crying brought on a guilt that made him want to implode, especially that day. It was one of those memories that made his chest tighten whenever he remembered it, having yet to free himself from the thick layer of dread it never failed to coat him in. You could barely even look at him, but he forced himself to look at you— standing next to the bloody handprint on the wall, serving as a reminder that he caged you in so he could continue to rip into you. Then, leaving you with no other choice in the end but to hold on to your own arms, because his arms were covered in some random man’s blood. 

He didn’t even deserve to touch you at that point, nor did he deserve to be forgiven, but you did. There wasn’t an angry bone in your body that day. 

“I’ve loved you for years now— it wouldn’t go away after just one day.” 

You made it look so easy, how you could tell him you loved him without expecting to hear it back. He didn’t get it— he struggled enough with apologizing.

“I wasn’t trying to rub that in your face… just needed you to know I do all of that stuff because I know you like it.” 

He sucked at explaining himself.

“I know. Thank you.” 

“Same with taking care of you whenever you get sick. I wasn’t trying to— fuck. I hate watching you suffer through them.” 

“I know. I always feel bad for you whenever I catch a cold.” 

“Don’t. I want you to be okay.” 

“Thank you.” 

But you noticed that whenever he felt guilty, he’d keep going until he finally found the right thing to say.

“And that last thing I said— it’s not true.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not. I’d never kill you.” 

“You were delirious and hurt—“

“I hate seeing you in a bad mood, and I’m sorry that I went and put you in one anyway. I can’t even think about you dying 60 years from now. I’d never kill you.” 

And luckily, you never did. 

Getting him to turn you was honestly a lot harder than you had originally thought it’d be. It was a lot of convincing, and caused a lot of fights where you both had threatened to leave each other. 

“There’s beauty in being human.” You never imagined those words coming out of Sukuna’s mouth, but they did. He thought that growing old and returning to the earth was something to look forward to. 

In a time when you genuinely thought that maybe it was time to give up on him and accept the idea that you’d outlive him one day, he showed you a different side of himself. One that had a little more humility. He suddenly became honest about all his life's regrets and all that he had learned from them. Reflecting on the versions of himself in the past that he’s regretted the most and the ones he’s most proud of. 

For someone who wanted you to stay human as much as he did, you were surprised to learn that being a vampire wasn’t one of his regrets in life. He liked being a part of history, and he looked forward to being a part of the future, to all that would fall and all that would rise in its place. 

You held on to him a little tighter after that, pestering him until he finally admitted that he didn’t want you to die.

He thought you deserved it all— experiencing all the milestones, falling in love and getting married, experiencing parenthood, growing old with someone by your side, all while still having a way out. 

But having a way out still meant that he’d have to wake up one day and realize that you just simply didn’t exist anymore. You’d be gone, and it’d be him left hurting knowing that the world went on without you.

So he did it. For once not out of the need for violence or control, or any other reason that seemed to always stem from chaos or misery. 

Forever was his gift to you. It was his way of thanking you, the one who held all his admiration and adoration. To say he loved you wasn’t enough— you were all of his love. The keeper of his heart, the source of his joy, all the good that was left of him.

Centuries had passed since that day— the beginning of forever, or what you really only remember as the one and only time Sukuna told you that he loved you. 

You had once made a joke saying that his “I Love You” was enough to last you until the end of time itself, yet here you were centuries later still feeling the same way every time you look at the letter that was on its last leg, despite being laminated. You’ve gotten copies made over the years, physical and digital, but like words that came from Sukuna himself, nothing will ever beat the original copy that he wrote himself.

The 1700s blurred into the 1800s. You made and lost friends, moved to multiple countries, sold homes and bought apartments, lived in a suburb, then moved to a farm, went to school, dropped out, went back, got a few degrees, dropped out, and went back.  Not to mention all the name changes. The only constant in your life was Sukuna— your partner, best friend, boyfriend, husband, your enemy every 50 years, and to some random guy you two met at a train station, your perverted boss who made you share hotel rooms with him. You watched each other change and become new people. Picking up new hobbies and learned random talents. Constants, but always growing.

And by the early 1900s, you were gone— taking nothing but a small carry-on with you, along with that stupid love letter he wrote. There were no phones yet— if there were, he’s sure you would’ve thrown it off a bridge, purely out of determination that you were going to fucking find yourself or something. All you left him was a little note that said: 

“I think it’s time for a break. I read in the paper the other day that distance makes the heart grow fonder <3 I hope that we can fall in love all over again the next time we meet. In the meantime, I will be doing some ‘soul searching’.”

p.s— i love you ! ! ! please take care of yourself ! i will be thinking of you more than you know. don't get a girlfriend.

He wanted to murder you then, and he still wants to murder you now,  well over a hundred years later. 

Yeah, that god damn note was written in 1923. He gave you a year to “find yourself” before he started looking and has not stopped since. And with how hard it’s been, you’re either dead or just purposely making it hard for him to find you. 

It’s the latter. He can feel when others die. You are very fucking alive. 

And yet, despite all the stress you’ve caused him in the last century, the love he has for you is alive and real. Unfortunately. If he wasn’t insane before, he definitely was now. There was once a time when he swore he couldn’t imagine you dying, but to be completely honest, he’s had many days where that was all he needed to feel better.

Nanami is not a cold man.

He might seem like it on the outside, because he has too much going on inside of his head to really show his warmth to other people, not that there was much warmth there to start with. But it is there.

For example, you know that he’s much more empathetic than Gojo, who tries his best, but it doesn’t come naturally to him the way that it comes to Nanami. Most of the people in this job become cold and brittle with time, as the deaths of their friends and the grim existence of curses eat away at their warmth until there’s nothing left but a husk. Cold, brittle, alone.

And Nanami, despite how hard he might try to convince you otherwise, is not cold nor brittle. That’s why you chose him to watch over you during this upcoming… sensitive time.

It happens every month or so, yours aren’t as regular as other omegas you know. Yours tends to hit you hard and fast, and it isn’t as predictable as your friends’ heats. Last month, for example, you were in the middle of a mission out in the field when you felt the familiar creeping of warmth up the back of your spine. It lingers in the pit of your stomach, ignites your skin inch by inch. Slowly, surely, it overtakes you– once a month, every month. Rinse and repeat. You go from a dignified woman who does an incredibly dangerous job which requires excellent physical prowess and mental stability to a mind-broken, lustful creature that wants nothing more than to gather all of her favorite things in her bed and get fucked until it’s over.

You want to mate. Like an animal.

It’s always made you sick. You’re one of the omegas who desperately wishes she were born an alpha, or even a beta. Alphas are easily tempted and often over-indulgent when they smell an omega, but at least they can live without fear of being taken advantage of when their rut hits. There’s no instances of omegas assaulting alphas when they’re in rut.

Beta would probably be best, though. No heat, no rut, no urges to be bred like a wild beast or to breed like a wild beast. They live life simply and quietly, and they marry each other with ease.

Alas, you are no alpha, and you are no beta, which is why you lay in bed this evening with four blankets, six pillows, three sweatshirts, and two pairs of sweatpants. The numbers are precise and exact, no more and no less. You’ve arranged them three times, you’ll do it again.

The heat is tingling at the base of your neck already. You move to wipe a bit of sweat that’s just starting to gather at your brow, and you know that you’re starting to smell. You’ve heard that the smell of an omega who’s about to go into heat is sickly sweet, saccharine, like fresh peaches or cotton candy or cinnamon rolls.

You know that Gojo often sees an omega who smells a lot like milk chocolate and espresso when she goes into heat.

“Her pussy tastes sorta like whipped cream– drives me crazy–”

“You’re so fucking gross.” Nanami snickered when you said that a few days ago, which led you into the conversation about heats and ruts that led into another conversation, which led you here, locked in your bedroom with all of your favorite things, while Nanami keeps watch outside for the next few days.

He’s a man of great self-restraint, and he’s never taken an omega, by his own choice to do so. It’s probably because the job wouldn’t allow him to take a mate without incurring serious risk to the relationship. Alphas and omegas mate for life– he’s too responsible to risk that when he has a job with a fifty-something percent death rate.

The looming threat of death and despair doesn’t keep your heightening senses from picking up on his scent as it just barely wafts beneath the doorway to your bedroom, though. He smells masculine, sort of like eucalyptus and pine, woodsy and grounding. You knew that the scent of an alpha would drive you crazy at a time like this.

Dealing with that issue, however, is better than the alternative. When you’re in the thick of it, you’ll want any alpha. You’ll want them so fucking desperately that you’d claw the door down to get to one– anyone would do, anyone. Even terrible Gojo, who would fuck you through it and purposefully not mark you because he doesn’t want to mate.

Nanami, a man of some warmth and fantastic self-control won’t let you claw your way through the door and fuck the first alpha you smell, or the first that smells you. He’ll keep you safe, protect you, and he won’t burst through your bedroom door to bite you and breed you like an animal. He’s not an animal, he’s a gentleman, and he cares about you.

You think about the sort of protector that he is, you take several sets of deep breaths from your spot underneath the blankets in the center of your bed, and you clench your thighs together hard. He is protective, isn’t he? He’s taking care of you now, even though your scent must be driving him crazy out there. He’d take good care of you in the future, he’d take good care of you and the little blonde babies that he fucks into your wet cunt when you’re–

“Are you alright?” A voice startles you.

You can hear it through the rather thin piece of wood that separates you from the six foot tall alpha that stands on the other side of it.

“Y-Yeah,” you reply, shifting beneath the covers to fight the urge to slip your hand into the waistband of the sweats you’re wearing.

You’ll have to take them off soon. It’s becoming unbearable to be clothed, and it will only get worse as this progresses.

“Your scent changed,” he remarks, and you notice that his voice has taken on a thicker, more husky timbre tonight than it usually has, “are you afraid?”

He always speaks lowly with a hint of the rasp he’s gained from smoking cigarettes all these years. His voice never sounds bad, but tonight it’s…

You shiver, and you can hardly fight the urge to touch yourself anymore.

“Afraid of what?” You ask, moving to take your sweatpants off.

Your shirt goes with it, over your head and thrown into the floor where it belongs. It doesn’t have the right scent, nothing here does. You want something more masculine, something darker that you can bury your face into when you’re biting down on the sheets later trying to soothe the itch between your legs.

“Of me,” he replies, and the doorknob makes a soft clicking sound, as though he’s resting his hand on it while he talks to you.

It’s locked, because alphas are not bulletproof, not even self-controlled, quiet, kind Nanami. Instincts are one hell of a drug, and everyone is susceptible.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you respond, noticing that your own voice has taken on a more whiny, desperate tinge when you speak.

Normally you’re so controlled, standing tall and proud, but you’re reduced now. You’ll only be reduced further into the puddle of slick that you’re quickly becoming.

“Nanami?” You whimper out, before biting your lip and trying to control the sound of your breaths. They fall faster when you remember that there’s an alpha right there who could help you, who could make you feel better.

“Yes?” He responds.

The doorknob clicks again, you release a breathy moan at the mere prospect of him coming inside.

He won’t, he swore it. Even if you plead or cry, even if you get on your hands and knees at his feet and beg him to breed you, he won’t. He gave his word a week ago.

He’s never broken a promise, it’s a true sign of his empathetic nature. It won’t do you any good to go out and beg, but the urge grows with each breath.

“Can you give me one of your shirts?” You ask, negotiating with your desire, now fully naked and sinking deeper into the blankets that smell all wrong, so wrong.

There’s nothing right here. No amount of rearranging will fix what’s broken.

“I can’t open the door,” he says, and you can hear that his breaths are falling faster, too.

“Please,” you plead quietly, “just one–”

“I’m not opening the fucking door,” he responds roughly and harshly all at once, lashing out at you because his self-control is waning, it seems.

“Take your sleeping pills. Now.”

You’re stiff and still in the spot that you lay after hearing that command. The you that exists outside of your heat would’ve not responded well to such a harshly given demand, but she is no longer here with you. So, you do as told, and you take the pills that will hopefully help you sleep through the night.

If you aren’t getting fucked, you’ll need to sleep and drink water. You won’t have an appetite for food, but your body needs to rest as much as it can to recover from the energy that’s going into putting out pheromones for your mate. You know it, and you recite it to yourself, trying to hold onto what little sanity there is left.

They take effect after a few minutes, thankfully, but your body feels burning hot to the touch now, and you’re touching it more than you should. You fall asleep with your hand between your thighs, with slick dripping onto the mattress as you pump your fingers inside yourself over and over against your g-spot. Even if your sleep, you’re still pumping just faintly.

Nanami isn’t a cold man.

In fact, he’s fucking burning alive.

Standing outside your bedroom door, he can tell by your scent that you’ve fallen asleep now. He hasn’t moved since he last gave you the command to take your medicine, for fear of what his own body would do if he did.

Instead, he’s standing there with his fist clenched so hard around the feeble little door handle that he fears he might break it if his fingers tighten even slightly more than they are. He stares at his white knuckles, and he takes a deep breath that only makes this worse.

He swore to protect you while you’re going through this, but goddammit he wants to kick this too thin door down and fuck into you until you break.

Your scent is sweet, but not so sickly sweet that it disgusts Nanami. He’s been around omegas when they’re near their heat, and frankly he’s never been very tempted by them. The scent of slick has always been so sickeningly saccharine that it’s only disinterested and annoyed him. His vague indifference to the scent of omegas is the reason that he agreed to keep watch over you through your heat this month.

He didn’t know it would be like this. The others, they aren’t compelling nor particularly arousing to Nanami. He’s been lucky throughout his adulthood as an alpha to not be tempted by scents and flavors in the way that other alphas he knows are indulgent.

You, however…

Oh, you do smell sweet, but you smell soft and airy. Like warm vanilla with just a hint of citrus. It’s a natural musk, so it’s not like perfume or confections, but a combination of your natural pheromones and the ambrosial lure of your heat.

It’s still the first day, and he’s never felt so compelled to break through a door or a fucking wall to get to anything before.

For the first time in his life, he’s feeling something other than vague indifference shrouded by duty.

For the first time in his life, Nanami wants something . Desperately, painfully, he wants you, needs you.

He owns you. You wouldn’t have called him here if he didn’t, right? You wouldn’t have called him to protect you if you didn’t subconsciously know that you’re his omega, that you need him to take care of you, to keep you safe. He’s the only one that you trust to keep you safe during your heat.

You know that you’re his. You must.

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, gripping the door handle harder now. Gripping harder, turning it even though the lock protests, trying to open it.

He swore that he wouldn’t do this. He promised. He never breaks a promise.

The door handle won’t budge

He just wants to see that you’re alright. That makes sense. He needs to protect you, he’s here to protect you. How can he keep you safe if he can’t even see you?

Or touch you.

The lock is tougher than it looks. It’s starting to make a screeching sound.

He can’t protect you if he can’t touch you.

Or fuck you.

Breed you.

Bite the little scent spot on your throat, show everyone that you chose him to protect you. Him, not Gojo, not a trusted friend. You made your choice. Everyone should see it, smell him on you, see the way that your stomach grows rounder when he impregnates you tonight.

It’s just about to break, his forearm clenches hard as he turns the lock almost past the point of no return. Soon, you’ll be his. You aren’t yet, but soon. Soon, the whole world will know what you’ve decided, what he’s decided.

He’s so focused on breaking the stupid, stupid little knob, that he doesn’t even notice when it unlocks on its own. His eyes have to adjust to the dark when the door opens easily, and he stumbles forward a step.

He stumbles forward, landing inches from you. His hand rests on your forearm, a subconscious movement to keep you from falling. His omega, no one else’s. He can’t let you get hurt.

If he weren’t forcibly going into his rut tonight, he’d feel your skin and know that you have a fever, but he has one, too.

If anything, you feel cold to the touch tonight, because Nanami is nothing frozen nor brittle, he’s burning magma against your skin when he pulls you into his arms, when his lips collide with yours in a kiss that’s barely a kiss, and more an angry meeting of tongue and teeth.

Animals don’t need to exchange words when they’re going to mate, and neither do the two of you. That’s all you are– animals when you break the buttons on his shirt apart to lick and kiss at his chest, his stomach, and animals again when he unfastens his belt and throws it across the room, and your feeble, cold fingers undo the buttons and zipper of his pants to tug them down.

“Spread your fucking legs,” he growls, as he crawls overtop of you, doing the movement for you with his large, calloused hands when you aren’t fast enough for him.

His cock aches and burns where its pressed against his stomach, leaking precum onto his skin that he’ll fuck into you soon enough.

“Please, please, please–” you beg, shivering and shaking beneath him as he thrusts two fingers into your pussy.“More,” he murmurs, as his dark eyes look into yours in the darkness.

Your scent is flooding his senses, his psyche. There are no coherent thoughts left in him, and none left in you. There’s nothing in the world tonight but two fingers much larger than yours pumping and thrusting inside of you, and the feeling of euphoria that’s almost good enough cascading over your shaking form like a tidal wave.

“Please, more, please– want your cock, need your cock, fuck– Nanami, please–” you moan, dragging your fingernails down his back in anticipation.

“Gonna mark you, gonna– fuck–” Nanami hisses and spasms, thrusting inside of your drenched cunt in one go.

He cums right then and there, with his first hard thrust into you. It throbs inside of you as you lock your legs around his hips to drag him deeper, further in. His teeth bite down on your shoulder, not quite marking you yet, but soon.

He pulls half out, the slickness of you is already spread along his stomach, and he’d like to bathe in it tonight. His cum starts to drip out of you, but it’s stopped when he thrusts inside again, again, again.

His teeth sink into your skin wherever they land, his hands grip your thighs so hard that they’ll leave bruises, there are no thoughts left in his mind other than fuck, and breed.

“You’re my omega,” he breathes against the bruise he’s just made with his teeth, “fuck, mine.”

He shivers in delight and relief. No one else can fuck you now. His scent is all over you, his seed is inside you. The primal part of his brain that needs to possess you isn’t anxious anymore, you’re where you belong.

You are his, every inch of your burning skin that meets his, and every inch that doesn’t. He lifts you up by your hips, holding your body weight up with his muscular forearms with ease to get a better angle to just fuck you in. The only sounds in the room are those of skin meeting skin, and your cries of yes and please and more and cum inside me.

He does just that, every single cry that you make is answered by his hips moving in tandem with yours. You’re cumming as often as you’re breathing, shivering, shaking, and panting beneath him, as he can’t decide whether to watch the swell of your tits bounce with the intensity of his thrusts, or the spot where your bodies are meeting.

Vanilla, citrus, and you– that’s all there is. He throws your ankles on top of his shoulders, bearing his weight down on top of your smaller body so that he can kiss you while he slams into you. “Na- na - mi–”

You cry out his name again and again like a mantra or a prayer. It is the best sound that’s ever graced his eardrums, he’s certain when he’s this deep inside of you that there’s no sweeter scent nor sound that could compare to yours.

He’ll take good care of you, he thinks about it when he moves inside of you, starting to draw close to release again. He feels the throbbing of blood moving absolutely nowhere but to his cock as he drives it inside of you, twitching and fucking his cum back into you before it can drip down between your asscheeks and stain the sheets even worse than they already are.

He won’t let you out of this mating press until the sun blots out and he dies, or until he fucks a baby so deep into you that you can’t remove it, can’t deny that it’s his and no one else’s. He needs to mark you, he’s fucking you but he needs to mark you.

He bites your lower lip when you continue to kiss him, before diving down to your neck while you’re screaming his name, and an orgasm washes over you. Your inner muscles tighten and constrict around him, and he presses more of his weight onto you until it must be hard to breathe. You’re tightening around him, sucking him into your pussy.

He can’t fight his urges, he can’t fight the burning heat within him for a second longer. His teeth sink into your throat right where your pheromones would come from, and you screech either from pain or pleasure, he doesn’t know.

He’s cumming inside of you again, biting harder when you try to move beneath him, causing a whimper of pain to erupt from you. Nanami tastes your body in his mouth while he gives you short, hard thrusts that bury his seed inside and keep it there.

He breathes a sigh of relief with his teeth still buried in your skin, holding your body up even higher at an angle so that his cum can’t escape you. You’re finally his, he doesn’t have to be cold and brittle, he can let his burning warmth seep into your body and stay there, and then he can breed you just like this again and again.

Everything is better here in his arms. You’re happy, safe, warm, marked by your mate. Nanami sleeps soundly next to you, and he deserves it after the three days he’s been awake in his claiming of you.

With your ass pressed against his abdomen, he’s still buried inside of you, still hard even in his sleep. He doesn’t mind the mess of cum that’s between both of your legs, and neither do you. His strong arms are wrapped around your waist, and your body is just starting to cool down.

When your sanity returns fully, maybe you’ll regret it. Maybe you’ll wish you hadn’t stumbled forward to your door in a haze of lust and desire. The stinging set of teeth marks on your neck and shoulders feel like marks of pride this morning, but you aren’t so sure about tomorrow.

Choso laughs an outraged, broken laugh.

“The issue with that, dear brother, is that she lied to me. She told me she was done speaking with him, I was rather happy to hear it, and now they are engaged.” Choso has his head in his hands, pushing his loose hair back.

Eso, rather done with the conversation, chooses to instead humor his older brother.

“Brother, you are truly smart, but also an awful idiot sometimes.” He simply states.

Choso gawks, not used to pushback from his younger siblings. He points a shaky finger at Eso.

“You… you… I ought to-”

“Think deeply about this, brother. I will not make the connection for you. Discover why you are so upset about this matter.”

Choso, now the confused one, slowly lowers his hand.

“What? I just told you, she lied to me.” 

“Perhaps she did, perhaps she did not. But I do not think that is the only reason you are disturbed by this piece of information.” Eso claims.

“What else could possibly be upsetting me, Eso. Please explain.” Choso states, walking around the room, “God, and you call me the idiot.”

Eso sighs, closing his newspaper.

“One day, brother, you’ll see what the rest of us already do. Maybe not Yuuji, but he is not the brightest. The rest of us, however, are not so blind.” Eso cryptically tells Choso.

“Eso, I do not know what is going on with you, but I do not have time for this. I must figure out what is going through that foolish woman’s head.” He says, standing up and putting his suit jacket on.

He strides out of the door, a man on a mission. Eso, still seated, watches him go with a small shake of his head.

He’s rather done with this whole thing, and he has a feeling in his gut that this situation won’t be over anytime soon.

—

Choso knocks on the door of your estate fervently, waiting impatiently for the butlers to answer. When they do, he immediately requests your presence.

“I need to see her. Now.” Choso says sternly.

He is invited in, and he waits in the lobby of your home, pacing back and forth. He stares at whatever catches his attention, hoping to find something to pass the time with.

Your home is bright and airy. Baby blue walls adorned with paintings of greenery and joy. He recognizes one of the paintings hanging as one you did yourself. He hears footsteps from the top of the staircase, and swivels around to only be met with your mother. 

She slowly walks down, acknowledging his presence with a stern once over.

“Duke Kamo, what a surprise! What graces us with your presence?” She says, voice gravelly.

Impatiently, Choso shuts her down.

“I am here to see your daughter.”

Your mother laughs, and it fills him with heated annoyance.

“I thank you for your time, Duke Kamo, but I am afraid we are no longer accepting suitors as of now.”

Choso pauses, a blush creeping down his face. He stutters, not expecting his presence to be misinterpreted this way.

“I… I apologize, my lady, but that was not my intention. I simply seek to speak with her about her recent engagement.” He states firmly.

“Ah, yes! Such a joyous affair, is it not?” She chuckles.

“Respectfully, I-”

“Lord Kamo?” 

Your voice echoes from the top of the stairs behind your mother, and his eyes leave her immediately. You’re underdressed, in a mere nightgown and barefoot, like you were caught off guard. Your hair is mused like you just woke up, and his chest pulls tight.

“My lady.” He greets, bending into a soft bow.

“What on earth are you doing here looking like that?! Get back inside, now!” Your mother scolds loudly.

Choso, rather sick of your mother, immediately opens his mouth to defend you. Instead, you sigh, walking down the stairs past her.

“It’s fine, Mother. ‘Tis just the Duke. Go back inside, I will be with you shortly.” You plead.

Choso watches you come down, the sun draping down around you through the window. It is almost like a halo, he finds. Taking in your words, he feels an innate sense of satisfaction that you feel comfortable enough to be so vulnerable around him, and that you’re willing to disobey your mother to display it.

Your mother, clearly aggravated by your rebellion, huffs. She stomps her way back inside, no doubt to complain to her husband.

His satisfaction is short-lived. You turn to face him, and you look absolutely exhausted. There are dark circles under your eyes that were not present the last time he saw you, your eyes the variety of swollen that only comes from hours of crying.

“What is it that you require, my lord?” You ask softly.

He gapes for a moment, unsure of how to approach the topic. His previously practiced approach that was basically entirely on the offensive slips his mind completely.

“I’m here about your engagement.” He decides on.

“Ah. That.” You chuckle humourlessly. 

“You cannot seriously be thinking about marrying him. I thought you were past this. We just spoke about how you were done with him!” Choso says, the hurt seeping through into his words.

“Indeed.”

“So, what, you lied? Were you speaking with him this whole time?”

You laugh again, tone more bitter this time.

“I did not lie. I was under the impression he understood we were not to speak any longer. I was wrong.”

“So what, that’s it, then? You just get married off to him like cattle?”

“You act like I have a choice in the matter. Why do you care anyways? This has nothing to do with you!” You angrily spit.

“It has everything to do with me!” He shouts back.

“Oh, god, please explain that to me. You told me a while back that I was scaring away suitors. Is that what this is about? You being wrong in your assumptions?!” 

“My brother cares about you, which means by extension, I-” He breathes through his nose, calming himself, “Which means that I need to look out for your wellbeing. I cannot do that if you are marrying a man as despicable as him.”

“You think I do not know that he is despicable? I despise him! You always do this.” You groan, running a hand over your face.

“Do what?”

“Pick a fight with me over everything! You’re insufferable. Is that all you came here to do? Argue with me?” 

“No! I came here to try to convince you to end your engagement, but it always has to be a fight with you apparently!” 

Choso leaves out the part that he’s trying to do this for your own good, because for some reason, he’s uncomfortable with admitting that he cares. Aggravated, you bite back.

“And I am trying to tell you, my lord, I can’t. That’s your problem, you just don’t listen to me!”

“You can, you are just choosing not to fight for it!”

“I have fought my whole life for freedom and it has surmounted to absolutely nothing. So no, I won’t fight, because nothing will come of it!” You yell, pointing a finger at him as if this is somehow his fault.

“Do you even know about his past? He’s killed people. Do you understand the gravity of what that means?” Choso says, nearly begging you.

“It does not matter. None of it matters. It’s over.” You state, voice gradually decreasing in volume.

“Are your standards really that low that you would accept spending the rest of your life with a monster?! What happened to wanting a man that was at least kind?! You would be happy to be by his side forever without even attempting otherwise?”

Silence. It’s sudden, eerie, and Choso finds himself nearly suffocated by it. His words seem to have finally broken you down.

You sniffle, and Choso’s anger drops to zero almost instantaneously.

“Just go. Leave.” You whisper. 

“Look,” He begins, “I am sorry I upset you, but I heavily implore you to think-”

“Leave!” You scream at him. “I wish to not see your face any longer! You’ve made your point, now go.”

He stops talking. Sees the state you’re in. Knows no good will come of trying to sway you now. With a slow nod, he turns to leave, walking towards the front door. Before he goes, he speaks once more. One final attempt.

“You would not be alone. There are people that are on your side. I am on your side.” He says softly, before opening the door and walking out.

He doesn’t look back.

—

The third ball of the season. It’s here, and it is at your estate.

The maids have been frantically preparing for days, making sure the entire property was pristine and presentable to the Ton. You personally have been doing nothing of the sorts.

You have not seen your husband-to-be since the arrangement, and you’re rather happy about it. It would be peaceful if your mother was not constantly talking about wedding preparations. No doubt, she will continue to talk about them tonight as well.

Your maids dress you. Emerald green is the colour of choice for your attire tonight, and you allow yourself to be dolled up like a porcelain doll. An inanimate object which will soon belong to a man you want nothing to do with.

You have felt the constant weight on your shoulder, body involuntarily preparing for the inevitable. Exhaustion wracks you. During a time which should be joyful, you are instead filled with an existential dread. You do not know why you’re so surprised. You have been expecting this outcome, anticipating to be married to a man you do not get along with. A man who does not truly care for you.

Perhaps you thought you had more time.

The guests begin to arrive, piling through the door one by one. You stand beside your mother near the entrance, welcoming the first few that come in. Wondering if the next person that leaves a carriage will be your betrothed.

“Do not be so down. Smile. There are people watching.” Your mother chides, still smiling at the guests that walk by.

Forcefully, a tense smile pulls across your cheeks.

You just want this whole nightmare to be over.

Eventually, you leave her side quietly, choosing to enter the dancefloor instead. If you were forced to be here anyways, why not enjoy some refreshments while you are at it?

“My lady!” A woman’s voice calls out.

You turn, not expecting the person you see. A friend that you have not seen for some time.

“Miwa! What a surprise. I have not seen you in ages.” You say with a smile.

She giggles, her earrings swaying back and forth.

“Indeed, it has been too long! How are you? I heard about your recent engagement! Congratulations, you deserve it.” She chirps.

You blink, forcing down the words you truly want to say. The unspoken truth sits like a heavy weight in your throat.

“Yes, thank you. I heard about your own marriage, how is your new husband?” You ask.

“Oh, Kokichi is wonderful! We are so in love, every day is another day to look forward to with one another.” She swoons, clasping her hands together.

You try not to be bitter. It’s not her fault. However, looking at her feels like a glimpse into the life you’ve always wanted, and now will never have. You smile, patting her elbow softly.

“That is amazing, Miwa. I’m so happy for you.” You tell her earnestly.

She continues to talk at you, and your line of vision wanders. While scanning the crowd absentmindedly, you lock eyes with the second last person you want to see right now.

Of course Duke Kamo is here as well. 

As soon as he sees you, he begins to walk towards you, and is stopped by another lord of the Ton. He looks irritated to be interrupted, and you would laugh if you weren’t so irate with him.

“We should have tea soon! You must come see Kokichi’s grounds, they are truly beautiful. We have the most lovely garden!” Miwa says excitedly.

“That sounds delightful, Miwa. Send me an invitation, I will definitely be there.”

The two of you separate with sincere goodbyes, and you go to grab another beverage. You push through the crowds of people, briefly apologizing. The band playing in the background plays happy and upbeat tunes, no doubt due to your mother’s good mood.

You whip out your fan, flicking it open and fanning yourself briefly. The summer has become hot.

Ladies in attendance of the ball continue to approach you throughout the night, congratulating you on your successful engagement so soon into the season. You thank each and every one of them with a kind smile, despite the fact that a part of you withers further and further every conversation you have about it.

You have never been one to socialize in large groups, but you suppose this is your life now. The life of a married woman, reduced to mere gossiping and being a visual piece for your husband’s vanity.

You notice that the men no longer approach you now that they know you are spoken for. It is funny how that works.

“Is something amusing you, darling?” 

And comes the appearance of the man you wish to see the least. Suguru Geto, in all his glory, has finally arrived and discovered your presence. You turn, a frown gracing your features.

“Oh. You are here.” You state matter-of-factly.

He chuckles.

“Well of course. I would never miss the opportunity to spend time with my beloved.” He smiles.

You don’t know how you were ever swayed by his smile. It’s sinister, cunning, and always has an undercurrent of mockery. You hate him. You hate him, loathe his very being. You scoff at him, placing your empty glass on a nearby tray.

“Beloved. Now that amuses me.” You sneer.

Chuckling, he swiftly moves forward, interlocking your arm with his own.

“Do not be so down, my dear. This is going to be a great union. You just have to become accustomed to your new status as my betrothed.” He says, forcing you to walk with him.

“I will never be accustomed to it. I despise you, Lord Geto.” You reply, face turned away from him.

“It’s Suguru now, my love.” He corrects, ignoring your last statement.

“It will be a cold day in hell before I ever call you Suguru.” You seethe.

“So quick witted. I wonder where you got that sharp tongue. Clearly not from your parents, who are so agreeable.” He continues, “But do not fret, my dear. You will call me Suguru soon enough.”

You can read through the lines and see the thinly veiled threat in his words.

“If you find my tongue so sharp perhaps you should not marry me.” You state.

“On the contrary, my dear. It is exactly why I want to marry you. Who will challenge me if not my wife?” He asks cheerfully.

“I think that is called an enemy, Lord Geto.” You snip.

“Is it not the same thing? Marriage, fighting, enemies. There is no marriage truly without flaw. I assume that with time, we will get over this bump in the road.” He says matter-of-factly.

“This bump in the road that you speak of, Lord Geto, is forcing me into a marital pact that I want nothing to do with. I want nothing to do with you. Why do you torture me so? Does it pleasure you?” You ask, the desperation you have been feeling for days beginning to seep into your words.

He laughs heartily. You loathe the sound.

“It has nothing to do with pleasure, my dear. It simply comes down to the fact that when I see something I want, I get it. And believe me, I have wanted you from the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

Defeat. It settles deep into your bones. If there was any hope remaining inside you, it has long left. You come to the realization that this man has no intention of letting you go anytime soon. You are trapped, a fly in a spider’s web, waiting to be devoured. 

“You-”

“Suguru.”

Prince Gojo stands in front of you, a vision in all white. The man beside you smiles, and it makes you feel like you are missing out on some unspoken history that has never been disclosed.

“Satoru.”

“I hear you’re engaged. Mind if I dance with your betrothed?” The prince asks, voice light and airy.

Nervously, you look at Geto. His expression is unreadable, face void of any emotion. He ends up resuming his smiling, all pretendian and filled with sharp edges. You fully expect him to say no, despite not knowing anything about their past. 

“Of course not. My dear?” He says, looking at you.

You give a small nod, anxiously glancing up at the prince. Prince Gojo reaches out a hand, and you take it, letting him lead you to the dancefloor.

He holds you close, an arm wrapped around your waist. He lowers his head just enough to whisper in your ear.

“You need to be careful with him. Very careful.” The prince says.

You sigh tiredly.

“Yes, I am aware. You are not the first person to have this conversation with me.” You reply.

“I cannot stop you if this is what you choose, but I would not be able to live with myself if I did not at least try to change your mind.”

He spins you, and you come back to face him.

“”Tis not my mind you must change. It is my mother’s.” You tell him.

“An arranged marriage?” He asks, eyebrow raised.

You nod solemnly, and he hums introspectively.

“Now that is a shame. I would have expected better from the Viscount.”

“They do not care about me, they care about title. The status of Earl is more than enough to sway them from any rumors they may have heard about him.” You say, led across the dancefloor.

You look, and Geto is carefully watching you. Eyes unwavering, posture rigid. This, perhaps, is the first time you have ever seen him on edge. He does not blink.

“I can speak to them. Attempt to change their mind.” The prince says earnestly.

You laugh softly. Without humor.

“There is no point, unfortunately. To them, the threat of me not finding another is far greater than that of me being at his mercy.” 

“I am very sorry, then.” Prince Gojo states earnestly.

You’re surprised at his sudden sincerity, the in his voice making your eyes water slightly. You blink away the tears, instead focusing on the movement of your footsteps on the tile.

“What is your history with Lord Geto?” You ask, changing subjects.

“It is a long one, indeed.” He replies.

“We have time. The song is not yet over.” You say with a smile.

He chuckles, indulging you.

“He was my closest friend. My only friend, at a time. We were… inseparable. Everything we did we did together. One day, he started changing. He became distant, irritable. He looked more tired, walking around everywhere with a frown. I did not realize until it was too late.”

“Realize what, my lord?”

“That he was indulging in literature far beyond morally correct. Passages in books that spoke of greater humans and lesser beings. Content of class divide and the less educated. Once upon a time, believe it or not, he was a good man. He wanted to help people.” He says wistfully. “That was, until the day he stopped believing it was worth it.”

You stay silent, absorbing the new information provided by the prince. There is one question on the tip of your tongue, one that has been lingering on your mind for days.

“The Duke, he mentioned that Lord Geto has… killed people. Is this true?” You murmur, equally afraid to say the words as you are to hear the response.

“I highly suspect it. He was under the impression that his parents were uneducated beasts masquerading as the upper class. Shortly after, his estate went up in flames, the doors locking them in. I believe it was him. I always have.”

You nod slowly. The news that you may be engaged to a potential murderer is not settling easy with you.

“Thank you for being so candid with me, my lord. I know it could not have been easy for you.” 

“It is no matter to me. Somewhere deep down, I still have hope that one day he will change. Perhaps it will be you that initiates it.” He says.

“I cannot be so sure. He appears set in his beliefs. I have my own qualms with him and his hatred for others, and I can only wish that he does not speak about it with me. That is my single reprieve from this nightmare.” You confess.

“The best of luck then to you, darling. If you ever need help, or even a simple break, just call for me. I will be there. It is the least I can do.” The prince tells you.

The song finishes, and you both bow. You murmur a quick ‘thank you’, overwhelmed by his graciousness. 

When you turn to leave, you move in the opposite direction of your betrothed. He catches up to you. 

Forcefully, he grips your arm, and you flinch.

“My dear.” He says, voice sinfully sweet.

Your bottom lip trembles, and you force yourself to be composed before you face him. You cannot let him see you weak. If he does, god only knows how he will use it to his advantage.

“My lord.” You say, bowing slightly.

“Dance with me.” It is not a request.

You nod, and he wraps an arm around your waist, leading you to the floor. The happy music does not match the energy in the air between the two of you. It’s thick with tension, covered in a layer of mendacity. No one around you would be able to tell what is truly happening with the smile on Lord Geto’s face.

“Well? Did you enjoy your dance with the prince?” He says, voice carrying uncontained mockery.

“Yes, I did, actually. It was rather enlightening.” You reply smugly.

His eyebrow twitches. Possibly for the first time, you are getting under his skin.

“Enlightening? That is not the description I would have expected.” He feigns obliviousness.

“Well, it is the description I would use. Best friends? How sweet. I did not believe you were capable of friendship.” You jab with a smile.

The smile drops from his face. He’s no longer wearing his mask.

“Careful, love. You are treading onto dangerous territory.” He tells you, voice barely above a murmur.

His grip around your waist is tight, fingers painfully gripped around your corseted midsection. 

“You should get used to it, my lord. I do rather like living on the edge.” You reply. 

“I am starting to realize that. Well, I suppose I have the rest of my life to become accustomed, no? After all, we are soon to be bound for eternity.”

Eternity. An eternity with him sounds like the hell they only whisper about in the bible. You try to remain calm, and not be overcome with anxiety.

“Yes, well, perhaps I may become used to how intolerable you are. Although I highly doubt that.”

Lord Geto stares at you for a moment. Slowly and controlled, he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You just love being a fucking brat, don’t you?” He murmurs.

When the air leaves your lungs, it’s forceful and not at all gentle. You cannot control the way your eyes widen, nor the pounding of your heart in your ears. 

“I thought you were more of a… sophisticated woman, not like those monkeys you call friends. I thoroughly enjoyed our chatter about literature. Believed we were on the same page. Perhaps we are not.” He muses.

You bite your tongue at his choice of wording, despite the way it enrages you. What overcomes you more is panic.

“Then maybe you should forgo this farce of an engagement.” You reply, voice trembling.

“No…” He starts, an egregious smile creeping onto his cheeks.

“... I think I will just change you.”

—

Choso is struggling. As usual.

He had to show up to this event. He could not leave you alone with that monster of a man. Would not forgive himself if he did.

Honestly, he was surprised he even received an invitation after his run in with your mother a few days prior. He’s sure he did not leave the greatest impression of himself. Choso tries not to think about it too heavily.

From the moment he arrives, he looks for you. Yuuji is by his side, chatting indistinctively about anything that crosses his mind. He tries to respond when he can, despite his mind being elsewhere. His brother is distracted anyways the moment Kugisaki arrives. 

Time stops when he finally lays eyes on you.

As usual, everything about your outward appearance is pristine. Proper. You glimmer in this yellow lighting, dolled up no doubt by your maids. Not a thing about you is out of place. You are… perfect.

You don’t notice him at first, talking to a woman he does not recognize. Your eyes glaze over the crowd, finally landing on him. He ignores the feeling in his chest when you immediately frown at his presence. He begins to walk over to you, and is swiftly interrupted by Lord Okkotsu.

He grits his teeth and bears it, vowing to find you after. 

Lo and behold, thus begins a long night of the exact same situation over and over again.

Every time Choso is finally freed from a meaningless, empty conversation, he’s wrapped into another, stuck in an endless loop of talking to people he wants nothing to do with at the moment. Occasionally, he glances over to you, just to make sure of… something. He’s not too sure what.

Dread fills him when he looks at you and finds you talking with Lord Geto.

Realistically, he always knew he would be in attendance. He’s your betrothed. Something about seeing him, however, is different than imagining it. It enrages him.

Before he can get to you, Gojo interrupts your little tryst with Geto. He’s not sure whether to thank his lucky stars or Gojo for the break in conversation.

After your dance with the prince, he decides that then is the time to approach. Your betrothed finds you before he does.

All he’s left to do is watch. Watch you dance with Geto, filled with anger, bitterness, resentment. It consumes him, and he is unable to hide how unhappy it makes him. Nanami, who appeared beside him, places a hand on his shoulder. A show of understanding.

You started off the dance with Geto confident. He saw it in the way you carried yourself. High, high above Geto, above him, above everyone. It gave him some peace.

And slowly, after talking with him more, you begin to wilt, like a flower come autumn.

He hates it. You’re powerful. You’re confident, bold, and stubborn beyond belief. He is nearly unable to have a conversation with you without some form of bickering, because you refuse to take anything. He admires that about you.

With Geto, it’s like it all disappears. Everything that makes you who you are. Everything he looks upon with a sense of warmth.

And he loathes it. It envelops him with an anger he’s never felt.

Geto leans down, whispering in your ear. That seems to be the final blow.

Whatever he says, it leaves you in a clear daze for the rest of the dance. He hears Nanami calling his name, but it sounds so distant, so far beyond him. As soon as the song ends, you run.

He chases you. Geto does not.

When he does not find you anywhere on the premises, he has half a mind to go back in and kill Geto with his own two hands.

Whatever he said to you, it made you want to disappear.

You’re gone.

—

You lay in bed. It’s quiet.

Your parents have done you the honour of leaving you alone and ignoring the fact that you are still in bed this late. You did your duty as their daughter last night. That is all they needed from you.

The sheets are pulled up nearly to your chin, and your eyes feel like they are weighted. Your body is weak, limbs heavy. Likely case, you’ll end up in bed for the rest of the day. You have already skipped breakfast and lunch, why not dinner as well?

Geto had tried to make an appearance at your estate. You told your mother to leave at once when she relayed the information, and she disappeared in a huff. No doubt he stayed to have tea with your parents. You ignored his presence in your home. 

Sleep comes easily. Occasionally, your maid will peek her head in to check on you, and you dismiss her with a wave of her hand. 

“...I think I will just change you.”

You cannot breathe. Your chest hurts. You’re suffocating.

Your situation could not possibly get worse. 

You’re at the mercy of a man who does not even like you. Maybe, just maybe, if you had let him walk all over you, if you had submitted to him, he would not despise you so. Perhaps you would not be threatened with being forced into submission. 

When you think about allowing him to change the fundamentals of who you are, you think about Yuuji. You think about the Duke. The Kamos, who your betrothed- no, Geto, refuses to acknowledge based on the simple fact that Yuuji was not raised in the Ton. Yuuji, who is filled with nothing but kindness and love and youthful joy. 

You cannot concede. It goes against everything you believe in.

If he has to force you into submitting to him, so be it. At least you would not do it by choice.

“My lady.” Your maid calls from the door.

“What is it?” You ask, voice small.

“You have a visitor.” She replies.

You sigh, shifting in the bed slightly. You rub your eyes tiredly.

“Whoever it is, I do not wish to see them. Send them away. I wish to be alone.” You tell her.

“I apologize, but… he is right here, my lady. It would be untoward.”

You pause, turning towards the door.

Your maid is never allowed to bring people straight to your room. Your mother strictly forbids it. Who would she willingly bring to you?

You sit up in bed.

“Who?”

“I apologize for intruding, my lady.”

Ah.

“Duke Kamo.” You greet.

You push the sheets to the side, getting out of bed and giving a small polite bow. He bows his head slightly in response. The maid leaves, the two of you now alone in your bedroom.

“What can I do for you, my lord?” You ask, voice a little scratchy from unuse.

“I just came to check on you after last night. I did not have the chance to speak with you.” He says softly.

“I apologize, my lord. I was… preoccupied.” You decide on.

“I noticed.” He starts, “I also wanted to apologize for our argument the last time we spoke. My behaviour was unseemly. I am sorry.” 

You give him a small smile.

“No need, my lord. I apologize as well. I have not been myself lately.” An understatement.

Briefly, his eyes flicker over you. If you cared any more, you would be embarrassed at the state of your appearance. Sleep ridden, groggy, and in your nightgown. You would be embarrassed if it was anyone but Duke Kamo in front of you.

It helps indeed that he does not look displeased with what he sees.

“So, how are you?” He asks.

You sigh, voice wavering.

“Not well, if I am being honest-”

“Is it him? Did he hurt you?”

He speaks quickly, firmly. He seems appalled to even say the words, shoulders visibly pulled back, irritated. Like a cat ready to pounce at the slightest indication.

“That’s a quick assumption.” You laugh softly.

“Is it the truth?”

You pause.

“...Not physically, no.” You murmur.

“So he did hurt you, then.” He says, jaw clenched.

You choose not to respond, instead looking down at your feet, ashamed. Ashamed of what, you are unsure. 

The Duke walks up to you, close, closer than you think he has ever been, and raises your chin with his finger. He looks down at you, eyebrows pulled together, almost desperate.

“Talk to me.” He whispers.

Heat rises, low and deep in your gut. You let out a shuddered exhale.

“It… ‘tis nothing, my lord. Please, do not worry yourself-”

“Of course I am going to worry!” He says, pushing away from you.

The duke paces your room, obviously stressed. He raises a hand, pushing the stray hairs out of his face.

“My lord-”

“Do you have any idea what I would do to him?”

You pause.

“Sorry?” You choke out.

“If I ever find out that he’s hurt you, god…” He rubs his temples, then steps closer.

You watch him move, unable to find the words you feel you should say. He’s never said anything like this before. Your mouth parts, and instead of speaking, you simply place a hand on his chest, right over his heart. 

He stops pacing.

“My lord…” You murmur, breath heavy.

Your foreheads are nearly touching. He’s close, so close. Everything around you fades away for a moment. All you can hear, all you can feel, is the movement of his chest, his breathing, his heart beating a little faster than normal. 

You could move. You could stop whatever this is right now, nip it in the bud. You find, however, that the feeling low in your stomach, the butterflies in your chest, are speaking for you. Forcing your body close to his own.

“Let me speak to your parents.” He says, voice gravelly.

“I told you, that will not work. They do not care about me so deeply they would cancel my engagement.” You murmur.

“I’ll make them listen, then.” 

“No. It will only make things worse for me.”

He sighs, exasperated.

“Why are you so stubborn?” He speaks, softly but sternly. The words tickle your skin.

Scolding you with affection behind his words.

“Stubborn?” You grumble.

“Yes, stubborn. You will not let anyone else help you with anything, it all has to be done by you.”

“I think that is called being independent, my lord.” You quip back.

“Or foolish.”

You bristle, pushing him away at the contact you have with his chest. 

“What is your problem? You always have to start something with me.” You say, aggravated.

“My problem? What about your problem! I am trying to help you fix it, and you will not accept my help!” He gripes.

“Because I do not need it. I can figure this out on my own.” You argue.

“Yes, because that has been working so well thus far.” 

“I hate you.” You tell him earnestly.

He laughs then, deep and baritone. Disbelief is evident on his sharp features.

“Really, you hate me?”

“Yes, I hate you. You aggravate me. Just when I thought I could finally get along with you, you go and pull this!” You yell.

“You are insufferable.” He groans.

“If I am insufferable, you are deluded.” You scoff.

Closer. He’s big, much bigger than you.

“You are crazy.”

“Mentally insane.”

Closer. Your eyes flicker down to his lips.

“Psychotic.”

“Unstable.”

The two of you have no space between you, staring each other dead in the eyes. He doesn’t back down, and neither will you. Your chest rises and falls, breathing deeply. He has this look in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. 

Like he’s seeing right through you. That he knows what you really want.

“Unhinged.” He murmurs.

“Deranged.” You whisper.

He rushes forward, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss. You gasp into his mouth, body reacting immediately. He groans into your mouth like he’s been craving this, waiting for it.

It’s all teeth and hunger. He grips your waist, pulling you flush against him. You run your hands through his hair, moving his face impossibly close.

You don’t know what you are doing. You have never experienced anything like this, and you doubt he has either. It’s primal, the way you allow yourselves to just feel, for your bodies to take over and do exactly what it was made for. Your body slots against him, and it almost makes you feel like you were made for him.

He pushes you back against your dressing table, hoisting you up. Glass falls, shattering on the floor. You wrap your legs around him, still locked lips, achingly eager. That flame that was once dim and simmering in your stomach is now a wildfire, bright and yearning for him.

Your nails run along his neck, his back, anything you can reach. His large hands are on you, holding you in place, kneading the fat of your hips. You slip your tongue into his mouth teasingly, testing the waters.

He pulls back, running desperate and rushed kisses down the expanse of your throat. Your nightgown is pushed up, and you can feel his hardness against your barely clothed core. You gasp, throwing your head back with a hearty moan.

“Choso…” You breathe.

He stops. Pulls back. Suddenly looks very aware of what he’s doing to you. 

His face drops.

“I… I am so sorry, I should not have…”

He backs up.

“Choso?” You call out to him.

“This should not- This cannot happen.” He says, before rushing out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

You’re left alone, sitting on your dressing table, surrounded by broken perfume bottles, wondering what the hell just happened.

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a/n: woah two in one week im in it