Lail

And commit you did, in matching t-shirts that meant absolute business. Because obviously.

Yours read: I'M PEACE.

His read: I COME IN PEACE.

Don't look at me like that. It was HIS idea.

His exact argument was that nothing screams secure in our long-term romance quite like wearing the absolute trashiest, most legally TV-dubious boomer-cruise apparel on a freaking Netflix show.

"It's camp," he said, when he clocked you looking down at the beautiful quote written in Comic Sans across his chest. You did this tragic frown when you noticed someone from the camera crew going into literal shock at the sight of your matching cotton-blend monstrosity.

"It shows we don't take ourselves too seriously. It makes us relatable to the working class."

Relatable. Right. You could still feel the dream of an epic entrance straight out of a Vogue editorial quietly pulsing somewhere inside you. Yet here you two were, looking like you'd gotten lost on the way to a Margaritaville.

"I am going to stuff this into your mouth while you sleep," you mumbled, giving him a bright, devastatingly fond, camera-ready smile you'd practised for hours in front of your bathroom mirror.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, BABE," Satoru beamed back, the babe coming out aggressively loud, sliding an arm around your waist and pulling you tightly against his side. The I COME IN PEACE text warping aggressively against your shoulder.

And the first two hours went exactly like this. Satoru almost spiralled the very second you two walked into your assigned room. Blinked once at the window and whipped out the compass app on his iPhone, and through the door he went. You heard him marching down the hall.

"North-facing is simply, definitely, not going to work for us, wellness-wise. My girlfriend gets short amnesia-inducing headaches without a proper natural light source. I think if you speak to whoever handles the room allocations, you'll find that—"

And then you couldn't hear him anymore, because you'd already gone downstairs to network like a professional and had gotten into an argument within five minutes. Like a professional, of course.

You decided to go mingle. Strategically. Assess the couples that were already there, measure up the competition, do a quick sweep before you and Satoru locked the fuck in properly. You were better at this alone anyway. Charming people and all that jazz.

One couple was already in the sitting room. One of them was a woman with a fuckass bob and a miserable-looking man beside her, already half a bottle deep into a red wine.

Dead-locked. Targets acquired.

Day drinking before the official introduction dinner? Oh, they were absolutely going to spill every piece of psychological leverage you could ever want. Though they didn't look exactly impressed when you sized them up in real time, standing deadass right in front of them. The man furrowed his eyebrows so hard they threatened to become a unibrow.

You introduced yourself. She said Shimizu. He said Higuruma.

"Nice to meet you, Haruhi and Shizuu?" you said with a big smile. Though you weren't entirely sure why Haruhi's eyebrows furrowed even further?

The bobbed-up lady looked at you like you were deadass for real. And yes, you were. Why wouldn't you be?

Look, on the record, just between us... You weren't exactly good with names. Okay? Not like it's a crime.

She probably shook whatever the fuck that was off because you immediately followed it up by asking some wildly out-of-pocket question about offshore tax havens. And she answered. You liked her for that, period.

You were maybe four minutes into what was genuinely shaping up to be a useful conversation about tax breaks when Shimizu — as she corrected you after you butchered her name twice — leaned forward slightly.

Ah. Engagement. Things were going well. But then some dude with a very questionable bleach job walked in. He said something to his poor, serene-looking girlfriend. And I am not going to repeat what that shit was. All I'm going to say is your ears clocked the disrespect like a submarine sonar pinging in the middle of the Arctic.

You turned around. "Uhh," you said. Your voice sounding very pleasant and gnuinely friendly. "Buddy, what was that?"

You then switched up and deployed the scariest, most terrifyingly dead-eyed fake smile in your arsenal. The one that usually got you free appetizers because the waiter felt psychologically threatened.

"Excuse me?" he sneered.

"No no, I heard you. I just want to make sure I understood correctly. Are you actually being like this on purpose or is it like a medical thing?" 

He went from mildly annoyed to full-on rage in about three seconds. What followed was not exactly a screaming match, because screaming matches are amateur hour.  

What you did instead was considerably more efficient. You took whatever he’d just said and followed it. Dismantled the meaning premise by premise, syllable by syllable, thread by thread. Trying to crush his entire assumed worldview. Because no rat-ass man—and yes, you could tell he was slimy just by looking at his piss-coloured hair—was going to disrespect the woman next to him in front of you. Reality TV or not.

And oh boy, was he not ready for this. No one in the room was ready for this. Everyone was too jetlagged to engage in whatever you'd just started. But hey, a lady's honour had to be protected no matter what. You were going to be her knight in shining, scamming armour.

Except he only started to double down. Which you were obviously not having. No man had ever won an argument against you — and I repeat, none. Not even your father. You'd made Satoru cry once. The weaker sex seriously had nothing on you.

You were losing patience though. All you wanted was to get some allies and get this ugly-ass t-shirt off your body. Yet some crusty man was picking a fight with you? Whatever happened to basic courtesy — apologising and moving on?

You raised your arm. The Pointing Finger of Wrath™  getting deployed. You opened your mouth, inhaling enough oxygen to deliver something so historically vile it would probably violate the Netflix terms of service.

"Listen to me, you radioactive haystack, I will personally uninstall your balls—"

Yoink! You were suddenly hoisted up and dragged backward.

Satoru had been standing behind you for like the last fifteen seconds. He had literally abandoned his feng shui crusade on the second floor because his grifter spider-senses started tingling. And mostly because he could hear the pitch of your voice shifting into the Active Hostility octave from one floor up. He'd sprinted down the stairs because he knew it was over — for the guy in front of you, but mostly for your five-million-dollar dream, before the taping had even properly started.

He locked eye contact with the miserable-looking dark-haired man across the room. A silent, desperate communication between two sensible (because that what Satoru was, trust), rational, level-headed, responsible men who understood what was at stake here.

Hiruguma gave him the faintest nod and off you went mid-sentence. One arm securely clamped around your waist, six feet to the left, and done.

"—and perhaps you should ask your hairdresser for a refund, because looking like a wet school mop is certainly a choice—"

"Completely valid," Satoru murmured, still moving. "Very good point, we're going this way—"

"I'm not finished—"

"You’re a little bit finished."

"Satoru, I am not—"

"It's getting sticky," Satoru announced loudly to the room, depositing you by the window and planting himself in front of you with the immovability of a living shield. "Seriously. It's getting everywhere. Stop it."

Dead fucking silence. The entire sitting room stopped breathing. Satoru aggressively wiped his free hand on his shorts.

"The lip gloss," he clarified into the horrifying silence, lightly tapping your chin. "It's catching on your hair. Huge mess."

Look, if you're asking what the fuck stickiness has to do with this particular situation, the story goes like this. If you're running grifts the way you two do, you need a safe phrase. An abort code for when shit is going completely sideways. It's just professional things. And since you two do just about anything, you need something universal. You really tried to come up with something normal that would work anywhere. But oh well. And I am not going to elaborate further.

Because it worked. It apparently worked on the entire room because every single person's brain just completely short-circuited trying to process what the fuck they'd just experienced.

Naoya — that was his name, acquired mid-argument apparently — was standing there with his mouth slightly open, staring at Satoru with abject, visceral confusion. Well, everyone was standing there with abject, visceral confusion. But I guess that's what you get — getting into a fight, getting dragged out of said fight by a person in matching cringe tees. What a way to make a first impression.

His partner, whose name was still lowkey kinda pending, mouthed a small thank you in your direction. You winked at her. Which riled the clown right back up.

"Okay, let's go find the dining room!" Satoru announced brightly, wrapping an arm around your neck and physically marching you away before you could deploy something way worse.

God, you already hated that man.

Satoru was sitting on the window pane like a wistful widow reminiscing on her life with her deceased husband. By the west-facing window, may I add.

After he'd dragged you out of the sitting room he was on a mission to finish what he'd started — aka securing the best bedroom in the entire estate. The one no contestants were supposed to stay in. But apparently throwing a fit in front of three poor assistants who were simply not paid enough for this was all it took, because he was relocating your luggage in no time.

Needless to say, the view was a bit shit. Diplomatically speaking.  Yes, he got his west-facing window. But there was a tree in front of it, so instead of staring into the lavish gardens imagining himself as a viscount in Bridgerton, he was having a mildly hostile staring contest with a freaking pigeon.

"'Toru, stop scaring the poor pigeon. It's only sitting on its eggs," you said, furrowing your eyebrows as you held up two outfits against yourself in the mirror.

It was the first and introductory dinner with the entire cast. Taped one on top of that. You needed to make one hell of an impression, well fix the impression from earlier. The vibe you were envisioning was intimidating but approachable, in the specific way that said let's be allies only to stab them in the back the second it became threatening. Aka: bitch, we're here for the five mil type of outfit. 

Hair down or up? Hmmm.

"Yeah so what, me too, bitch, you ain't special," Satoru muttered, glaring at the pigeon. "Plus I bet mine are bigger anyway—"

Huh. What was that. Also, did I mention there was only one bed. Naturally. A teaser. 

"The first one is screaming 'going to my kid's piano recital,'" Satoru said, still looking at the pigeon. "Not 'hot shit on a reality TV show.' Why did you even pack that dress."

Your eyebrows flew to your hairline. You eyed his Lululemon shorts. A beat too long, his quadriceps doing something again… Frankly offensive. OF COURSE they'd hypnotize anyone. That was just physics. A completely normal, involuntary physiological response to mass. It's practically the way gravity works, no? But the athleisure man would not be offending your fashion sense.

Especially not when he'd just attacked the dress you'd had since senior year. The ride-or-die of your entire closet. The one he'd apparently been totally fine with for years — so where the actual fuck was THIS coming from?

"And you're wearing?" you asked. Flatly. 

He gestured down at the shorts. Did a little ta-da hand flourish at his own thighs for grand effect. No, the legs won't work as an accessory, it's not a Birkin, bruh. Or would it...? I mean, it kinda worked, no — no, it would NOT work. The legs MUST be covered.

"Interesting," you said.

One eyebrow flew up again, then the other. Both heading north toward your hairline at an alarming speed.

You didn't even say anything else. You just let the aura do the work. The same kinda aura that had once bullied a Delta Airlines gate agent into upgrading you to first class with nothing but sustained, unblinking eye contact — while flying on a vacation with Satoru, only because he'd said he was taking the window seat this time. Rot in economy, bitch.

Satoru recoiled.He tried to lean away to escape the blast radius of your glare, but apparently forgot he was already sitting on a six-inch window ledge.

The back of his skull twacked against the glass so hard the pigeon outside visibly jumped.

"Sorry ma'am, for legal reasons that was a joke," Satoru surrendered immediately, his head still pinned flat against the windowpane like a terrified gecko.

He slid off the ledge.Thud! on the floor and dropped to his knees in front of his suitcase like a man seeking political asylum.

He then started tearing through his packed clothes with violent focus. Throwing things over his shoulder. A single sock. A very wrinkled Hawaiian shirt? A shoe that narrowly missed your head.

"I have slacks! Jeans! PANTS! Look—" he announced loudly, triumphantly holding up a fistful of fabric.

He shook it out but it was just another pair of shorts.

He stared at them. "They're... evening shorts," he tried.

"I am going to physically tickle you to death," you said. He'd opened his mouth to defend the ethical concept of formal shorts when his iPad lit up on the mattress next to you. You picked it up. Netflix had dropped the cast reveal while you were on the plane.

Sixty-three thousand freaking comments. You opened the post.

The photo was— You cared about your appearance. Everyone did, do NOT lie to me! Not obsessively though, but optics are important, okay? And this was not planned. What had been discussed was something clean. Established couple, nothing to see here, normal photo taken by normal people in a normal way. It was from the production photoshoot months back.

What had actually happened was the photographer saying "quick couple photo" and Satoru saying "what about the fuck no" and picking you up over his shoulder before you'd finished processing the first two words of that sentence.

The resulting image was you, upside down, one hand smacking his back, mouth open mid-sentence. Him, one hand squarely on the back of your thighs, looking directly into the camera with the smile of a man who had never once in his life made a decision he regretted.

And they promised not to use this image! Ugh. You made a face and went into the comments. Because if some of these losers were trying to be rude, you were going to show them what cyberbullying truly meant.

You scrolled.

@ realitytvjunkie: WHO IS THE BADDIE BEING YEETED

@ bingewatcher99: netflix what is this cast reveal i am unwell

@ gojofancam: she is HITTING HIM and he is SMILING AT THE CAMERA

@ soulmatesprintupdates: THE HAND ON THE BACK OF HER THIGHS. NETFLIX EXPLAIN.

You looked to your left. Satoru was on his phone typing rapidly, heavily focused on completing an important task.

"Don’t worry, it's a burner," he said, not looking up. "I made two so it's not too obvious."

You nodded. Understood. Him finally doing what he was good at. Arguing with strangers on the internet.

You kept scrolling.

@ thigh_enthusiast: HIS THIGHS FROM THIS ANGLE SPECIFICALLY

You read that one out loud because what the fuck. Also yes, but what the fuck. That one was uncalled for. You waited for him to agree it was uncalled for.

"See?" he answered, examining the comment himself. From somewhere outside the window, the pigeon made a noise. 

Satoru agreed, without looking up from the screen. "I know, right."

You ignored whatever the hell that interspecies alliance just was and went back to reading until you stopped at one. One that you didn't particularly like. One that had way more likes than you particularly liked.

@ detective_truth: Been staring at this photo for ten minutes and I genuinely cannot tell if they're doing a bit or if this is just what they look like together. Weird aura about these two. hmmm

Forty-two thousand freaking likes. Well now.

That was probably because you weren't deploying the Lovey-Dovey Face Pro Max, but rather being genuinely caught in the moment which never served you well. You were quite frankly anti-candid pictures. Your face always looked weird in those. The incidental pictures Satoru took of you throughout the years... girl, you would understand immediately. Double chin-ville, greasy hair republic, expressions where you genuinely looked either 12 or 80 years old, no in between. Posture so bad you sometimes wondered if your spine was like okay. You always kept asking how did he even manage to snap these?

And it wasn't fair that he looked good in the picture. He definitely picked you up just so he could be the star of it. You could sense it. Smell it. 

Also, why were your legs doing that in the pic? You scrolled back up and started to dissect every micro-detail of your perceived flaws. You were currently zooming in on your left kneecap because it looked conceptually wrong.

"You look so pretty in it."

He said it quietly. That low, gravelly register he usually used when scamming the parking lot attendant into letting him park in the disabled spot because he was too lazy to walk. 

"Huh?"

You turned to him genuinely mortified. Because where the hell did that come from, and why was he smiling at you so sweetly? It was a small smile, the kind that had made your stomach do this weird flip back like two years ago and approximately three weeks ago, the last time you remember. 

"You," he said softly, tilting his head. "I'm talking about you, silly."

Wait. Hold on.

"Satoru, do you have a concussion?" you asked, leaning away from him. "Did you hit your head that hard on the window? PRODUCTION PLEASE HELP—" 

"Bruh."

The sweet face immediately vacated the premises. Evicted. And the landlord was the are-we-serious-now-chat glare.

"It’s called acting," he said, his tone dropping completely flat. He picked up a pair of socks and aggressively balled them together. "I'm warming up the material. Getting into character. Sometimes you are that dense, it’s crazy we were able to get this far."

He shook his head in disgust and went back to pants hunting.

They called the couples in one by one. You could hear it from the corridor — the muffled sound of the host's flat affect announcing each couple, the polite private applause, the double doors swinging open and closed. Seven times.

You and Satoru were couple eight. Last in. You'd been standing in this corridor for approximately twenty-five minutes with a production assistant named — something, you'd already forgotten, you were bad with names — whom nobody had prepared for this particular assignment.

Especially when you and Satoru refused to drop a hotdog discourse that had somehow started three weeks ago in a freaking Subway. And because Satoru apparently didn't know what social cues were anymore, because why was he restarting this now.

"A hotdog," Satoru said, for the fourteenth time, "is a sandwich."

"It is NOT a sandwich," you said, for the fourteenth time.

"Bread. Filling. Between bread. Sandwich. Easy."

"The bread is connected. It's a SINGLE piece of bread. That's not a sandwich, that's a—"

"A sub is a sandwich and the bread is connected in a sub—"

"A sub has two proper bread surfaces—"

"So does a hotdog bun if you spread it open—"

The production assistant checked their clipboard. Checked it again. Looked at the door. Looked back at you two. Blinked a few times, visibly reconsidering every life choice that had led them to a career in television. Which was a pretty appropriate reaction to this. Because who the fuck even argues about a hotdog being a sandwich for three weeks straight.

From inside the dining room another muffled applause echoed. Couple seven just went in.

"Dude," you said.

"You just won't admit I'm right," he said back.

"You are demonstrably, factually, fundamentally wrong—"

The production assistant touched their earpiece.

"Couple eight," they croaked, clearing their throat. "You're up."

The doors opened before you could even mentally dismantle him with your unfinished argument. Men do be really pissing you off. 

You walked in together. His hand found your waist. His legs were covered by actual pants. Smiles were deployed, con muscle memory taking the wheel with the efficiency of something that had been practised so many times it had stopped being a performance and become simply the thing that happened.

The room was watching. Seven couples already seated, candlelight and all. The kind of vibe that made you want to stand up straight and pretend you'd been to places like this before. Which you had, technically, but usually you were running some kind of con in them and this was — well, also that, but completely different.

But then, smack!

"Satoru—" you hissed, smile not even flickering. Even dead, no one would have caught you without that fake-ass smile on your face.

"Oops, my bad," he giggled, completely unbothered, steering you toward your seats. "Reflex. The dress does something to me I genuinely cannot explain. Apologies."

He did not sound sorry. The room went slightly quiet. Not fully though, people were still holding their glasses, still perfectly arranged in their seats, but the vibe was universally what the fuck was that, while simultaneously trying to act like nobody saw it. Because how do you even react to that.

The blond man at the table looked up from his champagne flute, which he apparently hadn't waited for the toast to start drinking. The expression on his face was impossible to categorise. Shocked, appalled, and disgusted were all present, but none of them were quite right. You were starting to think this was simply his face.

"I told you not to wear it," Satoru murmured, pulling out your chair, voice dropping low enough for just you. "Your ass is too juicy in this. Reads like I'm available for poaching. Brand integrity, remember." He sat down next to you. "Sometimes I feel like the only professional here."

"You said it was screaming mom's closet," you said, through a smile so camera-ready it physically hurt your cheeks.

"Kinda?" he shot back, casually unfolding his napkin. "Totally different concern. That's why I told you not to wear this."

Now you were genuinely suspicious he had a concussion. Because why was he suddenly acting functionally lobotomised. You blinked at him a few times in disbelief and picked up your own champagne flute. Absolutely not waiting for the toast either..

You took a drink. And locked eyes with the couple seated immediately to your left. Two baddies with long hair, as you would professionally say.

They were staring at you, both of them. Not a subtle, polite, reality-TV peripheral glance. A perfectly synchronised, dual-wielding what the actual fuck stare that transcended simple judgment. They looked like two scientists observing a pair of rabid monkeys who had somehow managed to dress themselves in formal wear.

The woman with dark brown hair  took a deliberate sip of her wine. Her eyes tracked Satoru like he was an undocumented medical anomaly. The guy next to her, sporting a half-up man-bun, leaned slightly toward her. Eyes still fixed on Satoru's serene, smiling face. You could practically see him mentally calculating how much of a threat you two actually were.

He murmured something to her. It pissed you off that your spy-level hearing didn't pick it up. But Satoru caught it. Because of course he did.

So instead of acting like a normal human being who had just been assessed, Satoru leaned right across your plate, invading your personal space to look past you at the man-bun guy. He gave him a crisp, entirely unironic two-finger salute.

"Practically married," Satoru stage-whispered, winking. "You know how it is. We can barely keep our hands off each other. It's a sickness, really."

The woman winced and the guy just stared at him completely, absolutely deadpan.

You kicked Satoru under the table. Hard enough to bruise bone. Hard enough to kick some sense into him.

"Ouch," Satoru said happily, leaning back into his own chair and taking a sip of his water.

Before the man-bun guy could formulate a response to whatever Satoru was doing, a sharp noise cut through the ambient tension.

Clink. Clink. Clink!

The host stood at the head of the long table. You knew it was the host — you weren't stupid, you'd done your research. And Satoru had done his even more thoroughly, apparently, because he'd recognised the guy from some other show.

And the lighting shifted. Someone in the production booth had a button and they pressed it and the room changed. The candlelight was still there but suddenly it meant something. It was the kind of stage light that needed to see every one of your pores. Thankfully you'd had the suspicion, so you'd used the most pore-erasing primer known to Sephora.

The cameras started moving. Not the static ones you'd clocked when Satoru had taken you here earlier to chill out and do tactical peeping — different ones, sweeping ones. The ones finding and zooming on people. You looked into one as it passed. Mid-whatever-your-face-was-doing and suddenly you were thinking about what your face was doing which meant your face was definitely doing something and you couldn't identify what and you couldn't stop it.

Satoru, next to you, looked directly into the passing camera too. It was natural, it was easy, he even winked at it. Photogenic bastard. You hated him a little bit for that.

Kusakabe let the silence sit.

Three seconds. Four. Letting the silence have its own short little gravitas — short, because y’all were on a dating reality TV show after all.

"Good evening." He dramatically connected his fingers. "Welcome to The Soulmate Sprint."

And look, you knew the format. You'd been told how it would work, all of it. You'd watched three seasons of comparable shows for research purposes and had strong opinions about the editing choices in season two of a competing network's offering.

You could feel the deliberate dramatic pauses left for the music in post-production. This man was a professional, you could tell.

"This show exists to find out who the true soulmates are." A pause. "Each of you has a story. A real one." His eyes moved across the table, unhurried movement. "That story deserves to be told." Nobody moved. "That is what we are here to do."

He unclasped his fingers and smirked. Damn, chilling performance of a television veteran. Mad respect. 

"Now. Let me explain the rules."

And hey, the entire premise of the show might seem kinda chill at first. That's what you thought initially. But after reading pages upon pages, emails upon emails, and listening to producer upon producer, you might have, again professionally speaking, slightly underestimated how serious this show was. Like, chill out. This ain't Big Brother.

The easy stuff first. Challenges. Every reality TV has challenges, it was classic stuff. There was always one per episode, both obviously partners required. Synchronicity was weighted over speed, because soulmates apparently mean maximum sync. They would always happen during the week, pre-taped.

Then another show metric, an important one. It was called the Bond Score and it is exactly what it sounds like. The number is entirely up to the public. Updated twice a week. Connection Cam footage, challenge performance, viewer engagement would be all feeding into it.

You did the face. The attentive, mildly-surprised, hearing-this-for-the-first-time face. For the cameras, you know. Gotta gain the sympathies early. It’s called acting reflexes, you wouldn't get it.

All of this was simple in theory. And simple in practice for you two, obviously. You were the charmiest charming people from charmytown, so the Bond Score was frankly not something that kept you up at night. 

"The poaching mechanic," he said, with very dramatic flair. One eyebrow raised as he swept his eyes along the entire table again. Someone gasped. So there were more actors around here. Interesting.

The poaching mechanic is the unhinged part. Something you hadn't initially accounted for. So imagine your surprise when you found out.

At any point during filming — any point, mid-challenge, mid-dinner, mid-whatever — any contestant can pull aside any other contestant's partner and make their case. Leave them, come with me, or something along those lines. That's the move. 

And then two things have to happen simultaneously: the person being poached has to say yes, AND the public has to vote in favour. Both. At the same time. If either says no, the poach fails and everyone goes back to their corners.

Which, imagine you just tried to steal someone's partner. Publicly. On fucking Netflix. And it didn't work. And now you have to go back to sitting across the dinner table from both of them for however many episodes you have left. And your own Bond Score just took a hit because the public watched you attempt it and the attempt failed and that's its own kind of information about you as a couple.

And imagine being the couple that got targeted as well. Your partner got poached — meaning someone looked at your relationship and went yeah, you and me could do better — and now that's on camera and the public has opinions about it and your Bond Score is about to reflect those opinions too.

Naturally this creates an atmosphere. A very awkward one. And of course you weren't stupid — you knew most of the time it wouldn't be used out of genuine attraction, it was a strategy. A dangerous one. A third party wedging themselves in to make you publicly look bad and  get you out of the show.

So the thing was to look tight. Tighter than a slightly small latex suit. Absolutely dead-gripped.

"Additionally," Kusakabe said, looking at the camera in the far corner. "Production will occasionally place cameras in contestant bedrooms. You will not be informed when this occurs."

He smirked again. Well, damn. This was new. The entire table processed this at different speeds. The blond guy put his flute down.

"Oh, how fun!" the dark-haired guy next to him said.

Satoru nodded once. Looked at you peripherally as you looked back at him. Well, damn. 

He then talked some more about the general schedule, the history of the manor — the stuff that would make viewers absorb the atmosphere.

"Any questions before we begin?"

Satoru did not waste any time. He raised his hand. Stood up even.

"Just wanna say — huuge fan," Satoru said, and the vibes were giving off fangirl. "Since Paws to Perfection. Especially the season from three years ago." A pause. "Especially the English Cocker Spaniel versus Bichon Frisé episode. The drama." He chuckled timidly.

So this is where he knew the guy from. You had seen Satoru watching dogs on TV before. You just hadn't asked.

The table looked at Satoru. Kusakabe looked at Satoru. The cameras looked at Satoru.

"Well, uh. It surely pleases me that someone recognises me—" 

"The Cocker Spaniel's texture work was completely—" Satoru interrupted. Clearly still upset about this episode.

"Any other questions?" Kusakabe interrupted back. Obviously not wanting to debate dog haircuts during an entirely different show's taping.

The tall blond woman raised her hand right after.

"So the bedroom camera thing. Does that mean we can't have sex, or—"

This is the first time you noticed her and you already respected her. Enormously.

"The camera won't be there the entire time," he answered. "So you never know."

"So that's a yes," she deadpanned.

Her dark-haired, pale-looking boyfriend puckered his lips. C’mon now, could we be professionals? You could see the outcomes being weighed behind his eyelined eyes — possible Netflix-taped porn on one side, possible two-month-long dry spell on the other.

The rest of the dinner went well. You actually learned names! Mostly.

The stoic baddies sitting next to you were Shoko and Suguru — though you didn't exactly remember which one was Shoko and which was Suguru. 

The miserable blond guy who looked like he wanted to be legally emancipated from this reality show was apparently Nanami, and his boyfriend was Haibara. Absolute puppy. They looked way too sweet for this, you were so sorry in advance for what you and Satoru are about to do to them.

You obviously already recognised your day-drinking besties Shimizu and Haruhi. They were talking to a rather intense-looking couple — Utahime and Kashimo. Seriously, why did so many men here have long hair? Was there a Pantene sponsorship you missed in the contract? Were you supposed to force Satoru to grow out his too?

The tall blond woman who deadass asked about the sex cameras was Yuki. Mother. Her pale, alt emo boyfriend was Choso. 

And the far corner was the scary one. Tattooed-up guy and his deeply suspicious-looking girlfriend — Sukuna and Mei Mei, as they introduced themselves. You had this weird feeling about them. Like they would deadass sell your organs on the black market if you failed a trust fall. Avoid at all costs. 

They were mostly talking to the bleached clown and his poor, serene girlfriend, whose name you still lowkey hadn't caught. Because exactly when she was introducing herself, Satoru had decided to violently whisper something about the butter into your ear. 

Naoya had been glaring at you the entire dinner. You know this because you were glaring right back.

Game on, bitch.

On today's schedule was the first and only challenge of the week and you needed to smash it. Absolutely destroy it. Establish dominance. Show them who the fuck was the daddy in here.

It was in the gardens. You had to get ready right after breakfast, where you demolished approximately four sausages because Satoru had apparently decided to take your protein intake very seriously suddenly. You needed to be strong or something.

Anyway, you got the athleisure on. Matching Salomon XTs. You looked ready for Hyrox, which meant some personal bests were about to get absolutely cleared today.

Kusakabe was already in the middle of explaining the challenge when you arrived outside.

There were five stations visible across the grounds — structures, obstacles, markers — spread across the lawn in a way that looked like a PE lesson from hell and on steroids.

Kashimo had the vibrating energy of someone who'd been ready since approximately four in the morning, which made you mildly concerned.

Cameras were everywhere. Drones already in the air. Production crew at every angle. What if the cameras made you look like you ran funny? Satoru would have to defend your honour through his burners.

"This is The Gauntlet," Kusakabe announced, looking at the five stations across the lawn. "Five stations. Each one requires both partners to complete it together. You cannot move to the next station until both of you have finished the current one. You'll be scored on synchronicity above speed, which means how well you work as a unit matters more than how fast you finish. The couple with the highest combined synchronicity score at the end wins immunity from this week's elimination vote and a ten-point Bond Score bonus." A pause. "You'll have as long as you need. There is no time limit. There is, however—" the faintest suggestion of something in his expression "—a leaderboard."

He gestured at a board to his left. On it were eight couple names and squares that were currently blank. And the rules were too generous. You were about to be the fastest and the most synchronised. Mark my words.

"You may begin when you're ready."

Kashimo was already moving before the sentence finished. The fucker.

You looked at Satoru. He looked at you. Pre-game bro fist bump.

"Three twenty," he said.

"Three eighteen," you said, because you were going to win the argument retroactively.

You winked at the closest camera and went the fuck off-

Station one was communication. And it was immediately, aggressively loud.

Assemble a structure using verbal instructions only. No touching, no demonstrating, no gesturing. A production assistant handed you a diagram and a pile of components. So what were you playing now — Ikea employees simulator?

To your right, Naoya was already yelling at his girlfriend about how to hold something. To your left, Haruhi was shouting something about spatial awareness while Shimizu yelled back that she hadn't had enough espresso to know what space was. Couples barking directions. Panicking. Over-communicating.

You looked at the diagram. Looked at the components.

You started building in absolute silence.

Because look. The rules said verbal instructions only, which implied two people who had never done this before would require them. What the production team did not account for was years of shared shorthand so specific it had stopped being communication. Running two-person cons in environments where a single spoken word could get you arrested means you don't need to shout. Hell, you don't even need to speak.

His left hand twitched.

Bottom left piece first.

You slid it over.

Already on it.

He tapped his index finger.

The connector goes right, not left.

You flipped it.

Duh. I know.

Forty-three seconds.

Triple C. Complete. Correct. Cool.

And cringe. But like, what were you gonna do about it.

The production assistant looked at the diagram and  with serious, mild panic looked at Kusakabe, who was already doing TV host things toward the cameras. You moved on. Because you were not freaking amateurs.

Station two was a beam run. Something-something feet long, elevated about three feet off the ground. One partner carries the other across. Just don't fall and carry on. Simple.

Satoru looked at the beam like it had personally challenged him.

"I was born for this," he announced, unblinking.

"Please don't—"

He picked you up. Hoisted you into his arms and flexed for the cameras. Because, again, you were not amateurs — fanservice was as important as winning the challenges, and his biceps had already won over so many unsuspecting people. They would for sure win over the ladies watching at home.

You grabbed his neck on instinct.

"I'm going to cross it, come back, and cross it again," he said. "Just to establish dominance."

"No—"

He stepped onto the beam. The beam was narrower than it looked. Was he a female modern gymnast? What was this. Significantly, aggressively narrower than he'd imagined during Kusakabe's explanation.

Fine. It was fine. He was coordinated. Great core strength. Amazing spatial awareness. His first step landed fine. His second step landed fine. His third step—

Wobble.

"Your centre of gravity is shit as hell. And I swear to god if you drop me—"

"My centre of gravity is fucking flawless, thank you very much. You're just heavy. And if you hadn't eaten all four sausages and left me one, like a great girlfriend would, I wouldn't feel so lightheaded right now."

"And couple eight seems to have started arguing — after such a smooth beginning!" Kusakabe announced from somewhere nearby.

You were absolutely not having that. You were the poster picture of serenity.

"WE ARE NOT—"

You both snapped your heads around simultaneously. Satoru squeezed you warningly.

Shut up.

He readjusted his grip,  moving his arm from under your knees to right under your ass. It tickled. Weirdly tickled. Like an inconvenient, newly discovered tickle spot in a location that was extremely unhelpful for your current television persona. You clamped your jaw shut, readjusted your arms around his neck, and stared very intently at a tree in the distance like a stoic war hero.

He steadied and kept moving. Four more steps, three, two, one, and you were off the beam. But he wasn't setting you down, why he wasn’t setting you down.

"Going back," he said. "For the dominance lap."

"You are not doing a dominance lap—"

"Yes we are."

And yes, you did. The wobble must have been a glitch in the matrix because he ran back with zero issue, turned around, and sprinted back to the finish even quicker. You clung on. The cameras loved it. The leaderboard updated.

Three beams over, Suguru and Shoko were watching you in the middle of their own obstacle, genuinely horrified. Probably just jealous of your immense skills. Kusakabe had deadass nothing to say.

Station three aka finding the clue hidden somewhere on one partner's body. Find it and go.

The production assistant gestured at Satoru and stepped back. The clue was on him somewhere.

The pre-challenge instructions had been simple: one partner secretly hides a written clue on their body without telling the other. Testing how well you know each other. Or whatever.

Around you, the other couples had descended into varying states of chaos. Haibara was patting Nanami down like TSA security. "Can you take your socks off for me?" You could hear Haibara ask. "Why would it be in my socks." Nanami answered with tremendous restraint. 

Kashimo was spinning Utahime around in a circle, checking her like she was a lost item he'd misplaced. Mei Mei was doing a slightly inappropriate body check on Sukuna. Another fanservice enthusiasts. You gotta respect the hustle.

You just stepped into Satoru's space. Pursed your lips, did a quick mental sweep of behavioural data and the lightbulb was already on.

You reached out. Took his left hand and flipped it over. And there it was. Inside of the wrist.

Bingo.

Small black letters on the inside of his left wrist, slightly faded from the challenge prep earlier.

Eleven seconds from the production assistant saying go. You read it out loud for production and let go of his wrist.

Satoru smirked. You smirked. Smirking together like a couple of smirkers.

"Good girl," he said.

"You bet," you answered.

For your case, you two flirted in far worse ways on a regular basis, so this was practically camera appropriate. And mostly just for the cameras.

Also, you knew where to look because Satoru had been writing things on his wrist since college. We’re talking exam cheat sheets, con screenwrites, grocery lists when he was in a rush. Everything important ended up on his veiny left wrist eventually.

Station four was a blur of his face being at a specific level with a specific body part of yours while you retrieved something from a platform which you were not going to elaborate on and a weighted ball travelling from his chest to your hip via a configuration that was professionally handled, thank you very much.

And the last station was basically just sprint together to the finish line. Fifty metres, cross simultaneously. So you ran, same stride, same step, like you'd rehearsed it. Well, you kind of had — for years, actually. When you'd scammed an ice cream man for two popsicles during your weekly runs as national marathon runners who needed to replenish their glucose levels. 

Finish line a boom, first place. The cameraman assigned to follow you was standing ten feet away, literally bent over, hands on his knees, panting like he was about to pass out. He hadn't been able to keep up.

Three minutes eighteen fucking seconds.

Second was Kashimo and Utahime at six forty-two. Fast, efficient, aggressive. But slow, lol. They'd needed words at station one and two minutes at the clue station. Were these people actually in relationships or just a bunch of losers?

The production crew was dead silent. A few of them exchanging deeply unsettled looks. Handlers whispering into headsets.

Because, and I'm going to be honest, it didn't look like true love, exactly. True love was sloppy. True love communicated. True love stumbled and laughed and helped each other up. Clumsy, slightly slow, sweet to look at. That was the challenge vision board from production.

What you two just did looked like military-grade telepathy. Disturbingly, terrifyingly efficient. Mostly just disturbing. Kusakabe let the leaderboard update.

"Couple eight absolutely smashed it. Three minutes eighteen seconds. First place by a significant margin." A pause. "Your synchronicity score will be reflected in your Bond Score update within forty-eight hours. You have won immunity from this week's elimination vote."

He looked at you for one beat longer than anything else.

"Well done."

You looked at Satoru and he was already looking at you. He then started celebrating like he'd just won the Stanley Cup. Toward the cameras. This man was the drama. Then held out his fist and you bumped it.

"Three eighteen," you said.

"Basically three twenty," he rolled his eyes.

The rest of the first week was just filming content, content, content.

Tuesday you two filmed the Connection Cam segment.

A producer with a clipboard and a very specific idea of what organic couple content looked like had corralled you into a kitchen. The production deposited you by the kitchen island. The vibe mostly translated to: here are some ingredients, make something together and be in love about it. So you made pasta.

Satoru narrated the entire process like a Food Network host who had incredibly strong opinions about al dente and absolutely zero formal culinary or media training.

The director loved it. Or at least he said he loved it, delivering the compliment with that weirdly tired, vacant smile of a man who just missed his family and wanted to go home.

You ate the pasta. It was fine. Fine-ish. Fine-adjacent. Fine-neighbouring. Fine-kinda. And by that, I mean he'd added way too much salt and you'd burned the sauce to a texture resembling industrial cement. Neither of you broke character once. You just sat there, chewing aggressively, maintaining unwavering, romantic eye contact while white-knuckling through the culinary hate crime like the professionals you were.

Wednesday morning, Netflix dropped the Between the Sprints TikTok content.

And they posted the ultimate dominance lap clip like they should have. Forty-three seconds of him sprinting back across the beam with you clinging on for dear life. The cameras visibly scrambling to keep up. The cameraman physically dying in the background.

The caption Netflix used: couple 8 said efficiency is romantic actually 🏃‍♂️💨

Four hundred thousand views by noon.

The comments were largely just people screaming. Satoru was also screaming in the comments, obviously. He was locked in on his burners, typing shit like, "damn his thighs are really thighing in this vid respectfully." And people agreed. Again. He felt incredibly vindicated. You were incredibly annoyed.

The preliminary Bond Score updated mid-week.

You were expecting like a humble 105/100 and a massive, dedicated fanbase already fighting for your honour on Twitter.

23/100.

Huh.

"It'll come," you gaslighted.

"Obviously," he gaslighted further.

And that was the whole convo because you weren't worried. The Connection Cam content hadn't fully dropped yet. The confessionals hadn't aired. The challenge clip had barely landed. The episode was airing this Saturday!

It was week one data only. The score reflected a few days of footage from eight couples and you'd only been here for one of them. The math was simply mathing against you. You two were always late bloomers anyways. It would come. It will come.

Thursday, Naoya's first personal clip dropped.

The edit was not kind. The edit was not even trying to be kind. The editors had fully chosen violence and woke up wanting blood, which slay, and perhaps literally. His partner's confessional clip also dropped Thursday afternoon. Ten seconds and of it just enough. She looked directly into the camera, blinking like a hostage, and simply said: "I think I'm learning a lot about myself this week."

Forty thousand likes.

The comment section was a graveyard of crying emojis. Satoru thoughtfully added a few more through his burners, tagging Amnesty International just to support the algorithm.

Friday you taped your own confessionals for the entire episode. Individual interview. Just you or Satoru, then even together, the producers asking questions, and the camera. You'd seen Love Island. You knew how to perform. You knew exactly what they wanted — a little honest, a little lying, a little mean, a little sweet. The perfectly manufactured reality TV persona from hell and Twitter discourses.

The producers asked about the challenge. You answered.

They asked about the other couples. You answered.

They asked about Satoru. You answered.

They didn't even ask about your opinion about Naoya's bleached hair. You still answered.

They had built a full broadcast studio right on the estate grounds. Production had spackled you in an ungodly amount of stage makeup, squeezed you onto a sleek couch, and placed you under actual blinding studio lights in front of an actual live audience. 

There is a very specific and surreal psychological trauma in realising you're about to watch yourself on television for the first time while hundreds of people actively watch you watch yourself. 

What if somewhere in the episode your left kneecap will look weird again and you will have to pretend to not be insecure about your left kneecap? That bitch loves to act out at the most inconvenient times. 

All eight couples were arranged in a loose semi-circle. Cameras were everywhere. But not the hidden documentary ones from the manor, but massive, red-blinking broadcast lenses feeding live to God knows how many people.

And Kusakabe was entirely in his element. He was greeting the audience, pivoting seamlessly between cameras, effortlessly building the tension. He introduced the couples one by one. He got to you and Satoru, looked directly into the lens, and said something about Couple Eight possessing a romantic energy that was "a bit concerning for public safety."

Wait. What?

"Welcome to the first live elimination of The Soulmate Sprint!"

They played the episode first. It was forty-five minutes of footage you had literally lived through, now chopped, screwed, and edited into a narrative that only vaguely resembled your week but significantly more unhinged. 

The first ever dinner was there. Kusakabe's briefing, Yuki's question about the sex cameras for comedy relief. All of it.

And then there was the smack™. On a fifty-foot jumbotron, the ass-spank — in slow motion, mind you — did not look like a cute, unprompted form of PDA. It looked like Satoru had absolutely zero home training and you two had no manners whatsoever. Which was made infinitely worse by the fact that production had maliciously interlaced it with a solo confessional Satoru had filmed the day before.

Satoru, on screen, looking dead into the camera with absolute, sociopathic confidence: "I saw the opportunity and I took it. Simple as that. Sometimes you just see it and you go. No hesitation."

Smash cut to your confessional. You, on screen, having hands pressed over your mouth. Complete silence and your eyes unblinking.

The live audience made a collective noise of pure scandal. Across the couch, Sukuna and Mei Mei actually giggled. Giggled.

You maintained the most difficult poker face of your entire fucking life. Because what do you mean he went to his confessional shoot yesterday and said that about spanking you? Voluntarily? Unprompted?

"I swear," Satoru hissed next to you, his arm snaking securely around your waist. He was smiling brightly and fakely as hell. "I swear to god, that was taken criminally out of context."

"Uh huh," you said. Your own smile was so fixed it felt like lockjaw.

"I was talking about the challenge! The beam run!"

"Sure you were," you said.

"They asked me about why I ran back and forth—"

"Satoru," you warned. "The cameras are on us."

He stopped and looked at the red blinking light on the camera directly in front of you. Smiled at it, you smiled at him and then smiled at the camera. You were already mentally calculating the perfect physical trajectory to kick him squarely in his own ass the second you were off stage.

Then, because the editors were not finished, because they apparently wanted you to legally perish on live television, they rolled the next clip. You, during the dinner, laughing cheerfully. "You're actually kinda funny, Haruhi."

The miserable guy looking at you. You, already moving on, completely unbothered, continuing the offshore tax havens debate with Shimizu like you hadn't just legally renamed a man.

Cut to the guy's confessional.

"She seemed very confident about it," Higuruma said, staring blankly into the lens. "I found that compelling so I decided to wait and see how long it would last."

The audience absolutely howled. You turned around to the couch behind you. They sat right behind you. And the miserable guy who was apparently named Higuruma? Huh.

You looked at him in absolute horror, then blinked at Shimizu, who gave you a pained, but sympathetic grimace.

You snapped your head back around to Satoru. He was vibrating. One hand clamped over his mouth, shoulders physically shaking under the studio lights as he lost the brutal war against hysterical laughter.

"What the fuck," you hissed through a camera-ready smile. "You knew all along and didn't tell me?"

Satoru genuinely couldn't stop laughing, that fucker. Entirely abandoning his microphone etiquette. He wiped a singular tear from his eye. "I waited the entire week for you to find out. And I prayed to every god that you wouldn’t for this exact moment."

"Fuck you, what the hell—"

"This is for 'Sotaru', bitch," he whispered back, his blue eyes gleaming with vengeance with capital V.

Ah. Right. I mean. I said you were shit with names. Always had been.

And this dated waaay back to the fateful alumni gala, after which you two had gone to McDonald's to celebrate this newfound con-panionship over chicken nuggies and ice cream — and the ice cream machine was not broken, so you know it was fated.

The entire first month you'd called him Sotaru to his face because you genuinely thought that was his name and he was so deeply offended to even try to correct you.

You couldn't even defend yourself because the jumbotron instantly smash cut again to the Gauntlet challenge.

The tonal change almost gave you a whiplash. One second the audience was laughing at your sheer incompetence as a human being, and the next they were watching you and Satoru dismantle an obstacle course with the cold efficiency of two grift assassins.

The clip ended on you two standing at the finish line. Not breathing hard, not even hugging. Just staring deadass at the camera like it was your first day on Earth.

The studio audience didn't know how to react. A smattering of confused, terrified applause broke out, which quickly swelled into a massive roar of validation.

Satoru, instantly recovering from his laughing fit and emboldened by the noise, stood up from the couch. He ignored the absolute PR nightmare of a narrative you two had just been handed and gave the live audience a smug, theatrical little bow.

Kusakabe let the applause settle.

"Thank you, couple eight," he said. "Please sit down, Satoru."

Satoru sat down, still grinning. You, still computing whether actually fucking kicking him was worth the camera coverage.

"Now. The Bond Scores," Kusakabe announced, turning to the broadcast camera with the enthusiasm of a man reading a ransom note. "This is the ultimate metric of our contestants' connections. A score from zero to one hundred, calculated entirely by your votes. It measures chemistry, authenticity, and how deeply you believe in their love story. High scores bring safety and power in the game. The lowest scores face the chopping block." 

The big screen shifted. Suddenly there were eight couple names, eight blank scores. The entire studio went quiet with anticipation. This was it, this was your proper time to shine—

Kusakabe read them from the top.

"Suguru and Shoko."

The number appeared.

71.

"Congratulations. You seem to have won over a solid portion of our audience," Kusakabe said. "Let's see what the public had to say."

A tweet flashed onto the jumbotron:

@ realitytvjunkie: they look like they share a mortgage and a deep, mutual exhaustion with society. stable. 10/10.

Suguru gave a polite, measured nod. Shoko smugly fixed her hair and gave the camera a very small, very knowing smile.

"Yuki and Choso."

88.

@ alt_baddie99: she is a queen he is a yearner. true love exists and it's them.

Yuki blew a kiss to the camera. Choso, the alt baddie he was, stayed completely stoic.

Down the line. 65s. 79s. Solid, respectable numbers for people who hadn't spent their week arguing about sandwich taxonomy, accidentally renaming each other, and spanking each other in high definition.

Naoya and his partner got 45. The audience gave a lukewarm, vaguely uncomfortable golf clap. Naoya looked like he was about to demand a recount. You smirked. Forty-five was pathetic. Forty-five was the score of a man who radiated intense, unwashed incel energy. Serves him fucking right.

Then. The final card. You sat up a little straighter. Satoru adjusted his cuffs.

You knew the mid-week preliminary update on Wednesday had been rough. But that was just a tease. A little jab. Something to just make you work haarder. 

You were expecting the highest score now, because obviously — you'd won the challenge, you were already the stars of the show's Instagram, you were simply meant to take the week's double win. An iconic, dramatic week for the golden couple perfect for a reality TV narrative.

Kusakabe looked at the card. Actively rolled his lips in.

"And finally. Couple Eight."

He didn't even try to build the suspense, he just dropped the guillotine.

"Twenty-six out of one hundred."

The jumbotron flashed red.

26.

Dead silence. Then a collective, physical gasp from the studio audience AND from you.

H-motherfucking-UH???

You froze. Twenty-six. Twenty-what-six???? Are you fucking kidding me right now??

Only a three-point increase? You fed that man grapes like a concubine for the TikTok contentand it gave you a only three-point increase since Wednesday? The incel couple that barely spoke to each other unless they were arguing got a forty-five, and you two got a freaking twenty-six?!

Satoru's arrogant peace sign, which he had deployed right before Kusakabe looked at the card, slowly lowered. His fake smile completely disappeared, replaced by a look of ego-shattering offence. He looked like someone had just walked up and spat directly on his limited edition Adidas Sambas.

You were genuinely, deeply insulted. Yes, you had immunity from the Gauntlet. Yes, you were safe from elimination. But that wasn't the point, now was it. You were supposed to be selling the greatest love story of the century, and the public had just looked at your absolute best material and hit the reject button with extreme prejudice. The society is collectively so uncultured, it hurt.

You had known each other longer than most of the couples here had even been together! How did that even make sense.

"Uh, let's see what the public had to say," Kusakabe said, sounding like a man who actively wanted to go home.

A tweet appeared:

@ detective_truth: are they in love or are they holding each other hostage for a five million dollar ransom?? the vibes really aint it. VOTE THEM OUT.

Satoru's left eye twitched as he stared at the giant screen.

"Twenty-six," Satoru whispered next to you, his voice vibrating with pure, unadulterated outrage. "Naoya beats me by nineteen points? Naoya?"

"I'm going to find detective_truth," you whispered back, your eyes murderous as you stared into the audience. "I'm going to find them and cyberbully their entire family out of their internet usage."

"Damn," Kusakabe said. "That's rough. Anyways." He looked at the camera, fighting the urge to smirk at y’all. Lol. "But couple eight, you're lucky this time around. You won the immunity challenge, so you're safe from this week's elimination. The bottom two eligible couples, please step forward."

It was Naoya and his partner and Kashimo with Utahime.

The lighting went dramatic. You were suddenly plunged into darkness, the spotlight shifting entirely onto the standing couples. Which was frankly kinda rude. You had great hair and the stage makeup made you look like a complete sexy diva, it was simply a waste not to broadcast it for as long as possible. But to each their own.

The music turned dramatic followed by dramatic pause from the host, which was followed by dramatic suspense from the audience and dramatic knee-bouncing from Satoru next to you.

You just hoped the bleached clown would get the fuck out of here. He was ruining your vibe. It was definitely partly his fault your Bond Score had plummeted — you couldn't fully emit lover-girl energy when your man-hating radar was locked onto the biggest man-hating target in the current zip code! The other part of the blame was obviously on the audience, because your performance of unconditional love was unmatched and they just didn’t know shit.

Also, you were still stuck on the fact that Kusakabe had really just hit you with damn, that's rough on live television. Can people be like at least a bit sympathetic towards you? How can you show this to your parents? It was disgraceful.

Utahime and Kashimo stepped forward. They looked deeply annoyed but held their heads high. Also you could see them glaring at you sideways a bit, but guess what losers, you're the ones standing. Should have been more coordinated and quicker. Blame it on your un-athleticism. Duh.

Kashimo's Pantene-commercial hair blew slightly in the studio wind for dramatic effect. But they were still respectable losers, gotta give ‘em that.

Naoya, meanwhile, was visibly malfunctioning. His face went from pale to a violently dangerous shade of purple. He was looking around the studio like he was preparing to legally sue the live audience for defamation. Getting out-voted by a couple with a 26/100 who were only surviving on a technicality was apparently destroying his entire worldview in real time.

"The public has voted," Kusakabe announced, holding up the final card. "The couple leaving the estate tonight is—"

Another grand dramatic pause for the grand dramatic effect of the grand dramatic moment.

"Naoya and Yorozu."

Oooh. So that was her name. Well, anyway. Better late than never, am I right!

You genuinely, sincerely, professionally, nicely!, tried to maintain the composed, camera-ready expression of a gracious competitor who felt nothing but warmth and game respect for their fellow contestants and wished them only well on their onward journey.

You lasted approximately half a second.

Then the laugh came out. Not a polite suppressed smile. Nah, you were too undignified and rude for that. Not even a quiet huff that could be edited into something charitable. A bit unhinged, one hundred percent audible laugh that bubbled straight outta your chest.

You covered your mouth immediately. But the damage was done and it just kept going. The cameras were directly on you. And Satoru next to you was doing the most transparent job in television history of not also laughing.

Kusakabe turned his head and just stared at you. He genuinely didn't know what to do. Because what do you even do as a host in this situation.

Naoya's face went through several stages in quick succession. Bafflement was the dominant one. He had genuinely not seen this coming, could not work out what had happened, was going to spend a significant amount of time thinking about it, and still not arrive at the correct answer.

Godspeed.

Gasp! and the entire restaurant lost its collective fucking mind.

Acoustic dampening completely defeated by a wave of murmured "oh my gods" and awes and polite, wealthy sounding applause. The elderly woman at the table next to you was aggressively blowing her nose into a napkin and her husband was beaming at Satoru with the ‘good job, son’ kinda solidarity.

You’d identified your waiter as an emotional soft-target the absolute second he spent three, mind you, uninterrupted minutes passionately explaining the ethical sourcing of the diver scallops. He didn't stand a fucking chance against you two, making it so so easy for you two. 

He was currently standing by the wine cooler with both hands pressed firmly over his heart. …Was he weeping? 

Satoru stood up and hoisted you into a crushing, cinematic embrace. Absolutely fucking crumpling the rented silky Zimmermann dress and you were oh so going to fucking kill him for it. 

The waiter basically sprinted over. "Congratulations," he whispered reverently and dabbed his eyes with a cocktail napkin as Satoru pulled away from you. "That was... that was the most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed. Please, allow us to bring out a complimentary bottle of our 2015 vintage champagne." A pause. "And the chef insists, he absolutely insists, that you have the signature molten lava cake, completely on the house."

Motherfucking score.

"Thank you," Satoru whispered bravely. He reached out and squeezed the waiter’s shoulder in a gesture of gratitude. "We are just... so overwhelmed. I’m not even kidding, if I say this is the best day of my life."

"It is our honor. Truly."

He bowed and rushed off to the kitchen to secure the goods. Satoru instantly dropped his hand from your waist. Snatched his napkin off the table and aggressively wiped the fakeass tear off his cheek as his spine snapped completely straight. The annoying fake velvet voice deleted.

"If they bring out some cheap prosecco blend instead of the actual vintage champagne, I swear, I am leaving an one-star Yelp review," Satoru hissed through his teeth. Glaring at the kitchen doors and adjusting his cuffs. "I just bled my soul out onto the fucking tiles. I deserve the 2015 vintage."

"You rushed the monologue, plus the new line sucked ass," you critiqued, silently dropping the weeping fresh bride act as you picked up your water glass. You inspected the fake diamond under the low lighting. Hideous.

"You were supposed to mention my 'unwavering spirit’ and how ‘I’m the prettiest thing you have ever seen.’ Now people definitely assume you don’t find me hot and you also almost fumbled the box when you opened it."

"I was adding realism! I had to change the dialogue, I kept saying the same shit for so long, had to keep things fresh, you know." He leaned across the table, turning instantly defensive. "Also it wasn’t a fumble, it’s called nervous adrenaline, you uncultured swine. My micro-expressions were flawless. Did you see the tear trajectory? Bet, it looked so tragic hero coded."

"The weeping was pitchy as hell. It looked like a neurological event, not romance."

"I am carrying this operation," he scoffed as he kicked you lightly under the table. "Your sobbing was entirely one-note. You sounded like a dying goose."

"Half the diners were crying!"

"That doesn't mean your performance was nuanced," he rolled his eyes. You opened your mouth to absolutely drag his ass to hell and back, but the kitchen partition swung open. You both snapped back into character with this terrifying, synchronized precision. Satoru reaching across the table, his long fingers tangling gently with yours just as you waiter arrived.

A matte black slate was placed dead center on the table. Fifty something dollar dessert. Rich with dark chocolate ganache and dusted with edible 24-karat gold leaf, smoking gently from a spun-sugar cloche. Two glasses of actual vintage champagne set down beside it.

"Enjoy," the waiter whispered, offering one last watery smile and gone he was. You dropped hands immediately again. Both grabbing your dessert forks.

"The structural integrity is weak," Satoru noted as he ruthlessly stabbed his fork dead into the center of the cake. The chocolate lava spilled out a second too fast.

"The ganache is too loose. They didn't temper the chocolate correctly."

"It's free, Satoru, shut up and eat it."

The drive home was quiet, the good kind of quiet. The kind that comes after a job goes clean. And a job it was. No, actually, it wasn't a job, it was a work of art.

Satoru drove, complaining about the restaurant. Like it wasn't up to his standards. How he expected more. How the valet had actively disrespected his transmission. This man is rarely satisfied. Still definitely, slightly salty from you criticizing his performance earlier. You could practically smell it on him.

"You know what, next time YOU propose, we'll see how devastatingly romantic performance you put up."

You looked at him sideways from your reclined passenger seat and went back to your doomscroll. Because that did not deserve a dignified answer.

Last time you proposed, that fucker went off script and rejected you. And all I'm gonna say is that it was hella awkward for a few minutes. Or you know what, that story deserves to be told. If only so you could fully understand why this man deserved jail time.

You two had gone to a theme park. The target was a VIP FastPass package that ran about three hundred a head and you were absolutely not paying three hundred a head. The plan was simple: standard proposal, a few tears here and there, overwhelmed couple needs a moment, staff deploys sympathy protocol, and boom you walk away with complimentary passes and possibly a free photo package.

Simple as that.  Except you lost rock, paper, scissors proposal edition, so you had to go down on one knee in front of the freaking castle and Satoru looked at you and said, in front of a gathered crowd of like forty strangers and one man dressed as a large friendly bear:

"I don't think I'm ready for that kind of commitment."

Dead silence. The large friendly bear's head swivelled toward you. A child somewhere started crying, though that might have been unrelated. You stayed on your knee doing very damning mental maths on whether to cry or abort the mission entirely. And you were very bad at maths by the way. While Satoru stood there looking like he had genuinely surprised himself with what had just come out of his mouth.

A theme park employee appeared from nowhere. Long story short, Satoru eventually, after about two minutes of scalp, back, and underboob-sweating silence during which nobody, including you, had any idea what the fuck was actually going on, reconsidered.

You got the FastPasses, you also got an escort to the on-site couples photography studio. So now there were three professionally lit photos of you two in front of a castle on your living room wall. 

You swiped, swiped, swiped. Nothing interesting, though. The usual nothing. A video of someone's dog. A discourse about airport fashion you had no opinion on. An ad for a mattress you'd already been served forty times this month.

At some point you stopped scrolling entirely and just had the finger-less commands on, letting the screen automatically swipe on its own while you looked out the window at the city night. The music was unhearable too, since Satoru was blasting one of his horrendous Spotify playlists. But the red flashing text on the screen was impossible to miss.

CASTING NOW. THE SOULMATE SPRINT. GRAND PRIZE: $5 MILLION DOLLARS.

At first let the screen swipe past it. But then you remembered the prize. Five million? You might as well look back at the ad. Just in case. See what it was, if it was a scam, what it even meant.

Meanwhile the car stopped at a red light. The gears in your brain started working overtime, which Satoru telepathically noticed and looked sideways. The energy was lowkey off and he needed to check just in case you were about to make the evening shitty.

"What?"

You looked at him, but your eyes weren't sad, weren't off. Just expectant, taken aback, even. You turned your screen towards him. And fuck him if you were about to show him another sad puppy video. You should really fix your freaking algorithm.

He got flashbanged with the red text instead. His mouth fell slightly open. The gears started working in his head too. Then you locked eyes and the math started to math. Again, both of you were shitty as fuck at maths. The sociopathic brain cell in each of your brains joined hands again.

You could see it happen behind his eyes — the whole operation assembling itself in real time, like watching someone load a save file and he could see the same in yours. This was, I dare to say, the biggest, most insane idea you two had ever collectively had. And you knew that too, because you got suddenly nervous.

"...No," Satoru said.

"...No," you agreed.

The light turned green, nobody moved though. And in that beat, the nervousness turned to expectancy, confidence, and extreme delusion. He was looking at you with this unblinking focus, and you puckered your lips in this thinking manner. But the con spark in your eyes suddenly came back to life. Because of course.

"...Yes," he said, more cheerfully this time.

"...Yes," you agreed.

The car behind you started aggressively honking and Satoru took off. And please ignore the mild, okay, the suddenly aggressive,  speeding, caused by the adrenaline spike from being collectively insane.

He drove one-handed, not looking at the road at all, because he was busy yanking the phone from your hand and inspecting the ad, rereading the prize amount like it might've been a typo, double-checking.

And it was not a typo, it was not a dream, and it certainly was not a scam since the ad was posted by a freaking Netflix.

"Holy fucking shit," he breathed out. Not believing this was happening, even though he already knew it would be, and you knew that too. This was about to be the griftiest grift of your entire grift lives, and he had never been surer that you'd be able to pull something like this off. You two were at the height of your conning, and this would be the motherfucking cherry on top of your grift résumé.

And he would do anything to get the five million. And I mean fucking anything. Five million was matching jet skis. That was never having to work corpo ever again. That was generational wealth and all you had to do was lie to a camera crew. And yes, the issue was trying to get in. But he didn't even doubt that you wouldn't be able to.

"We need a backstory," you mumbled on cue.

Satoru's bright blue eyes dilated with pure greed. He nodded. You didn't say anything, because you were suddenly unsure again. Unsure about the logistics, the details, the everything. After all, it was a big thing — a big commitment and a bigass lie. 

But you were as much in as he was. You two read way too much romance manhwa anyway. You'd take some shitty plot from one, change two minor details, and voilà, you have the sob-romantic story of the reality TV decade.

An unhinged smirk spread across his face. You smirked back. You two were bunch of smirkers. 

The ultimate heist was officially born.

And in case you didn't notice, to just refresh your memory, make things clear and all. You two were grifters. Masters of con, if you will. Perfecting this craft to absolute oblivion. And it all started at some random-ass charity event your university organised back in sophomore year, to which neither of you were invited. But somehow got in anyway.

Look, the details are hazy now. Nine years kinda does that. But the broad strokes go like this: it was some Founders' Gala thing, black tie, alumni donors, the kind of event where the food was the only honest part of the whole evening. 

Neither of you had a ticket. Obviously, duh. But so you'd heard, through the campus grapevine, through someone's older cousin who worked catering, that the dessert table alone cost more than your monthly rent, and that felt, frankly, unjust. 

So you breached it. Satoru talked his way right past the front door. Spitting some absolute word-salad to the bouncer about being the Dean of Economics' step-granddaughter's uncle's cousin. Don't ask. The security guard literally just waved him through rather than unpack whatever the fuck that sentence meant.

Meanwhile, you slipped through the staff entrance. You naturally gravitated toward the ice sculpture like obnoxious con vultures. Confidently grabbed two flutes of champagne off a passing tray and immediately made a beeline for the carving station.

And here is the most unhinged part of the entire story. You didn't even know him. You just both coincidentally happened to gravitate toward the exact same premium wagyu at the exact same time. Two freeloaders drawn to the most expensive meat in the room.

You were three bites deep into a slice of beef when you spotted the very Dean of Econ. He saw the two of you from across the ballroom. Squinted. Recognised Satoru from some disciplinary hearing about a stolen golf cart and started marching over.

You froze. Meat literally halfway to your mouth. You glanced to your left. The tall stranger glanced to his right. Your eyes locked and it was two deer in the headlights kinda stare. You might not have known his name, his major, or why his face was so stupidly pretty, but you instantly recognised the same shared glint in his bright blue eyes. Uninvited.

The sociopathic brain cell sparked in your head, made contact with his, and an entire unspoken conversation happened in like zero point two seconds.

We are going down.

No we aren't.

Satoru didn't even hesitate. Trusting his entire fledgling con career in a stranger's hands.

He dropped like a sack of potatoes. Dead weight, and right onto the polished hardwood floor.

You stared at him for like one microsecond. Then you dropped too, hitting your knees in tights so hard they ripped. Which, fucking hell, those were the nice expensive shaping ones.

"SOMEONE HELP!" you shrieked, grabbing his shoulders and violently shaking him. "HE'S HAVING AN EPISODE! I AM HIS MEDICAL PROXY! NOBODY TOUCH HIM!"

The Dean skidded to a halt. The entire ballroom went dead silent.Satoru started doing this terrifying full-body twitching thing that looked absolutely nothing like any real medical emergency. Drooling, trying so hard to foam up the spit.

"It's his narcolepsy!" you sobbed. "The stress of his student loans triggers it! He just needs — he just needs high-quality protein to stabilise his blood sugar! He is so poor he hasn't had a proper meal in weeks!"

A weeping hedge fund manager literally hand-fed you both pieces of prime rib while Satoru "recovered" on the floor. Everyone was so taken aback and quite frankly so moved… and probably also terrified, that for the rest of the evening, nobody even questioned why the fuck two random sophomores were at the event at all.

Bingo.

And that’s how the ultimate con-artist syndicate was born.

Junior year brought you two moving in together. Two bedrooms, off campus, questionable water pressure and a radiator with two settings: off, or surface-of-the-sun. The kitchen island wobbled if you breathed on it wrong. And a whiteboard you stole from the engineering building that, before it became your con map, was probably someone else's calculus. Shitty as fuck apartment, but it was yours. A nest of platonic love and devoted friendship. Yeah, who am I kidding, more like a nest of deception, mischief, and shared stupidity.

And somewhere between move-in day and the end of that first semester together, the partnership quietly upgraded into genuine but questionable bestfriendship. And people started to be scared.

It happened gradually and then kinda all at once, you know, the way these things tend to do. Pulling each other out of exams because Sir General Meowbatten, your beloved family cat of fourteen years, had passed away suddenly and tragically. A devastating news that you delivered to three separate professors across two academic years with increasing biographical detail about Sir General Meowbatten's life, personality, and final days. 

He was a good cat. He never existed. RIP.

And eventually expanding the con portfolio outside university entirely ‘cause why stop at campus when the whole city was just right there. 

That's when the restaurant smacks started. Free desserts, free drinks, free whatever-the-occasion-called-for. Fake engagements. Dramatic public breakups. Promotions. Demotions. Affairs. Birthdays that Satoru has now technically celebrated eleven times at eleven different establishments. Yearly, may I add. Anniversaries that get more elaborately melodramatic with each retelling. And so on.

Two years after graduation brought the long-awaited apartment upgrade.

Two years into actual jobs, salaries, responsibilities, standards, and the shitty apartment had started to feel less like a charming origin story and more like an active hazard.

You were adults now. You deserved crown moulding.

The mark was a luxury building two neighbourhoods over. It had superb light, nice floorplan, a kitchen island that as far as you could tell did not wobble. But it was thirty percent over budget.

And the con was Satoru in his winter cardigan. It was summer, so the whole thing kinda read as ‘delicately unsettling’ on a six-foot-three man who was, at that point of his life, probably the most obnoxious gym bro in any zip code. He was moving slightly slower than usual through the viewing. Pausing at the doorway to catch his breath, one hand against the frame, doing this small private wince. Ignoring the fact that this was also a man who did weighted pull-ups for fun and stuff.

You were at his elbow the entire time, emitting an exhausted-but-devoted energy.

When the landlord asked gently, carefully, the way people ask when they've clocked that something is going on but don't want to exactly pry, you produced a folded letter from your bag.

It had a letterhead and everything. Advanced Chronic Cellular Fatigue.

It was degenerative, progressive. The doctors had recommended a calm, low-stress, high-quality living environment for the time he has left.

Honestly, shoutout to Wikipedia. About eighty percent of the medical jargon you two cobbled together for this came from a Wiki page about chronic conditions, the rest was just payoff from the creative writing class you took in your senior year. A mix of about twelve different chronic illnesses blended into one beautifully vague but serious-sounding diagnosis. 

Satoru looked out the window at the courtyard wistfully. A man memorising the light.

The landlord's face did something tragic. Thirty-six percent off. You moved in within the month.

The landlord still texts to check in. With, like, a real concern. Satoru responds to every single one while working his ass off daily in the apartment complex gym.

But your absolute magnum opus of working under pressure? The highway labour. And yes, you read that unfortunately right.

You two were running late for some indie concert last year — a band you'd both seen years ago in junior year, two hours away, ninety in a sixty zone type shit.

Wee-woo. Red and blues flashed in the rearview and Satoru started to panic as he pulled over.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. I already have three points on my licence—"

You didn't even look at him, rolling your eyes and reaching straight into the backseat. You grabbed his hoodie, and shoved it completely up your band tee. Then spilled the rest of your water bottle directly into your lap.

"You're getting me dry pants, idiot."

When the officer approached your window, you started screaming. Like, horror-movie screaming. The cop walked up and you threw your head back against the headrest and wailed. Satoru caught up immediately, he gripped the steering wheel and yelled that the baby was crowning and he didn't know how to deliver a child on the interstate, that you two were first-time parents and he wanted the best possible delivery for his dearest wife and his babygirl.

The cop didn't just let you off with a warning. He turned his sirens back on. A full police escort all the way to the city barriers.

Satoru even had time to stop by Urban Outfitters downtown to get you new jeans before the concert had even properly started.

Since we're doing the full picture and all. If you're wondering when two people with demanding jobs and an active con portfolio found the time to date, the answer is: you tried. Obviously you tried.

You were young and employed and sexy and hot and desirable, the best thing in the city, frankly. And the city was full of people, less sexy and hot obviously, and neither of you was made of stone, if you catch my drift.

It just never really... worked. At first it was simple enough to explain. You were both just too absorbed in yourselves and each other. In this very mutual, very narcissistic way that left like zero space for anyone else. 

You got broken up with a lot, is what I'm saying. Via phrases like "I just feel like there's no room for me" and "it's not you it's actually kind of him".

Fine. Valid, I guess. Normies wouldn't understand the beauty of your craft anyway. But then somewhere around twenty-five, twenty-six it stopped being that and started being something more deliberate. Something that looked, from the outside, a lot like sabotage. 

A terrible date that ended suspiciously early due to a fake emergency. A third wheel who materialised at the venue with no explanation and just stayed. And yes, it was Satoru.

A phone call timed with suspiciously accurate precision, right as things were going well. Again, if you catch my drift.

You pretending to be his weirdly attached sister. Him being your arranged husband from Sweden.

And yes, you were both pissed that you constantly cockblocked each other. But like, you were protecting the brand. How could you successfully run cons when one of you might accidentally bring an actual date to some restaurant where you and Satoru had celebrated your fifth wedding anniversary?

Dating would simply complicate your true purpose. Some things unfortunately needed to be sacrificed for the price of a free meal.

But people noticed. You know — or well, actually you might not know… Certain patterns, certain timings, certain looks that happened whenever the other person mentioned someone new. Some would call it something. Like a sexless marriage or some incestuous situationship charged with this weirdass tension. A lot of people had a lot of opinions. But it stopped being pointed out around the time you graduated, because it was lowkey pointless. It was like talking to a wall. 

Moving on because the backstory for the audition tape won't write itself. Am I right.

And the brainstorming process was not your finest hour. Happens to everyone.

Witness protection program, which was his idea, obviously. It got immediately vetoed, people who know you will google this.

Then there was reincarnation, soulmates across multiple lifetimes, tragic deaths, cosmic reunions. His idea again. You reminded him this was Netflix not a webtoon. He said webtoons were culturally significant. You agreed but said that wasn't the point.

At some point it was rivals to lovers plotline. Your families were rival corporations, forbidden love, secret meetings. Vague enough, emotionally legible, but also unfortunately the plot of approximately four hundred manhwas and at least one kdrama you two had watched together last year.

Then it was amnesia. Then star-crossed exchange students. Then some horrible mashup of Transformers and Pride and Prejudice that neither of you could fully explain afterward.

So basically you two were running out of ideas and time and patience when your gaze drifted toward the fridge. Specifically toward the magnets, toward the photos tucked between them.

Satoru was apparently already looking. The photo had been there for years. Taken at some crappy halloween house party where you'd gone as a maid and Satoru had been in this phase where he thought he was better than everyone, so he couldn’t bother with some elaborate costume. It had warm lighting, dark background, and especially zero contextual evidence of where it was actually taken.

You looked at it. He looked at it. You looked at each other.

"No," you said.

"Yes," he corrected.

"Satoru—"

But he'd already snatched the photo off the fridge and smirked like that one Shrek meme.

"Nobody could prove shit."

You stared at him. He was right, nobody could prove that. But still, your dignity was on the line. But also, girl, was it really?

So the story went like this. You were student council president of your university. He was the most insufferable, effortlessly perfect, infuriatingly popular guy on campus — his idea, obviously — who you had to deal with constantly through official channels.

Classic setup. But you had a secret. Embarrassing, reputation damning secret. A part time job at a maid café that absolutely nobody from uni could know about, and which was now, oh so conveniently, out of business. 

He found out, of course he found out. And instead of telling anyone he just started coming in. Week after week. Becoming a regular. Sitting in your section. Ordering the same thing. So you served him and smiled about it, the two of you pretending not to know each other from campus. Feelings started to slowly develop. It went on like that for—

"How long?" you'd asked.

"A semester," Satoru said. "Maybe two?"

"That's so stupid."

"That's longing and yearning, a tragically epic romance," he said. "There's a difference."

You wrote it down. Then he apparently saved you from accidentally revealing to the whole student body that you're a maid, boom, dramatic romantic scene ensues, you two kiss and are now inseparable.

"This is literally just Maid-sama," you said.

"It's inspired by—"

"It IS Maid-sama."

"Do the Netflix executives even know what Maid-sama is?"

"Probably?"

"Then they will say, OMG their love story is like this iconic, generation defining shoujo! They MUST be in our show!"

You had zero arguments left. Because stealing a plot so blatantly at least ensured a certain foolproofness. If you forgot how to act it out, you could just reread the manga.

So you propped your phone against the fruit bowl and hit record. Satoru threw an arm around your shoulders, you clamped a hand down on his thigh, trying to look so disgustingly domestic in a way that physically hurt. The framed pictures of you two across the years on the wall behind you added just the perfect je ne sais quoi of it all.

The photo went in approximately five minutes into the tape, right after the necessary introductions.

"It all started at a maid café," you told the camera, deploying the perfect wistful little sigh. You held the photo up dead centre to the lens. You doing this annoyed eye-roll bit. Him leaning slightly forward, looking at the picture with this mischievous smile.

But what was totally unaccounted for, completely, entirely unaccounted for, was that he went pink. Just a flash. A violent, microscopic flush creeping right up his neck before he aggressively swallowed it down and smiled softly at the camera, just as you did the thing with your thumb, slowly caressing his thigh under the questionably short five-inch Lululemon shorts. He loved those. Apparently they made his thigh muscles more pronounced and it would be a shame not to show the world how sexy his thighs were or whatever.

But, I mean. Yeah… But also they made you uncomfortably hypnotised. It was indecent, honestly. But he was your best friend so you were not going to argue with his fashion choices.

Then he talked. About the café, how it was seeing you for the first time in the uniform. Knowing it was the stuffy council president — giving the word stuffy more annunciation than it had any right to receive. Coming back anyway because there was something about the girl in the apron.

He recovered the blush mid-sentence, smooth as hell, like it had never even happened.

In his opinion, it came out of fucking nowhere. Like, had no business coming out like this. But he was just that deep in the delusion. Said to himself, he was practically method acting. Literally manifesting a physiological response for the craft.

Sure, bro. Let’s just pretend that explains why his ears did the exact same thing the first time he saw you in the costume at the actual Halloween party back in senior year. Or why, one time when he was stoned, he stood in front of the fridge and stared at the photo for way longer than necessary.

But that's neither here nor there. Whatever helps him sleep at night.

He didn't miss a beat for the camera though. Looked right into the lens with those big, devastating blue eyes.

"I found out her secret," he whispered, voice dropping into that tragic, vulnerable register. "She thought I was going to ruin her life. But I just... I couldn't stay away from that café." A pause. "Well, to be honest, I couldn't stay away from her."

Give him an Emmy. No, give him all of them actually.

It was your turn again. You looked into the camera with the specific expression of someone deeply, privately in love who was also deeply, privately mortified about the entire ordeal. 

You talked about the café. Your side of the made-up story. The first day he walked in and you knew immediately, recognised him from campus, from the council meetings. Knowing and saying nothing. Serving him his usual before he'd finished sitting down, which you pretended was just good customer service.

"I think," you said, "I told myself it was fine because nothing was actually happening. We were just near each other. In this weird off-campus bubble." You paused. "That's what I told myself," you said. "For a semester. Maybe two."

Satoru made this very strangled laugh that, on the tape, came out sounding like he was deeply touched by this admission.

Then came the grand reveal, the arc finalé. Someone from college walked into the café, someone who knew you, someone who was two seconds away from posting on the uni facebook group that you worked in a maid café. As if it would be some life-altering, life-ruining exposé. You leaned across his table, sharing this microsecond of understanding.

Satoru didn't even hesitate and down he went. With omurice and all. You dropped to your knees, did the whole medical-proxy thing, crowd becoming sufficiently distracted. He cracked one eye open from the floor and looked at you. And thus how it all began.

And look, I'm not going to sit here and pretend you didn't notice, while workshopping this particular plot point, that it was basically just the con duo homecoming edition only slightly rearranged.

I’m not going to tell you that, because it’s not relevant. It’s a fake backstory. The similarities are strictly coincidental. You’d pulled this from the manga, and the Halloween photo, and the specific way the narrative needed to resolve, and it had nothing to do with anything else.

You two wrapped up the tape by talking about the usual emotionally touching boring stuff after. Trust and what it meant to be known by someone past the version of yourself you put out for the world. The kind of cringe the producers would love.

You snatched the phone off the table and stopped the recording at a very beautiful double chin angle.

"Good?" he asked, while you carefully inspected the tape.

"Good enough," you cringed. And you were not gonna lie, you hated listening to your own voice on video. You did some light edits and sent it off.

Neither of you noticed the Maid-sama! manga collection sitting in the bookcase in the corner behind you for the entire video. Some things do be just writing themselves.

And to your luck the producers called back the very next morning. It was not a confirmation, obviously. Y'all got hit with the "we'd love to chat," which was fine, expected and you'd have been more surprised if they hadn't.

Video call was scheduled for a week later. It lasted forty-five minutes, two producers and a casting director who looked like she couldn't decide if you two were massive trolls or if you possessed the most insane and marketable love story known to mankind. She asked about the maid café. Then asked follow-up questions about the maid café. Then a follow-up to the follow-up.

You answered everything without blinking. Satoru answered everything without blinking. You two were a bit stiff, a bit awkward, saying it’s just nervousness. The week of preparation consisted of perfecting the lie to absolutely fucking oblivion. You two were able to scrunch up about fifty pages of absolute hubris. 

We're talking backstory to a backstory, backup backstory to the backup backstory in case nobody was buying it, drama, an almost-breakup arc, an epic reconciliation arc, an almost-dying arc (what the fuck, lol,) future plans, future plans for future plans. You went into such detail that apparently you two already know where you'll spend your pension together.

Anyway, the point is you didn't contradict each other once. The story was motherfucking bulletproof, and quite frankly with the amount of material you two had, copyright issues aside, you could've published this as some epic romance series if you hadn't made the cut.

Five weeks later, you had an in-person casting day, well, a weekend. It consisted of separate interviews, joint interviews, a two-hour personality assessment that at one point asked you to rank morally ambiguous scenarios from most to least acceptable. You ranked them honestly and apparently that was either very correct or very concerning depending on which producer you asked.

They also filmed you just existing together — talking, eating the catering, waiting between sessions. The producer watching the monitor said something to her colleague that made the colleague look up and stare at you with somehow concerning face. Probably because you were in the middle of popping a very juicy pimple from his hairline and he started screeching like a dying walrus.

But most importantly, the confirmation email landed two weeks after returning home. Daddy’s freaking home. You forwarded it to Satoru with no message. He replied with approximately thirty-two dollar sign eyes emojis.

Making the cut also meant boring stuff incoming. NDAs. Logistics. Logistics to logistics. And like, the part where you both had to figure out eight weeks of your actual lives.

You went to your boss the very next morning with the expression of someone delivering difficult news bravely and explained that after consulting with your medical team you'd been advised to take eight weeks of medical leave for a bilateral temporal lobe decompression.

Your boss looked terrified. You did not elaborate — you couldn't elaborate. Another creative writing medical emergency thing. It was very specific and very serious-sounding, and the key was always to look a bit tired, a bit pale, too exhausted to answer follow-up questions that, as a result, never came. Because you looked too tired and sick. 

Mostly because you and Satoru had celebrated getting in by getting absolutely shit-faced at some random bar downtown, free of charge — courtesy of apparently celebrating finding a cure for cancer, because the bar owner said no life-saving scientists were paying that night. Period. 

So back to your job. You got eight weeks off with full pay and a sentimental card signed by the whole office, and a complimentary fruit basket. All that jazz. The fruit basket was excellent, btw.

Satoru took a, uhhh let’s say, a bit different approach.

He fucking quit his job. Not gave notice, just straight-up quit. Forty-five minutes between deciding and handing in the resignation letter, which he wrote on his phone in the elevator and absolutely did not proofread. It contained about five grammatical errors and was signed under Sxtoru Gojo :D.

His reasoning was that you were going to win five million dollars. Why would he need a job after that.

But there was a nagging feeling neither of you could place for a few days after. Like you'd forgotten something. Something important, maybe, or maybe not — it hovered at the edge and then the production logistics swallowed your free time and you kinda stopped thinking about it.

Satoru said it was probably just the becoming-a-world-star nerves. Which made sense, I guess.

It wasn't until you were already in the car on the way to the first production location, bags in the boot, pre-production day instructions in your lap, that it hit you.

"’Toru," you turned to him in the backseat.

"Mm."

"Did we, like, tell our family?"

"...Family, you say." He stared at you blankly. Open mouth, shitty sitting posture and all.

"Yeah. Like. That we're going to be on Netflix for two months?"You furrowed your brows, finger-tapping the bound papers.

"I sent a mass WhatsApp message yesterday," he shrugged, and went back to playing Subway Surfer on his iPad.

"Saying what?" you choked out, sounding very concerned, very you're-not-buying-it energy.

He rolled his eyes like you'd asked the most boring question known to man and not like he'd sent something unhinged to your mom without telling you.

"That we're going on an Antarctica expedition?" He gestured like you were the stupid one for asking. "Limited signal. Not to worry." He added that last part like it somehow made it better.

You stared at him. Eyes going wide and not exactly from shock or fear or rage. Just taking it in, lol.

"Satoru—" you were almost breathless, blinking at him a few times, because what the hell. Why wasn't your mom blowing up your phone right now? But then you realised that this was apparently your second Antarctica expedition. It’s a long story, really, the less said the better. Point is, your parents were probably just over it at this point. 

"They'll find out when the show airs," he said serenely, like everything was going according to plan, which apparently it was. "Chill out, it'll be a nice surprise. My mom's birthday is in three weeks so it's basically a birthday present for her."

You looked out the window. Staring at the passing traffic, praying to get to the airport as quickly as possible before you slapped the fuck out of him.

Girl, deep breaths.

It’s only when you squeak and turn around to face him that he remembers why he even went here in the first place. For you, his cute little best friend which he missed oh so dearly.

Seems like she missed him, too.

Because why in the ever living fuck are you straddling a curse that looks just like him?

Which he wants to ask, mouth already parting to ask, but the words die out on his tongue, syllables forgotten completely. Your tits are practically spilling out of your bra—which he gets such a good view of when you’re completely turned around, mortification written all over your face.

“Satoru! You’re here…” you squeak out, not bothering to try and hide your embarrassment. You can feel your face start to burn as you realise the position you’re in right now.

You can see the way he’s eyeing the curse that’s sat beside you on the bed—weirdly enough not moving an inch, only tilting its head slightly as it assesses his… counterpart? “I- uhh- might’ve done something?”

“There is a curse sitting next to you that looks exactly like me, I’m gonna need a little more than that, sweets,” he finally manages to mumble out, still eyeing the curse. If it made so much as one wrong move, he would hollow purple it to oblivion.

He finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him with a final thud that resonates through the uncomfortably silent room. Walking over to your bed, he wraps an hand around your upper arm, dragging you over to where he’s standing.

Startling, you let out a little gasp, almost falling to the side. Your back is pressed against Gojo’s chest. That same chest you’ve eyed way too many times for someone that claims to be just his best friend.

His arms come down to circle around your waist, one of his hand already making the little hand signal for hollow purple in case anything goes wrong. At the same time he places his chin on top of your head. “So, wanna tell me why that’s here?”

Your mind is scrambling to explain the situation—how you even got into this position to begin with—but all you can think about is how one of Satoru’s big hands is splayed over your bare tummy, making your entire mind blank.

“It was an accident,” you begin, picking at your cuticles slightly as you look down. Your bare thighs are staring back up at you. Why the fuck did today of all days have to be the day he walked in?

When you don’t continue, Gojo just hums. His thumb stroking small, soothing circles into your soft skin as he leans down so his lips graze across the shell of your ear. “Really? You’re meaning to tell me you—what, made a curse that looks just like me, all while you’re in your underwear, nearly straddling the thing, just on accident?”

A small mhmm falls from your lips as a shiver shoots down your spine. Satoru’s soft lips grazing the shell of your ear while you look at the curse. Those blue eyes blinking back at you, wandering all over your near-naked form.

“‘Was just trying something out,” you breathe out.

Which is true. You weren’t planning on making a curse, let alone one that looked exactly like your best friend—which is The Strongest sorcerer of today’s age.

You were playing around with the little vials of colors you have stacked under your bed. They weren’t just colors, though. No, these were emotions, negative ones. Not just any negative emotions, but those of Satoru Gojo.

Your cursed technique was as beautiful as it was painful. Being able to see pain—both physical as emotional—in the form of colors is not for the weak.

While it can be beautiful—colors swirling on people’s skin—it can also be painful to look at.

That was exactly what Gojo was to you: painful and beautiful to look at.

His Six Eyes give him constant migraines, strong enough that he has a bright white halo around his head at all times. Think of looking at the sun without any eye protection, but from up close. Or just holding a torch to your eye as you try not to go blind.

Can you imagine it? Yes? Well then, now you know what Gojo looks like to you. A walking mini sun amongst humans.

Luckily you didn’t have to look at it, though. Because you can take someone’s pain away, storing it in different objects or yourself. The former you found out relatively late—only finding out you could do it when you were nineteen years old.

At first, Gojo refused to let you take away his pain, because you would always wince whenever you took it from him. His headache so painful, it was even painful to you, which was saying a lot.

Your pain tolerance is through the roof. Which, yay for you, but also it wasn’t always like that. It took you years of taking other people’s pains before you got kinda numb to most of it. A broken bone felt like a nearly healed bruise to you.

Still, Gojo’s headaches are fucking painful. It has made you wonder more than once how he even wanders through life like that.

It was only when you found out that you could store someone's pain in objects that Gojo let you take his headaches away. Only if you promised to actually store it in something, and not just take it for yourself.

Over the years you’ve collected hundreds of little vials that all were Gojo’s pain. There are more vials, obviously, for combat purposes, but you weren’t interested in those today.

No, when you dragged the little box with vials onto your bed, your hands immediately found the little tubes that were all labeled Gojo.

You could see the actual colors in the vials—bright white for his migraines, light blue for sadness, black for grief, green for jealousy, etc.—where they are completely transparent to anyone else. That, of course, excludes Gojo Satoru.

Of course the fucker could see that there was something in the bottles with his pretty Six Eyes. Clear that there are traces of cursed energy in them. Which is also how he knows you store his pains into the little vials.

One time you tried to be sneaky and take the pain for yourself—give yourself a little cursed energy boost—only for him to get angry with you, asking you why you didn’t do what you promised to do; put the pain in the little vial.

That was the last time you ever tried to take his pain for yourself, even if you were low on cursed energy after a grueling mission.

So, vials it was. They kept stacking up over time, never storing too much pain into them, because god knows what would happen when you did. Honestly, over ninety percent of the bottles were all Gojo’s pain, because you couldn’t stand to look at him and see it all around him.

You also couldn’t see him when he was in pain like that. Like I said, he is like a walking mini sun. So, you wouldn’t be able to see his face if you didn’t take any of his pain away. Not that it mattered much anyway, considering he often times wears his blindfold.

Well, he takes it off when he’s around you, knowing you could just take his pain away if the information ever got too much. Those pretty blue eyes unobstructed by anything.

Which is what you were thinking about when you had woken up. A stupid thought festering in your mind, refusing to let go.

Would you be able to use Gojo’s pain colors to make the color of his eyes?

You were never successful before, his shade of blue was a shade that you simply could not recreate. But… what if you were to use his own color pallette against him? Surely you would be able to get the pretty blue that is your friend’s eyes.

So you got to work, twisting open tens of vials, mixing the pain colors with each other. Bright white turned into a very light shade of blue, into a darker shade of blue that still wasn’t close to his eyes.

It was when you shifted in your bed that everything went wrong.

The vials—all unscrewed—toppled over. Colors only you could see spilled out like paint, seeping into your blanket, finding purchase in the thing. It got all muddy—blues, greens, purples, reds, yellows mixing together.

Before you could even think of putting them up right again, something started happening.

At first it was just the colors forming a small ball inside your blanket. Not alarming enough for you to stop capping the bottles, but enough that it grabbed your attention slightly.

It was only when it got bigger and bigger that you stopped what you were doing, scooting back to where your pillows were.

After only a few seconds, there was something sitting on your bed. Well, no, not something. Your best friend in curse form was sitting there, blinking down at you.

Safe to say a small scream tore from your throat, ready to exorcise the thing right then and there.

But… it looked kinda cute. Plus, it wasn’t immediately attacking you! Which was a good thing… right? So you let it stay.

It was insane, it really was. But it was also kinda fascinating with how accurate it looked like Satoru. Everything you could see was the same—except for the literal six eyes on its head.

Which led you to your current predicament.

“What could you have possibly wanted to try out that resulted in this?” Gojo asks you, eyes not once leaving the curse that is sitting on your bed, completely unbothered. “Does it matter? All I know that it’s here right now.”

The white-haired man behind you just rolls his eyes at that. Leaning forward, he waves his hand in front of the curse’s face a few times. “Why is it just sitting there, though?”

“It doesn’t react to anything.” To prove your point, you lean forward yourself, much to Satoru’s dismay who immediately tightens his hold on you, and poke the curse. True to your word, it doesn’t react to being touched. No twitch, no extra blink, not even a tilt of its head. “See? No reaction.”

“That’s very hard to believe. Having such a pretty girl sitting in front of me nearly naked, I surely would react,” Gojo murmurs. Wide eyed, you look at him over your shoulder—noses almost touching from the proximity. Surely he didn’t mean it like that, did he? But then you feel it—that bulge pressing into your back. “Oh, would you look at that. Seems like even curses can’t help but react.”

The curse is eyeing the way your thighs are pressing together, the way your mouth is slightly parted with shock, the way your tits are sitting in your bra. All three sets of eyes trained on a different part of you.

For a second, it makes Satoru jealous. Jealous that the curse can technically see all of you at once. Its eyes practically devouring you while you look between the two—sorcerer and curse.

But he has something the curse doesn’t: the Six Eyes. Yes, it has six eyes, but not the Six Eyes. Which means it can’t see the way your panties are starting to cling to your folds, despite having your thighs pressed together.

Another thing the curse also doesn’t have, but Gojo does, is have its hands on you. Because his palm is still resting on your tummy, the smooth expanse of your skin underneath his fingertips. It can’t feel the way you’re slightly squirming.

Still, the thing does not move anything other than its eyes. Hands laying limp beside it, cock throbbing in its confines, but doing nothing to hide or alleviate it.

“Wanna see if we can make it react even more?”

Which is how you ended up here—with Satoru, your best friend, sitting behind you. His long legs trapping you between them, your own legs hooked over his, panties pushed to the side so the curse has a full view of your puffy, glistening folds while Gojo’s fingers are plunging in and out of your cunt.

Your nails dig into Satoru’s forearm, leaving behind angry crescents in their wake. Toes curling as you throw your head back with a slight whine.

“Uh-uh. C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on the curse,” Satoru tuts, fingers stilling until you lift your head enough to look at the curse. Once he sees you look at the thing again, he continues. “There we go, such a good girl for me.”

The praise makes your stomach do a little flip, the words going straight to your core. Your walls clamp down on Satoru’s fingers, having him grin behind you.

His other hand trails up from your stomach to your bra-covered tits. Now that won’t do, will it? With a little tug of his hand, he undoes the clasp with ease—a skill you didn’t know he possessed, nor wanted to know to be quite frank.

It’s when your tits are in full view for both men—if you can even call the curse that—that there is slight movement from the one in front of you.

The curse doesn’t do anything wild, just slightly shifts where it’s sat, but it’s the most it has done since it appeared—or rather formed. Its pupils from the top pair of eyes expand even more, but not as much as the lower pair of eyes, which are still focused completely on your pussy.

It might not be much, but it is a small step in the right direction.

That thought immediately flies out the window when Satoru’s digits graze over a spot inside of you. Your back arches with the touch, a moan ripping from the back of your throat as your hand clamps down even further onto his forearm. “O-oh shit.”

From there on out you can only think about the way Gojo moves his fingers inside of you, bullying your g-spot with those long, thick fingers of his.

And if that wasn’t enough already, his other hand has started to grope one of your tits, squishing the flesh between his fingers before he starts caressing your nipple, nail grazing over the little nub, before he rolls it between his fingers.

Your head falls back onto his shoulder, looking at him instead of the curse. He doesn’t scold you this time, just keeps at it as he looks at you. “Nawhhh, doing so good for me.”

You don’t even hear the condescending undertone in his voice, way too focused on the pleasure that’s shooting through you right now.

When you don’t reply, Gojo stops playing with your nipple. Instead bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, tilting it so you have direct view of him already looking down at you. “Feeling good, sweetheart?” When you nod your head, he just chuckles. “Thought so.”

Your thighs are starting to shake on top of his, sweat starting to break out on your forehead as you teeter closer to the edge with each pump of his fingers.

Seems like he knows it too, judging from his smirk. He keeps your head tilted up, eyes flicking from your own down to your lips and back up to your eyes again. Just like the curse, Gojo’s pupils are blown out, a small ring of blue left behind.

“C’mon, show it how pretty you look when you fall apart on my fingers.” And you do just that. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull as your hips buck wildly, to the point where he lets go of your jaw in favor to press your hips down, keeping you flush against him.

After riding out your high, Gojo removes his fingers from your cunt. A small whine slipping from your lips as he purposefully lets his fingers glide through your messy slit.

You’re panting against Satoru’s shoulder, breath ghosting over his neck as you come down from your high. Nuzzling further into his broad frame, you let yourself relax slightly as Satoru rubs soothing circles into your hip.

“You two done yet?” Well that certainly grabs both your attention. Heads snapping to the sound of the voice, you’re met with the curse grinning.

Of course its voice sounds exactly like Gojo’s, but it still throws you for a loop—especially considering the fact that same voice just talked you through it, told you how good you were taking his fingers, how pretty you looked when cumming.

“You—” You have to swallow once, twice before getting your voice back to its steady octave. “You can talk?”

“Of course I can, who do you take me for?” Gojo the curse replies, tilting its head slightly. Those white bangs fall across his forehead, covering one of its eyes before it pushes the hair back with its hand; the first actual movement you’ve seen from the thing.

You sit up fully now—still in your naked glory, not even bothering to cover up considering it has already seen you get split open of your best friend’s fingers. Said best friend doesn’t share that same sentiment, though. He covers your boobs up with his hands, his legs trapping yours between his so he can keep them close for you as he glares at the curse over your shoulder.

It just makes the curse chuckle. Yes, it chuckles at his counterpart’s antics. “Oh? Now you cover her up? Weren’t you the one who suggested doing all of this to begin with?” It vaguely gestures towards you when it says ‘this’.

Gojo just rolls his eyes, pulling you further into his chest. “Yeah well, show’s over. You can turn those ugly eyes away now.”

“These are the same eyes as yours, so you’re really only insulting yourself,” it immediate counters, crossing its arms over its chest.

Gojo opens his mouth to say something back. Probably a jab at the fact that the curse and him don’t share the same eyes for he has the Six Eyes and not six eyes, when you speak up first.

“Wait. Wait wait wait, you can talk and move and who knows what else,” you begin, looking the curse over that’s starting to get more animated by the second. It immediately snaps its mouth shut, those bright blue orbs blinking down at you. “But I asked you if you could talk or even move, so why didn’t you before?”

Because you did ask it if it could do anything except for just sitting lifelessly there. At first you thought it might not have been able to understand you when it didn’t so much as reply to you, its eyes merely following your movement. But it also didn’t react when you started poking it.

The curse only grins, those pearly whites on full display as one set of eyes crinkle with the motion. …Fucking odd to look at, if you’re going to be completely honest. “You only asked rhetorical questions: ‘Can it even talk?’ If you had just asked me, I might’ve given you an answer.”

Your mouth falls open at that. So it didn’t answer you because it was a rhetorical question instead of a normal one? What the actual fuck is wrong with this thing—other than it being a curse, obviously.

“I- you- eughhh. Okay, so you didn’t reply to my question because it was rhetorical. Fine, whatever. But why didn’t you react when I was touching you?”

There is a faint undignified noise from behind you. Satoru’s grip immediately tightens, keeping you closer to his body. So close, that he’s practically squishing you against his chest now, glaring even harder at the curse that’s just fucking grinning at him.

Sure, he walked in on you almost straddling said curse that looks just like him, but the way you said you touched it makes his mind race in directions he’d rather not go down.

Before you can even try to turn your head to raise a brow at your best friend, the curse chuckles. “You should listen better to him—” It nods towards Satoru, “—I was just enjoying having such a pretty girl touch me, especially when she was almost naked, crawling onto my lap—”

“All right, that’s quite enough,” Gojo growls from behind you, cutting the curse off before it can spill even more about whatever fantasies it came up with whilst the two of you were alone. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Seems like she doesn’t want me to go, though.” The curse nods at you, white hair bouncing with the motion.

And only a few minutes later, you’re bouncing uuuup and down Satoru’s ridiculously large cock. Your own hair swaying with the motion as your boobs bounce each time you lift your hips, only to drop down a second later.

The curse—who much to Satoru’s dismay is still here, breathing and touching you—stands in front of you in its own naked glory. Unfortunately for your brain, it couldn’t help but notice how much it looks like Gojo, from the biceps to the abs all the way to the way its cock almost matches Gojo’s in size.

The only difference between the two is that the curse somehow is clean-shaven while the man below you is neatly trimmed.

Your lips are wrapped around the curse’s cock head, tongue lapping at the slit which is spilling pre on your tongue. The taste extremely bitter—and you can’t help but wonder if it’s because it’s a curse or if it has to do with something else.

Oh well.

Gojo’s hands are clamped around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he helps you bounce on his shaft.

He wasn’t happy with the arrangement, rather wanting to just exorcise the curse and maybe—if you were still willing to—fuck your brains out with his cock this time. But you had told him you wanted to see what the curse could do. So, with much reluctance, he let it stay.

The only thing he had said that it would only get your mouth, and nothing more, claiming your cunt for himself.

So here the three of you are; you getting bullied on two cocks that you would never even think of getting fucked by. One of your hands gripping the curse’s thigh to steady yourself, while the other jerks off whatever can’t fit in your mouth.

Your cheeks hollow out when you suck a little harder, having the curse groan out. Its hips twitch as one of its hands find purchase in your hair, not pulling or pushing on it, just holding himself onto it.

That, of course, doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired sorcerer beneath you. A glare covering his face as he looks at the hand that’s on your head. The hand that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

Fuck, he can’t believe a stupid curse gets to have your mouth before him—that a curse gets to have you at all. He’s right here! He would gladly use your mouth if you were to ever ask him. Those lips stretching around his girth as you fail to fit him completely in your mouth, drool spilling form the corners of your mouth as you look up with tears in your eyes.

Well, whatever. He can always use that mouth of your next time, erase the fact that something foreign was in there to begin with. No matter the fact that the curse looks just like him.

Holding you up, he starts pistoning his hips into yours. The sharp thwack thwack thwack of his pelvis hitting your ass echoing through the room as his balls continue to hit your clit.

The change in pace has you gasping out, mouth detaching from the cock that was currently occupying your mouth with a loud pop! Much to your surprise, it whines at the loss of touch the moment your lips leave his cock. Not that you can focus much on that when Satoru is fucking up into you like he’s possessed.“F-fuck, Satoru, right there!”

“That’s it, pretty. Say my name again, c’mon,” he grunts out. Much to the curse’s dismay—and Gojo’s own satisfaction—you do just that, blabbing ‘Satoru, Satoru, Toru’ over and over again, completely forgetting about the other presence in the room.

That is, until it announces its presence to you by tapping his cock on your lips, smearing some pre on them. Opening your mouth, you stick out your tongue slightly. The curse, not one to waste any time, immediately slides in.

“Taking me so well. You can do better than that, though, can’t you? C’mon, lemme feel that throat of yours,” the curse encourages you this time. The sound of its voice has you all the more delirious. Fuck, why did they have to sound the exact same?

Your walls clamp down onto Satoru’s shaft when you hear the voice. That obviously won’t do in his eyes. So he lifts you completely from his cock, the emptiness having you whine out.

That doesn’t last long, though. Satoru moving the two of you around until you’re on your hands and knees, pressing a palm onto your spine to make a mean arch, before he slips back inside of you with one swift thrust.

“There we go, much better like this,” he whispers. Both of his hands are palming the fat of your ass, watching the way it jiggles every time he drives his hips forward, bottoming out with each mean thrust.

The curse merely rolls his eyes—all six of them—before he starts driving his hips forward at the same time as Gojo’s thrusts, his balls slapping against your chin each time. The tip hitting the back of your throat, making you gag around it.

“Open that pretty throat of yours. Know you can do it,” it encourages you, cupping your jaw as it thumbs away a stray tear that started to fall. You do as told, relaxing your throat so it can slip even further into your mouth, smooth pelvis nearly touching your nose. “So pretty like this, sucking my cock, hmmm?”

“Stop talking to her like that,” Satoru snaps from behind you, finally lifting his head to glare at the curse who only smirks back at the agitated white-haired man. “What, you mean like this? So pretty for me, aren’t you, sweetheart.”

You can only nod your head, a small mhmmm falling from your lips as your teary gaze travels up to those blue eyes looking down at you. Your brain long gone, not even bothering to make a distinction between the two anymore.

There’s a small noise in the back of Satoru’s throat that almost sounds like a growl. This time, instead of saying anything, he just lets one of his hands circle to your poor oversensitive clit, giving it a few slaps before circling the bundle of nerves.

It has your entire body jolting and twitching, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you’re starting to get closer and closer to the edge.

“Why don’t you cum for me, sweets?” Satoru whispers into your ear, his entire frame bending forward to press against your back, letting you feel all of him. He grinds his hips into yours, letting his tip graze against your cervix as you still try to suck onto the girth that’s filling your mouth.

It’s all too much—too many sets of eyes looking at you, too much cock filling you, and too much pleasure.

So it’s to no ones surprise when you cum with a cry. “Oh fuck, thaaat’s it. Trying to milk me dry, huh?” The man behind you mumbles when he feels your walls contract around him, thrust turning more sloppy by the second.

The cursed spirit in front of you groans, letting his head fall back as his eyes—yes, all of them—roll to the back of his skull. Milky seed coats your throat and mouth without so much as a warning, most of it spilling from your lips as you try to swallow it all down—something you’ll get scolded for by Gojo later.

Said guy isn’t far behind himself, pulling out of you with much reluctance, he pumps himself a few times before his own cum covers your ass and lower back.

Of course the silence doesn’t last long, the curse speaking up this time. “For someone who denies me that pretty pussy, you didn’t even make her squirt. A pathetic performance, really.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll show you a pathetic performance in a second.”

Seems like you have a long night day ahead of you.

Tags: @yoonsucks @etheralpanic @lilithkleia @dollieadored @starsforvia @iinvivible @saniiaa @marisacosm @tojiphoria @yorikae @yoniknows @yagirljelliedkiki @pingui0i @serpenttine @seueuq @galinathepanda @sunnyfieldsz @litlili127 @melancholicreaper @magicalpeenpoo @kamislop @mimicosmos8 @deans-bonnie @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @secretsofchance @lilslovesaizawa @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz @coveexxx @tangypomegranate @suganoms @tamsysnumber1simp

It’s only when you squeak and turn around to face him that he remembers why he even went here in the first place. For you, his cute little best friend which he missed oh so dearly.

Seems like she missed him, too.

Because why in the ever living fuck are you straddling a curse that looks just like him?

Which he wants to ask, mouth already parting to ask, but the words die out on his tongue, syllables forgotten completely. Your tits are practically spilling out of your bra—which he gets such a good view of when you’re completely turned around, mortification written all over your face.

“Satoru! You’re here…” you squeak out, not bothering to try and hide your embarrassment. You can feel your face start to burn as you realise the position you’re in right now.

You can see the way he’s eyeing the curse that’s sat beside you on the bed—weirdly enough not moving an inch, only tilting its head slightly as it assesses his… counterpart? “I- uhh- might’ve done something?”

“There is a curse sitting next to you that looks exactly like me, I’m gonna need a little more than that, sweets,” he finally manages to mumble out, still eyeing the curse. If it made so much as one wrong move, he would hollow purple it to oblivion.

He finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him with a final thud that resonates through the uncomfortably silent room. Walking over to your bed, he wraps an hand around your upper arm, dragging you over to where he’s standing.

Startling, you let out a little gasp, almost falling to the side. Your back is pressed against Gojo’s chest. That same chest you’ve eyed way too many times for someone that claims to be just his best friend.

His arms come down to circle around your waist, one of his hand already making the little hand signal for hollow purple in case anything goes wrong. At the same time he places his chin on top of your head. “So, wanna tell me why that’s here?”

Your mind is scrambling to explain the situation—how you even got into this position to begin with—but all you can think about is how one of Satoru’s big hands is splayed over your bare tummy, making your entire mind blank.

“It was an accident,” you begin, picking at your cuticles slightly as you look down. Your bare thighs are staring back up at you. Why the fuck did today of all days have to be the day he walked in?

When you don’t continue, Gojo just hums. His thumb stroking small, soothing circles into your soft skin as he leans down so his lips graze across the shell of your ear. “Really? You’re meaning to tell me you—what, made a curse that looks just like me, all while you’re in your underwear, nearly straddling the thing, just on accident?”

A small mhmm falls from your lips as a shiver shoots down your spine. Satoru’s soft lips grazing the shell of your ear while you look at the curse. Those blue eyes blinking back at you, wandering all over your near-naked form.

“‘Was just trying something out,” you breathe out.

Which is true. You weren’t planning on making a curse, let alone one that looked exactly like your best friend—which is The Strongest sorcerer of today’s age.

You were playing around with the little vials of colors you have stacked under your bed. They weren’t just colors, though. No, these were emotions, negative ones. Not just any negative emotions, but those of Satoru Gojo.

Your cursed technique was as beautiful as it was painful. Being able to see pain—both physical as emotional—in the form of colors is not for the weak.

While it can be beautiful—colors swirling on people’s skin—it can also be painful to look at.

That was exactly what Gojo was to you: painful and beautiful to look at.

His Six Eyes give him constant migraines, strong enough that he has a bright white halo around his head at all times. Think of looking at the sun without any eye protection, but from up close. Or just holding a torch to your eye as you try not to go blind.

Can you imagine it? Yes? Well then, now you know what Gojo looks like to you. A walking mini sun amongst humans.

Luckily you didn’t have to look at it, though. Because you can take someone’s pain away, storing it in different objects or yourself. The former you found out relatively late—only finding out you could do it when you were nineteen years old.

At first, Gojo refused to let you take away his pain, because you would always wince whenever you took it from him. His headache so painful, it was even painful to you, which was saying a lot.

Your pain tolerance is through the roof. Which, yay for you, but also it wasn’t always like that. It took you years of taking other people’s pains before you got kinda numb to most of it. A broken bone felt like a nearly healed bruise to you.

Still, Gojo’s headaches are fucking painful. It has made you wonder more than once how he even wanders through life like that.

It was only when you found out that you could store someone's pain in objects that Gojo let you take his headaches away. Only if you promised to actually store it in something, and not just take it for yourself.

Over the years you’ve collected hundreds of little vials that all were Gojo’s pain. There are more vials, obviously, for combat purposes, but you weren’t interested in those today.

No, when you dragged the little box with vials onto your bed, your hands immediately found the little tubes that were all labeled Gojo.

You could see the actual colors in the vials—bright white for his migraines, light blue for sadness, black for grief, green for jealousy, etc.—where they are completely transparent to anyone else. That, of course, excludes Gojo Satoru.

Of course the fucker could see that there was something in the bottles with his pretty Six Eyes. Clear that there are traces of cursed energy in them. Which is also how he knows you store his pains into the little vials.

One time you tried to be sneaky and take the pain for yourself—give yourself a little cursed energy boost—only for him to get angry with you, asking you why you didn’t do what you promised to do; put the pain in the little vial.

That was the last time you ever tried to take his pain for yourself, even if you were low on cursed energy after a grueling mission.

So, vials it was. They kept stacking up over time, never storing too much pain into them, because god knows what would happen when you did. Honestly, over ninety percent of the bottles were all Gojo’s pain, because you couldn’t stand to look at him and see it all around him.

You also couldn’t see him when he was in pain like that. Like I said, he is like a walking mini sun. So, you wouldn’t be able to see his face if you didn’t take any of his pain away. Not that it mattered much anyway, considering he often times wears his blindfold.

Well, he takes it off when he’s around you, knowing you could just take his pain away if the information ever got too much. Those pretty blue eyes unobstructed by anything.

Which is what you were thinking about when you had woken up. A stupid thought festering in your mind, refusing to let go.

Would you be able to use Gojo’s pain colors to make the color of his eyes?

You were never successful before, his shade of blue was a shade that you simply could not recreate. But… what if you were to use his own color pallette against him? Surely you would be able to get the pretty blue that is your friend’s eyes.

So you got to work, twisting open tens of vials, mixing the pain colors with each other. Bright white turned into a very light shade of blue, into a darker shade of blue that still wasn’t close to his eyes.

It was when you shifted in your bed that everything went wrong.

The vials—all unscrewed—toppled over. Colors only you could see spilled out like paint, seeping into your blanket, finding purchase in the thing. It got all muddy—blues, greens, purples, reds, yellows mixing together.

Before you could even think of putting them up right again, something started happening.

At first it was just the colors forming a small ball inside your blanket. Not alarming enough for you to stop capping the bottles, but enough that it grabbed your attention slightly.

It was only when it got bigger and bigger that you stopped what you were doing, scooting back to where your pillows were.

After only a few seconds, there was something sitting on your bed. Well, no, not something. Your best friend in curse form was sitting there, blinking down at you.

Safe to say a small scream tore from your throat, ready to exorcise the thing right then and there.

But… it looked kinda cute. Plus, it wasn’t immediately attacking you! Which was a good thing… right? So you let it stay.

It was insane, it really was. But it was also kinda fascinating with how accurate it looked like Satoru. Everything you could see was the same—except for the literal six eyes on its head.

Which led you to your current predicament.

“What could you have possibly wanted to try out that resulted in this?” Gojo asks you, eyes not once leaving the curse that is sitting on your bed, completely unbothered. “Does it matter? All I know that it’s here right now.”

The white-haired man behind you just rolls his eyes at that. Leaning forward, he waves his hand in front of the curse’s face a few times. “Why is it just sitting there, though?”

“It doesn’t react to anything.” To prove your point, you lean forward yourself, much to Satoru’s dismay who immediately tightens his hold on you, and poke the curse. True to your word, it doesn’t react to being touched. No twitch, no extra blink, not even a tilt of its head. “See? No reaction.”

“That’s very hard to believe. Having such a pretty girl sitting in front of me nearly naked, I surely would react,” Gojo murmurs. Wide eyed, you look at him over your shoulder—noses almost touching from the proximity. Surely he didn’t mean it like that, did he? But then you feel it—that bulge pressing into your back. “Oh, would you look at that. Seems like even curses can’t help but react.”

The curse is eyeing the way your thighs are pressing together, the way your mouth is slightly parted with shock, the way your tits are sitting in your bra. All three sets of eyes trained on a different part of you.

For a second, it makes Satoru jealous. Jealous that the curse can technically see all of you at once. Its eyes practically devouring you while you look between the two—sorcerer and curse.

But he has something the curse doesn’t: the Six Eyes. Yes, it has six eyes, but not the Six Eyes. Which means it can’t see the way your panties are starting to cling to your folds, despite having your thighs pressed together.

Another thing the curse also doesn’t have, but Gojo does, is have its hands on you. Because his palm is still resting on your tummy, the smooth expanse of your skin underneath his fingertips. It can’t feel the way you’re slightly squirming.

Still, the thing does not move anything other than its eyes. Hands laying limp beside it, cock throbbing in its confines, but doing nothing to hide or alleviate it.

“Wanna see if we can make it react even more?”

Which is how you ended up here—with Satoru, your best friend, sitting behind you. His long legs trapping you between them, your own legs hooked over his, panties pushed to the side so the curse has a full view of your puffy, glistening folds while Gojo’s fingers are plunging in and out of your cunt.

Your nails dig into Satoru’s forearm, leaving behind angry crescents in their wake. Toes curling as you throw your head back with a slight whine.

“Uh-uh. C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on the curse,” Satoru tuts, fingers stilling until you lift your head enough to look at the curse. Once he sees you look at the thing again, he continues. “There we go, such a good girl for me.”

The praise makes your stomach do a little flip, the words going straight to your core. Your walls clamp down on Satoru’s fingers, having him grin behind you.

His other hand trails up from your stomach to your bra-covered tits. Now that won’t do, will it? With a little tug of his hand, he undoes the clasp with ease—a skill you didn’t know he possessed, nor wanted to know to be quite frank.

It’s when your tits are in full view for both men—if you can even call the curse that—that there is slight movement from the one in front of you.

The curse doesn’t do anything wild, just slightly shifts where it’s sat, but it’s the most it has done since it appeared—or rather formed. Its pupils from the top pair of eyes expand even more, but not as much as the lower pair of eyes, which are still focused completely on your pussy.

It might not be much, but it is a small step in the right direction.

That thought immediately flies out the window when Satoru’s digits graze over a spot inside of you. Your back arches with the touch, a moan ripping from the back of your throat as your hand clamps down even further onto his forearm. “O-oh shit.”

From there on out you can only think about the way Gojo moves his fingers inside of you, bullying your g-spot with those long, thick fingers of his.

And if that wasn’t enough already, his other hand has started to grope one of your tits, squishing the flesh between his fingers before he starts caressing your nipple, nail grazing over the little nub, before he rolls it between his fingers.

Your head falls back onto his shoulder, looking at him instead of the curse. He doesn’t scold you this time, just keeps at it as he looks at you. “Nawhhh, doing so good for me.”

You don’t even hear the condescending undertone in his voice, way too focused on the pleasure that’s shooting through you right now.

When you don’t reply, Gojo stops playing with your nipple. Instead bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, tilting it so you have direct view of him already looking down at you. “Feeling good, sweetheart?” When you nod your head, he just chuckles. “Thought so.”

Your thighs are starting to shake on top of his, sweat starting to break out on your forehead as you teeter closer to the edge with each pump of his fingers.

Seems like he knows it too, judging from his smirk. He keeps your head tilted up, eyes flicking from your own down to your lips and back up to your eyes again. Just like the curse, Gojo’s pupils are blown out, a small ring of blue left behind.

“C’mon, show it how pretty you look when you fall apart on my fingers.” And you do just that. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull as your hips buck wildly, to the point where he lets go of your jaw in favor to press your hips down, keeping you flush against him.

After riding out your high, Gojo removes his fingers from your cunt. A small whine slipping from your lips as he purposefully lets his fingers glide through your messy slit.

You’re panting against Satoru’s shoulder, breath ghosting over his neck as you come down from your high. Nuzzling further into his broad frame, you let yourself relax slightly as Satoru rubs soothing circles into your hip.

“You two done yet?” Well that certainly grabs both your attention. Heads snapping to the sound of the voice, you’re met with the curse grinning.

Of course its voice sounds exactly like Gojo’s, but it still throws you for a loop—especially considering the fact that same voice just talked you through it, told you how good you were taking his fingers, how pretty you looked when cumming.

“You—” You have to swallow once, twice before getting your voice back to its steady octave. “You can talk?”

“Of course I can, who do you take me for?” Gojo the curse replies, tilting its head slightly. Those white bangs fall across his forehead, covering one of its eyes before it pushes the hair back with its hand; the first actual movement you’ve seen from the thing.

You sit up fully now—still in your naked glory, not even bothering to cover up considering it has already seen you get split open of your best friend’s fingers. Said best friend doesn’t share that same sentiment, though. He covers your boobs up with his hands, his legs trapping yours between his so he can keep them close for you as he glares at the curse over your shoulder.

It just makes the curse chuckle. Yes, it chuckles at his counterpart’s antics. “Oh? Now you cover her up? Weren’t you the one who suggested doing all of this to begin with?” It vaguely gestures towards you when it says ‘this’.

Gojo just rolls his eyes, pulling you further into his chest. “Yeah well, show’s over. You can turn those ugly eyes away now.”

“These are the same eyes as yours, so you’re really only insulting yourself,” it immediate counters, crossing its arms over its chest.

Gojo opens his mouth to say something back. Probably a jab at the fact that the curse and him don’t share the same eyes for he has the Six Eyes and not six eyes, when you speak up first.

“Wait. Wait wait wait, you can talk and move and who knows what else,” you begin, looking the curse over that’s starting to get more animated by the second. It immediately snaps its mouth shut, those bright blue orbs blinking down at you. “But I asked you if you could talk or even move, so why didn’t you before?”

Because you did ask it if it could do anything except for just sitting lifelessly there. At first you thought it might not have been able to understand you when it didn’t so much as reply to you, its eyes merely following your movement. But it also didn’t react when you started poking it.

The curse only grins, those pearly whites on full display as one set of eyes crinkle with the motion. …Fucking odd to look at, if you’re going to be completely honest. “You only asked rhetorical questions: ‘Can it even talk?’ If you had just asked me, I might’ve given you an answer.”

Your mouth falls open at that. So it didn’t answer you because it was a rhetorical question instead of a normal one? What the actual fuck is wrong with this thing—other than it being a curse, obviously.

“I- you- eughhh. Okay, so you didn’t reply to my question because it was rhetorical. Fine, whatever. But why didn’t you react when I was touching you?”

There is a faint undignified noise from behind you. Satoru’s grip immediately tightens, keeping you closer to his body. So close, that he’s practically squishing you against his chest now, glaring even harder at the curse that’s just fucking grinning at him.

Sure, he walked in on you almost straddling said curse that looks just like him, but the way you said you touched it makes his mind race in directions he’d rather not go down.

Before you can even try to turn your head to raise a brow at your best friend, the curse chuckles. “You should listen better to him—” It nods towards Satoru, “—I was just enjoying having such a pretty girl touch me, especially when she was almost naked, crawling onto my lap—”

“All right, that’s quite enough,” Gojo growls from behind you, cutting the curse off before it can spill even more about whatever fantasies it came up with whilst the two of you were alone. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Seems like she doesn’t want me to go, though.” The curse nods at you, white hair bouncing with the motion.

And only a few minutes later, you’re bouncing uuuup and down Satoru’s ridiculously large cock. Your own hair swaying with the motion as your boobs bounce each time you lift your hips, only to drop down a second later.

The curse—who much to Satoru’s dismay is still here, breathing and touching you—stands in front of you in its own naked glory. Unfortunately for your brain, it couldn’t help but notice how much it looks like Gojo, from the biceps to the abs all the way to the way its cock almost matches Gojo’s in size.

The only difference between the two is that the curse somehow is clean-shaven while the man below you is neatly trimmed.

Your lips are wrapped around the curse’s cock head, tongue lapping at the slit which is spilling pre on your tongue. The taste extremely bitter—and you can’t help but wonder if it’s because it’s a curse or if it has to do with something else.

Oh well.

Gojo’s hands are clamped around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he helps you bounce on his shaft.

He wasn’t happy with the arrangement, rather wanting to just exorcise the curse and maybe—if you were still willing to—fuck your brains out with his cock this time. But you had told him you wanted to see what the curse could do. So, with much reluctance, he let it stay.

The only thing he had said that it would only get your mouth, and nothing more, claiming your cunt for himself.

So here the three of you are; you getting bullied on two cocks that you would never even think of getting fucked by. One of your hands gripping the curse’s thigh to steady yourself, while the other jerks off whatever can’t fit in your mouth.

Your cheeks hollow out when you suck a little harder, having the curse groan out. Its hips twitch as one of its hands find purchase in your hair, not pulling or pushing on it, just holding himself onto it.

That, of course, doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired sorcerer beneath you. A glare covering his face as he looks at the hand that’s on your head. The hand that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

Fuck, he can’t believe a stupid curse gets to have your mouth before him—that a curse gets to have you at all. He’s right here! He would gladly use your mouth if you were to ever ask him. Those lips stretching around his girth as you fail to fit him completely in your mouth, drool spilling form the corners of your mouth as you look up with tears in your eyes.

Well, whatever. He can always use that mouth of your next time, erase the fact that something foreign was in there to begin with. No matter the fact that the curse looks just like him.

Holding you up, he starts pistoning his hips into yours. The sharp thwack thwack thwack of his pelvis hitting your ass echoing through the room as his balls continue to hit your clit.

The change in pace has you gasping out, mouth detaching from the cock that was currently occupying your mouth with a loud pop! Much to your surprise, it whines at the loss of touch the moment your lips leave his cock. Not that you can focus much on that when Satoru is fucking up into you like he’s possessed.“F-fuck, Satoru, right there!”

“That’s it, pretty. Say my name again, c’mon,” he grunts out. Much to the curse’s dismay—and Gojo’s own satisfaction—you do just that, blabbing ‘Satoru, Satoru, Toru’ over and over again, completely forgetting about the other presence in the room.

That is, until it announces its presence to you by tapping his cock on your lips, smearing some pre on them. Opening your mouth, you stick out your tongue slightly. The curse, not one to waste any time, immediately slides in.

“Taking me so well. You can do better than that, though, can’t you? C’mon, lemme feel that throat of yours,” the curse encourages you this time. The sound of its voice has you all the more delirious. Fuck, why did they have to sound the exact same?

Your walls clamp down onto Satoru’s shaft when you hear the voice. That obviously won’t do in his eyes. So he lifts you completely from his cock, the emptiness having you whine out.

That doesn’t last long, though. Satoru moving the two of you around until you’re on your hands and knees, pressing a palm onto your spine to make a mean arch, before he slips back inside of you with one swift thrust.

“There we go, much better like this,” he whispers. Both of his hands are palming the fat of your ass, watching the way it jiggles every time he drives his hips forward, bottoming out with each mean thrust.

The curse merely rolls his eyes—all six of them—before he starts driving his hips forward at the same time as Gojo’s thrusts, his balls slapping against your chin each time. The tip hitting the back of your throat, making you gag around it.

“Open that pretty throat of yours. Know you can do it,” it encourages you, cupping your jaw as it thumbs away a stray tear that started to fall. You do as told, relaxing your throat so it can slip even further into your mouth, smooth pelvis nearly touching your nose. “So pretty like this, sucking my cock, hmmm?”

“Stop talking to her like that,” Satoru snaps from behind you, finally lifting his head to glare at the curse who only smirks back at the agitated white-haired man. “What, you mean like this? So pretty for me, aren’t you, sweetheart.”

You can only nod your head, a small mhmmm falling from your lips as your teary gaze travels up to those blue eyes looking down at you. Your brain long gone, not even bothering to make a distinction between the two anymore.

There’s a small noise in the back of Satoru’s throat that almost sounds like a growl. This time, instead of saying anything, he just lets one of his hands circle to your poor oversensitive clit, giving it a few slaps before circling the bundle of nerves.

It has your entire body jolting and twitching, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you’re starting to get closer and closer to the edge.

“Why don’t you cum for me, sweets?” Satoru whispers into your ear, his entire frame bending forward to press against your back, letting you feel all of him. He grinds his hips into yours, letting his tip graze against your cervix as you still try to suck onto the girth that’s filling your mouth.

It’s all too much—too many sets of eyes looking at you, too much cock filling you, and too much pleasure.

So it’s to no ones surprise when you cum with a cry. “Oh fuck, thaaat’s it. Trying to milk me dry, huh?” The man behind you mumbles when he feels your walls contract around him, thrust turning more sloppy by the second.

The cursed spirit in front of you groans, letting his head fall back as his eyes—yes, all of them—roll to the back of his skull. Milky seed coats your throat and mouth without so much as a warning, most of it spilling from your lips as you try to swallow it all down—something you’ll get scolded for by Gojo later.

Said guy isn’t far behind himself, pulling out of you with much reluctance, he pumps himself a few times before his own cum covers your ass and lower back.

Of course the silence doesn’t last long, the curse speaking up this time. “For someone who denies me that pretty pussy, you didn’t even make her squirt. A pathetic performance, really.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll show you a pathetic performance in a second.”

Seems like you have a long night day ahead of you.

Tags: @yoonsucks @etheralpanic @lilithkleia @dollieadored @starsforvia @iinvivible @saniiaa @marisacosm @tojiphoria @yorikae @yoniknows @yagirljelliedkiki @pingui0i @serpenttine @seueuq @galinathepanda @sunnyfieldsz @litlili127 @melancholicreaper @magicalpeenpoo @kamislop @mimicosmos8 @deans-bonnie @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @secretsofchance @lilslovesaizawa @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz @coveexxx @tangypomegranate @suganoms @tamsysnumber1simp

The baker’s shop is just along the path, so you decide to stop along the way, if it means you’ll get some answers about the status of your goods. Your shiny black shoes are dirtying with each step you take on the paved road, kicking up dust as you go. But you pay it no mind; often do you take this path, and you’ve grown quite acquainted with the cobbler next door because of it who now shines your shoes for half the price.

It certainly feels like mid spring, with the sweet aroma of blooms a pleasant background during your stroll. The sun beams down on your signature cherry red hood. Bad habit as it might be, you’re often never seen without it, even if it means you sweat a bit underneath the cotton cloak. Your neighbors recognize your reddened figure immediately, even from a distance. They wave and smile and you return the gestures.

As you turn the corner, your leisurely pace slows further. There’s a murmuring of a rather panicked crowd that drowns out even the light chirping of birds. Your eyes flit about. There’s the Constable, some families from next door, and even ranchers from a few miles down south. Curious, you slide past a few anxious-looking villagers until you come to the steps of the baker’s shop they’re surrounding.

The large window that usually displays all your favorite sweets is shattered, and you can see the destruction of the interior, with various items toppled over from the counter as if there was a scuffle. Then, like a signature of whatever vicious artist painted this mess, there’s a claw-mark slashed into the wooden flooring. It is stained red.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There’s been yet another attack.

Your little haven of a village has been experiencing them for a year now. First, a flurry of ranchers began complaining about the sudden loss of their sheep. Tens of corpses, they said, would be found in the morning, entirely gorged on by an insatiable beast. Village heads brushed it off as a larger wolf pack that must be passing through. Only, the killings persisted.

Next, it was the shepherd nearby who always offered you bottles of goat milk for only half an hour of light farm labor. His front door had been broken down, and he was found dead in bed with his hands bit off. That’s when it was resolved that this was no ordinary wolf the village was dealing with.

The third, you felt the most conflicted on. A shopkeeper had been found dead in a similarly gruesome fashion, mouth sliced open until it was unhinged form his jaw. You hardly knew him, didn’t want to after he repeatedly leered at you the last time you went to his shop, his thinly-veiled suggestions sending a cold chill of fear down your spine until you left empty handed and never returned since. Still, though you’d hardly wish such a horrid death on anyone, it was hard to feel very sorry for the man.

And now, the baker. You’d always order some of his fresh-baked, steamy loaves of bread to enjoy by yourself or with your Grandma. The selection of cakes he had was vaster than any other in the village. You spent so much time as a loyal customer that you were good acquaintances. And now he’s gone, too.

A few tears well up in your eyes.

Behind the sorrow, there’s aching guilt. A part of this is your fault. If you just hadn’t gone into the woods that night…

Your thoughts are cut off as the investigation continues.“…his eyes and nose were slashed clean off,” the watchman is muttering to the constable, and you truly wish you weren’t close enough to hear their conversation, because a fresh bout of nausea threatens you. You clutch your basket harder and will yourself to think of anything else.

“Little Red,” the watchman calls you, and you glance his way. “Are you on your way to your Grandmother’s house again? I suggest you wait at least a week. The woods may not be safe for you.”

You falter. Wait a week? The fruit and medicine in your basket will turn sour. She needs the nutrition sooner than later. Moreover, your Grandma will likely fret if you don’t visit her soon. She already worries too greatly about you, and such anxiousness is sure to contribute to her already-poor health.

“I cannot,” you insist, biting your lip. “She needs her medicine within a few days. And she will worry if I do not show.”

“Witnesses did say the wolf was seen fleeing east, so likely the opposite direction you’re headed,” the Constable chimes in.

“East? Let’s take our pitchforks and torches eastward and slay that beast,” a particularly rowdy rancher growls, and a few resounding cheers reveal just how enthusiastic the villagers are about ridding this curse for good. Your heart stammers. If they knew what you’ve done, would they brandish those pitchforks toward you, too?

The Constable only thinks to himself, before nodding once. “Little Red, go on, but be cautious. Likely no one is free to escort you if we’re to hunt down that beast. But the Hunter is out in those woods, too. Stop by his house on the way so he can ensure you’re safe.”

The Hunter. The worry alleviates a bit and blossoms into a sense of comfort. If anything can make you feel better, it’s the fact that the Hunter will be close.

You nod once, steel yourself, and set forth on the path again. The bustle of the village fades into the smattering of trees, expansive canopies darkening the trail and spiking your fear further. But you continue, humming a familiar tune to yourself that only you and the trees can hear.

It gets harder and harder to reign in your thoughts. You’re still shaken from what’s happened this morning, from the murder that took place while you were blissfully asleep just a few streets down. You duck your head until your hood blocks your peripheral vision if it means you’ll stop imagining beasts from the corners of your eyes.

There’s a crack of a tree branch that you barely hear underneath the rush of a sudden breeze. You freeze like a deer, dusted black shoes rooted to the ground. Nothing comes.

You will yourself to move after a long moment. For Grandma, you think. There’s no use in turning back now. Grandma needs her medicine.

Slowly, you continue trudging along, and decide to play a game. Indulging in the serenity of nature has always done wonders to calm you down, and even if said nature is frightening right now, you can still always look for the bright side.

You decide your game involves picking flowers in a specific order. It goes like this: you pick a pink flower, then a purple one, then a white one, without skipping a color. The spring showers have allowed a beautiful scattering of wildflowers to sprout alongside the path. And by the time you reach Grandma’s house, you’ll have a lovely bouquet to gift her.

It works, and you’re bounding happily down the path despite the looming darkness over you, absorbed in finding the next bloom. Purple, then white. You snatch up a pink one next and drop it into your basket with the others.

Repeat. Pink, purple, and white. The flowery mass in your basket grows. Pink, purple.

You don’t find a white even after many steps. The buds around you are every color— yellow, red, blue— except white. It’s silly, but a sort of competitiveness with yourself grows, and you find yourself wanting to continue the game.

You finally spot a white flower to your right, contrasting with the verdant grass that nearly hid it from your view. But it’s off the path, a few steps into the forest.

A hint of apprehensiveness grows. You know you’re not supposed to wander from the path. Grandma has instilled it into you herself. And with the incident this morning, getting lost is the last thing you should do.

You glance about as if anyone is around to reprimand you. But the flower is only about twenty feet away, and it’s not as though you’ll lose sight of the path when heading towards it. Your feet carry you towards it before you can second guess the decision.

Each quickening step you take matches your heartbeat. Maybe it’s dramatic, but you have always had rigid rules you’re made to follow, rules you’ve only broken once. Visit Grandma once a week. Buy from the baker every Sunday.

Never stray from the path.

But the thrill of breaking the rules is enough to keep you moving.

You halt in front of the flower and bend to pick it, skirts rustling blades of grass. Before you can rush back, there’s a sharp prick on your feet, and you wince, crouching to bat away whatever cruel insect has tried to suck your blood today. While you’re hunched over, your back is bared to the wilderness.

Just as you’re dropping the hard-earned flower into your basket, a hand grasps at your shoulder.

You shoot up, gasping and turning around. You must look like you’ve seen a ghost, with your wide eyes and paled face, because the figure backs away immediately.

You relax. It’s the Hunter. Your heart pounds now in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

“Caleb,” you blurt, and immediately cringe at how breathless and relieved you sound.

“Did I scare you?” he offers a warm smile, and you think you imagine the sun’s rays gleaming from behind him despite the darkened skies. You shake your head, though it’s an obvious lie.

His brow immediately knits in concern. “Little Red, why are you out at this time?”

“Oh, I’m visiting my Grandma,” you explain, gesturing to your basket.

“But after those attacks? Who approved this?”

The slight anger in his voice makes you blink in surprise. Caleb was rarely seen around the village, but when he wasn’t residing in his remote cabin in the woods or out hunting, even catching a glimpse at him was a treat for all the ladies in the village. With his broad shoulders and friendly smile, he was always a dream, helping out villagers to the point where he’s a favorite. You know the cobbler discounts him even more than you, but you cannot resent him. Even from the few times he’s aided you has the dreaminess caught up to you, too.

So, the ire in his tone has you blanking. “The constable did. He said the wolf went East, so I’d be fine, but to visit you along the way for my safety.”

Caleb relaxes, clutching the strap that holds the gun over his shoulder in place. “A good thing, to be sure.” He lifts his head up at the sky. Ominous black clouds are rolling in, and you can already feel a few fat droplets on your hood. It fills you with dread. You’ve never liked the rain.

He gestures you to follow him, beginning to move again. “It’s about to pour. You should come in for some time.”

You stay close behind his broad back, face heating. Come into his house? It’s not like you don’t trust him, but the thought makes you a little flustered. But the downpour is heavy enough to soak through your hood now, so you hurriedly catch up to him.

His cabin appears in a little clearing. It’s handsome and sturdy-looking, and the smoke above the chimney makes the home all the more appealing. You find yourself drawn into the warmth of it, even if it does mean you’ll be late to your Grandma’s.

A soft gasp spills from your lips as you enter the dimly lit interior. There are animal trophies all over the walls; mounted heads of large deer, foxes, mountain lions, and even a few bears. You knew he was an experienced hunter, the best in the village, if the rumors were true. But seeing it for yourself is almost astonishing.

“There are so many,” you exhale breathlessly, head tilted upwards to gaze at the animals. The flames flicker and make their glazed, lifeless eyes shine. “How do you manage to hunt this much when you’re so young?”

Caleb shuts the door behind you, smiling almost sheepishly. “I practice a lot. Besides, hunting is almost all I do. Let me take your cloak.”

You repress a shudder as he steps in front of you, gently slipping off your hood and hanging it up. His gaze remains intense on your face a moment too long and you’re quick to turn away so you can breathe again.

“But there are no wolves,” you note, eyebrows knitting together. “Are wolves really so elusive in our village? No one has caught the beast, yet, either.”

He mounts his gun on the wall and pushes a hand through his brown hair, ears pinkening. “I simply haven’t ran into any wolves while hunting. They are rare.”

“Ah.” You perch hesitantly on his loveseat, warmth of the hearth chasing away any chill from the rain. You blink up at him. “So you haven’t seen the beast then. I wonder how many more lives will be taken before this finally ends.”

You don’t mean to sour the mood within your first conversation with Caleb in weeks, but it’s hard to stop your tone from taking a somber lilt. The aching emptiness in your basket where your loafs would usually be weighs the loss of a fellow villager heavily on your conscience.

He’s silent for a long moment, before joining you on the loveseat in a hesitant manner. “The baker…did you know him, personally?”

You nod. “I did. I don’t mean to bring down our spirits, though…”

“Not at all.” Caleb is quick to scoot closer to you, before he falters at his own eagerness. “You can talk to me about anything, Little Red.”

You bite your lip, suddenly wishing you still wore your hood if it meant being shielded from his attentive eyes. “I was curious as to why my bread hadn’t arrived on my doorstep this morning. When I went to visit the baker’s shop, it was completely destroyed.”

He looks wounded. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “It is not as though it’s your fault. Thank you for all you do, protecting the village and helping around. I actually really admire you, to be frank.”

Caleb lights up immediately, a shy smile forming on his handsome face. “Really?”

“Yes,” you laugh, finding the way he perks up to be endearing. It’s at odds with how collected he is when he’s carrying rolls of hay for you or helping tow some of your groceries.

“Oh,” he clears his throat, looking down at his lap. He almost seems awkward even in his own house. His eyes dart to your basket, eyebrows raising. “Does your Grandma enjoy flowers?”

“Yes. But it’s mainly me who enjoys picking them.”

“Cute,” he murmurs so softly to himself that you have to pretend like you don’t hear it, cheeks pinkening. Then Caleb’s skillful hands are collecting the flowers. “Let me tie a bouquet for you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

A pretty red bow is already securing them together. “There,” his fingers caress the silk reverently. “It’s done.”

“Thank you,” you beam, unable to keep the giddy grin off your face. It’s not often that the village heartthrob gifts you a bow. Until you remind yourself the bow is technically for Grandma and not you. You laugh to yourself as you imagine how wooed Grandma would be when you tell her the bow is from Hunter Caleb himself.

His violet eyes are pinned onto you, enraptured and impossibly soft. Now it’s your turn to clear your throat and shift, embarrassed. Your face is so red that you might be mistaken for the bow’s twin.

“Oh, and you should also take these with you,” Caleb’s standing and bringing over a bucket of his own. Apples, deep crimson and glossy, fill the container. He puts a handful into your basket.

“Thank you,” you gush for what seems like the nth time, feeling more than indebted. It’s a simple offering, but for some reason, the gesture feels deeper than what meets the eye.

“Your favorite,” he hums, bright eyes creased. “I just picked them fresh off the tree just yesterday, and now here you are. What perfect timing.”

You don’t exactly think you’re supposed to be hearing that last part, with the way he sounds giddy when mumbling it to himself, but you feel touched anyways. “That’s very thoughtful,” you say, but something nags at you. “But…how did you guess apples were my favorite?”

Caleb blinks, grin faltering.

“They’re red, and red is your signature color. I just assumed.”

Butterflies flutter pleasantly in your stomach. He’s thought about the little details about you, like what fruit you like. Hope soars through you when you wonder if your one-sided attraction towards him might be more reciprocated than you thought.

“You guessed right,” but then your foot stings, and you’re suddenly reminded of the insect that’d bitten you when you strayed off the path. The bare bridge of your foot is mildly pink and swollen, and you cannot repress a hiss.

Caleb’s on his feet in a second, returning with some salve. “You should have said something earlier. Now, don’t touch it. I need to disinfect it.”

You watch him, a bit panicked, as he kneels in front of you and slides off your dusted black shoes. “It’s quite alright, I won’t ask you to do that—”

“Shh,” he’s already taken your foot in his warm grasp, and you swear your heart might pop out of your chest. “Oh, poor thing. It must burn.”

“You’ve done a great deal for me already,” you blurt, eyes as wide as saucers. Was he just a very generous host, and doted this greatly on all of his guests? But then, you realize, he likely has little visitors this deep in the woods. You almost pity him a little, for he’s obviously very keen on being helpful, and he must not have any opportunity to be unless he’s in the village. You resignedly let him cup your foot in his palm.

“Nonsense. You’ve done far more for me.” He gently rubs the salve on and it immediately cools your inflamed skin.

Huh? You blink, trying to think about what he must be referring to. Your mind comes up blank, but maybe it’s because there’s a ridiculously handsome man at your feet.

“Better?” Caleb’s looking up at you expectantly, and you’re jerked out of your thoughts.

“Yes,” you say, and you’re about to thank him again but hold your tongue lest you sound repetitive.

You expect him to slide your shoe back on. He doesn’t. Instead, he remains kneeling, thumbs stroking your sole so reverently that it tickles.

“It looks like the rain won’t be letting up tonight,” notes Caleb, as the steady pitter patter on the windows echoes throughout the house. The fire flickers dangerously and threatens to delve the entire cabin into darkness, before flaring up again victoriously. You release a breath, a sudden flash of lightning putting you on edge.

“Does that mean I have to stay?” You cannot keep the apprehensiveness from the question. Simply put, staying the night in a man’s house is nothing short of inappropriate. But you know with a beast on the loose and a chaotic storm outside, it’s ironically the only acceptable option.

“I’m afraid so.” Thankfully, Caleb straightens again and releases your foot from his grasp, settling beside you. “You’ll have to visit your Grandma in the morning. It’s dangerous to leave the house now.”

You nod, suddenly self conscious of how his arm brushes yours. He’s so big. His shirt is rolled up to his elbows and reveals a tantalizing stretch of strong, veiny forearms. Your throat dips with a heavy swallow as you realize the implications of spending a night here.

“Caleb,” your eyes are half lidded when you turn to look at him. “Do you ever get…lonely here, so deep in these woods? Or scared?”

He stares at you for a long moment. “No. I often have company.”

“Oh,” you can only say, off guard. What kind of company could he possibly have out here? A lady?

“The animals,” he clarifies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “As for being scared…I can protect myself.”

Thunder cracks like a whip, and you jump. Caleb notices, eyebrows knitting together.

“And you, Little Red?” Lightning flashes again, illuminating his clenched jaw for only a split second. Another roll of thunder almost drowns out his next words. “What are you scared of?”

The fire is dying out slowly now, embers glowing faintly in the darkened cabin. “Storms,” you admit, after a second of considering if you should tell him. “I’m scared of thunderstorms. And…wolves.”

His eyes narrow. “Wolves.” He places his palm against your back when you flinch at the wailing wind outside. The heat of it is searing even through your shirt. “Have you ever…seen one?”

You lick your lips, throat tightening. It was seemingly a harmless question on the surface, one villagers would whisper to each other like folktales. But the way he asked it was as if he was digging for something. Like he knew.

You shake your head and spit out the lie you’ve told yourself for almost a year. “No.”

Only your voice quivers on the one word under the violet stare latched onto your face. His next words are like claws shredding your thinly-veiled lie to pieces. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” your reply is just as insistent and breathy as his own. Your chest tightens. Why was he questioning you like this? Did he find out?

Caleb stares at you for a long moment, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t appear accusing, just… knowing.

“Alright,” he accepts, and your body slumps slightly in relief. You’re about to change the topic when his nose suddenly brushes your temple.

“What scares you about wolves?” He rasps into your hair, slowly nuzzling his cheek against your head. You freeze, cheeks burning. He sounds indulgent and teasing, and it has you squeezing your thighs together.

“Their claws,” you stammer, butterflies exploding in your abdomen when you hear him inhale.

“Their hands?” Caleb’s lips brush the shell of your ear and all your nerves feel as if they’ve been shocked. A whimper spills from your lips. His other hand raises to slide from your shoulder to your forearm, eliciting goosebumps in its wake.

“Yes,” you blink dazedly. He’s so close, practically on top of you on this loveseat. When did he move closer? What was he doing? The warmth seeping from his body is enough to remind you that this is against the rules. Grandma would be mortified if she saw you letting him touch you like this. Yet, instead of shame, you only feel exhilaration.

“And their teeth, and jaws,” you add, shivering when his lips move to your cheek, grazing the soft flesh.

“Their mouths,” he clarifies, and you nod again, hands clutching the edge of the cushion you sit on. The warmth of want spreads through you so quickly you don’t think you can hold back anymore. You turn your head slightly, meeting his half-lidded gaze, and let your lips brush his.

Caleb reels back as if burned.

You stare at him as he lifts himself off of you slightly and turns to look out the window, up at the cloudy sky barely illuminated by the moon, where thunder clouds roll out quickly towards the east. Your mouth goes dry when he finally turns to look at you. With pity.

“I apologize, I seem to have misunderstood,” you babble, lip trembling with humiliation. “Uh, I shouldn’t have…that you wanted me.”

Your heart clenches with every stuttered word and you move to get up off the loveseat. You don’t get far before a hand is cupping your face and Caleb slots his lips over yours.

“How could you think,” chu, “that I don’t want you?”

You don’t get a chance to even reply before he’s kissing you again, suckling and licking and biting into your mouth with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You remain frozen for a moment, before kissing back meekly, your own passion a flame compared to his ravenous fire.

“I’ve been holding back for so long, worried I’d scare you,” Caleb pants as he drags his tongue across your bottom lip. His lips connect with yours over and over again, until you’re both dizzy and dazed with lust, as if he cannot bear to part for even a second.

“Caleb,” you can only say, blinking past the fog of arousal.

“Hah, you smell so good,” he blurts, sniffing against your neck. “Need to taste.”

You nod along, and he drops to his knees instantly. Caleb gazes up at you, eyes drinking up the sight of you like this. His large palms make you shiver when they slide under your skirt, skimming your soft thighs and slowly slipping off your panties. A sigh escapes him as he watches the way your arousal clings to the fabric, and he licks his lips.

Then he’s bunching up your skirt around your hips and burying his face against your pussy.

You cry out, clutching the edge of the loveseat underneath you for purchase, as Caleb eats at you like you’re his favorite meal. His slimy tongue curls again and again round your hole, before he presses the flat of it wholly against your clit, the rough buds against your slippery folds creating a friction so delicious you moan.

His lips latch onto your clit and suck cruelly like it’s hard candy, violet eyes peering at you underneath his dark lashes. Your legs kick out, feet flexing as you attempt to not scream at the pleasure.

He’s drooling, chin shiny with your wetness and his own saliva. He grinds his nose against the sticky folds and inhales, eyes rolling black in bliss. “Fuck, y’smell so good,” he rumbles against your pussy.

You flush bright red, cunt fluttering against his tongue.

Caleb makes a keening sort of sound, like a whine. You glance down at the man between your legs, vision foggy with pleasure. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he eagerly sucks and laps at your cunt, the hot pleasure making your toes curl and legs tremble over his shoulders. The fuzziness almost makes you miss the sharp glint of his canines catching under the moonlight.

Almost.

You blink, eyebrows furrowing in mild confusion, but all thoughts turn to mush when his tongue pushes past that tight ring of muscle, delving into your pussy and nudging your walls with a lewd squelch.

You wail, hands flying down to tangle in his brown locks. Your hips move on their own until you’re practically grinding down on his face. Caleb moans appreciatively against your clit, and you fist his hair tighter.

His hair is just as silky and soft underneath your fingers as you’d imagined. Then something twitches in your grip.

You drag your gaze downwards, gently unfurling your hands. At first you think the odd shape on his head is the result of you messing up his hair. But then you look closer, and see the pointy, unmistakable silhouette of ears. Animal-like ears.

Caleb doesn’t notice your growing panic, lost in the taste of you, eyes shut with bliss. All the while, your pleasure dissolves into a heavy tightness in your chest. There’s a flurry of movement just behind his kneeling figure, swaying back and forth animatedly— a tail.

A gasp is wrenched from your throat, and your foot pushes at his shoulder. The moonlight streaks brightly into the cabin, spilling past the window panes. It illuminates the predator between your legs like a warning.

Caleb’s eyes snap to yours at the nudge, dark and hungry. He blinks and his gaze rounds, probably at the shell-shocked expression you wear.

“What’s wrong?” He breathes. You stay silent, barely even breathing.

His hands dart to hover over his head. You watch as an expression of horrid realization dawns on his face, and it’s enough of an indicator that this is real.

You cry out, crawling backwards on the loveseat, clumsily trapping yourself in the nook. Your legs kick out in warning when he reaches for you.

“Little Red,” he pants, lovesick smile twisting his face. It’s supposed to be reassuring, but it looks hysterical. “It’s not— let me explain.”

“Don’t kill me,” you hiccup, voice seizing.

“Baby, never,” Caleb coos, eyebrows knitting together. “I’d never hurt you, my love.”

The passionate words just serve to make you more unsettled, and you shuffle back more, not taking your eyes off him for a second. “Did you…lure me here, to—”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” he rasps, fluffy ears pinned down to his head. His expression drops into a sullen one, lips still glossy with your arousal tugging downwards into a pout. You snap your thighs shut, cunt still uncomfortably damp. “I never wanted you to find out like this. I didn’t want to lie, I just…”

Your eyes dart to the door.

“I did it all for you!” Caleb blurts, chest heaving. His pupils are blown so wide, his eyes are nearly black. They glossily reflect the full moon beaming through the window. “It’s all for you. The—that shepherd, he was planning to hurt you. If you knew why he kept luring you to his ranch…” His tone trails off darkly and his fists clench.

“And, the man who ran that shop, that scum said all those disgusting things to you. I couldn’t stand the idea of his filth touching you, even in words. The baker, he’d deliver your goods late at night, as an excuse to try and peek through your windows and watch you.” He’s rambling so fast you can barely register his words. His breathing gets heavier with every sentence, and his fluffy tail sweeps against the floor anxiously.

“And how do you know all that?” You question breathlessly, head spinning.

Caleb gapes, mouth dropping as he attempts to formulate a response. “Well, I— I…I follow you sometimes, just to—”

“Why?” You cry.

“You know why,” Caleb crawls closer, and despite your yelp of protest, clutches your leg again. He only caresses your skin, but one glance at his dauntingly sharp fingernails has you freezing again. “That night. I know you remember, honey.”

The night that you’ve been trying to forget, that you’ve held against yourself for so long. Maybe you shouldn’t have left the house at all, but the whimpers just outside your window were too loud to ignore. Lying there, curled up against a tree, was a figure of some sort. You thought it an animal, with its fur and keening sounds, yet it was too dark, and the creature was covered in too much mud, for you to make out what it could be. All you could sense was that it was different, and wrongly large.

“Apples,” a breath escapes him, half laugh and half sigh, as if he’s recounting his favorite memory and not one of a near death experience. “You brought me a basket of apples, and said, ‘Here, I don’t have anything else in my home, as the market is tomorrow. But apples are very healthy. Eat them and you’ll feel better.’”

You swallow thickly, staring at him as he recites you word for word.

“One of the ranchers had gotten me good, bullet straight in my chest. I was alone and new to my…transformations, so I couldn’t help devouring all his sheep. I barely managed to flee a mile before collapsing.” Caleb reverently cups your leg with both hands, eyes crinkling as he continues. “But then, like an angel, you came. You offered your kindness, even to an animal like me. Even in my state, I took one look at your red hood and vowed to keep you safe.”

A choked sound escapes you. You’d suspected the beast you’d helped to be the same to later wreak havoc on your town, but for it to be a man? Caleb?

“I love you,” he continues, shifting a bit on his knees. The new position reveals the outline of his arousal pressing needily through his pants, and your stomach flips. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

A flush burns your cheeks. “Caleb—”

“Please don’t leave, it’s dangerous outside,” he finishes quietly, forehead resting to your knee.

You sit in silence for what feels like eternity, the only sound being the howling wind and Caleb’s ragged breath against your skin. Then your hand drifts low, cupping his ear and petting the velvet fur.

His breath hitches, watery puppy-eyes raising to stare at you. He tilts his head into your touch, lips parting.

“I won’t leave,” you decide with so much certainty it shocks even yourself.

Caleb blinks, before his face splits into a blinding smile, sharp canines poking past his lips. “You…you’ll stay?”

You nod, and he hesitantly straightens, perching next to you. “Thank you,” he leans over you, face looming. “Thank you—”

You kiss him again, and he returns it eagerly, teeth grazing your sensitive lips before licking over it soothingly. His tail thumps rapidly against your leg, hands squeezing every bit of flesh they find. You squeal as he grinds into you seemingly unconsciously, the friction of his clothed erection nudging your clit through your skirt making you cream.

“Hahh, Little Red,” he whines, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling. He lets out another sound, tongue laving across your throat, before his teeth nip your skin. “You smell, and taste…so good.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, and your skirt bunches up at your hips, baring your bare cunt to his movements. His rough trousers grind against your pussy deliciously, smearing your arousal on his clothes lewdly. It’s like he can’t choose; Caleb nips and sucks at your neck, then peppers your face in gentle kisses, before returning to your lips again in a kiss so messy you’d think him an entirely different person.

“Caleb,” your needy whine rivals his own, and your hands trail lower, sliding under his shirt. “I need you, please!”

“P-poor thing,” he tuts, wasting no time in tugging off his shirt. Your eyes rave him greedily, fingers caress down the toned expanse of his abdomen, lingering suggestively near his happy trail. Caleb’s chest heaves with a shudder. “I, ah, left you all needy, huh?”

His hands slips under your skirt and between your thighs, thumb dragging through your wet slit, a teasing touch that makes your legs jerk. “Don’t worry. Caleb will take care of you.”

The clink of his belt buckle sends a shiver of delight up your spine. A flush glows on his cheeks as you stare down at his red, needy cock, which jerks at your attention. Caleb’s abs clench when your soft, small hand wraps around the head, thumbing the weeping tip gently.

“Fuck,” he gasps, eyebrows knitting together. “Nghh! Don’t do that, I’m gonna cum—”

“Then cum,” you giggle, though it’s hard to tease him when your thighs press together eagerly at the sight of him this pathetic.

“No,” he huffs*,* low and sharp, hiking your leg over his shoulder. “All my cum, hah, needs to go inside you. Need to fill this pussy up, wanna breed you,” Caleb babbles, sharpened canine biting his lip as he stares down at your naked folds.

You inhale, humorous disposition melting into arousal.

Caleb taps his tip against your clit with a lewd click, and you mewl at the slight stimulation. He glides his veiny shaft against your swollen folds, rubbing the bundle of nerves, smearing your sticky arousal all over him.

His shroomy head finally nudges the entrance of your pussy, and you tense, clenching around nothing. Caleb coos, lips skimming your cheekbone.

“Big stretch, yeah?” You nod along, nails already digging crescent moons into his back. He pushes past the tight ring of muscle, and you immediately seize up at the burning stretch, gasping.

“Shit, hah, just relax, angel,” he grits, jaw slacking at the feel of your warm walls gripping him, eyebrows drawn together in bliss. “Fuck, baby, gonna need you to let me in.”

You take a breath, stomach heaving, as he slips in with a pop. He feeds you more, and more yet. Just when you think he’s done, cock pressing so snugly inside you, he pushes in yet another inch, bottoming out.

Slow, leisurely rocks of his hips are quickening until he’s already pounding deep into you, pulling all the way out before bottoming into you with a force that has you squealing. His pelvis slams into your thighs with wet plaps, stinging the flesh pink.

Your pussy flutters and sucks him in greedily, the way he shoves at your g-spot sparking white-hot tingles through your lower belly. It’s hard to control your pitched whimpers, swollen lips parting as you struggle to steady your breathing.

Caleb looks gone, eyes glazed and fixated on your face only. Pants and groans spill from his parted lips like liquor, drunk entirely on your pussy.

Then, like he wasn’t deep enough already— he grabs your other leg and hikes it over his shoulder, folding you into a cruel mating press.

“Cay-leb!” You hiccup at the new angle, tears dotting your lashes as his cock pushes impossibly deeper, drilling into your cervix so hard you see stars.

“It would drive me insane,” he growls against your ear, before nipping the shell, “how you’d smell like everyone else.”

“Now, you smell like me. Mine,” Caleb’s hips pick up, and you can only lay there pliantly, toes curling as his gooey tip rams into your g-spot again and again. “My cute little mate.”

The croon goes straight to your head and you blink fuzzily, a fresh wave of heat flooding your cheeks. “Fuck, you’re so cute, hugging me so snugly,” Caleb presses a sweet kiss to your lips, before his mouth latches to your neck again, and you whine weakly as he sucks yet another possessive mark onto your skin. “Wanna keep you here forever. In these woods, where no one can touch you again.”

The words should ignite fear in you, especially coming from the beast you’ve feared for so long now— but you can only feel a wanton sort of desire.

“Yes,” you blurt, hands running through his messy locks as you rest your forehead against yours. “Nghh! Yes, Caleb, I’m yours.”

Caleb’s ruthless pace doesn’t slow, even as he blinks slowly and then beams, tail swishing happily behind him. “Yeah, hah,” he dots kisses across your nose, gentle contrast to the lewd way his cock batters your poor pussy into a sticky mess, “knew we were fated. You’re my, mm, perfect mate. My angel.”

His cock thrusts in and out of you so fast, kissing your nerves until a white-hot pleasure mounts to a peak. Your cunt forms a frothy ring around him, stretched so tightly over his cock, like it’s trying to suck him in and never let go.

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant, hands batting at his abs. “Please—”

As soon as his fingers stray down to your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud with tight circles, you cum, clenching hard around Caleb’s cock, soaking him with your arousal. Your thighs quake over his shoulders as he thrusts once, twice— before pressing deep in you and cumming, hot essence flooding your walls.

“Ah,” Caleb gasps and whines, eyes widening for a fraction at the way your pussy flutters around his spent cock. His hips stutter and he collapses lightly on top of you, nuzzling tiredly into your hair.

You both lay there for minutes, panting and sweaty. Caleb whines lightly and presses his nose to your skin again, arms banded around your body till he’s so tightly pressed to you, you’d think he’s trying to fuse you together.

He’s still inside you, but neither of you complain about the wet sticky mess between you two just yet, content to lay there in each other’s arms.

Caleb lifts his head and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, rousing you from your slight sleepiness. “Little Red. We’ll have to go to your Grandma’s tomorrow morning, then.”

A pang of guilt hits you when you remember your initial purpose of loitering in these woods in the first place. “Yes. Of course.” You pause. “We?”

He shuffles a bit on top of you, attempting to hide his flushed face against your breast. “Well… I thought I’d go with you.”

“Why?” You tug playfully at his ear and he melts instantly, relenting.

“So you can introduce me.”

“Introduce you?” You cast one look at Caleb’s sheepish expression and smile fondly.

“Yes, I will. I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend.”

his voice that's usually as bright as the light he is—at least, for you—now sounds rusted in a way dust grows in between telephone cables. old and abandoned.

for the longest time, you keep finding yourself standing in the old classroom that was once everything. proof of the life you shared with him and everyone else. proof that at one point, you had everything in the palm of your hands.

you never wanted him to find out this way. didn't plan on making him know from a piece of paper rather than your mouth. but, in order to ground yourself to the decision of walking out of this society, you were planning on telling him after you handed in the resignation letter.

why? because you understand that if you told him beforehand, the slightest shift and change from him is able to break down through your resolve. crumbling the wall you had built in the last few months. 

although you love him dearly, with everything that's yours, this world you're living in is chasing you down in ways that's suffocating. in a way that you'd find yourself waking up in the middle the night, covered in sweat and trembling.

because no matter how hard you try to push it away— the reality of the life you're facing as a sorcerer keeps showing its fang at you like a viper, unrelenting.

"i can't keep living like this, gojo."

and may whoever deities are listening help satoru gojo, because in that room that's starting to feel cramped, the man can sense the facade which makes him, him, starting to crackle. he didn't say anything for a while before a sudden chuckle left his lips. 

"i see," he said, all the while bitterness is the only thing he can taste on his tongue. 

you didn't say anything, didn't make an expression— only added more intensity to the air that's surrounding both of you. leaving that as the last moment of him before you step away from that city, with more unsaid and unheard words lingering.

satoru gojo is a man of many things.

that one sentence is enough to describe how the man is seen by anyone who knows or heard his name. and to be honest, you agree.

he's absurdly rich, exceptionally smart, ravishing looks from head to toe, musically talented, a sportsman in every field, and the list goes on. there's nothing he isn't, nothing he can't. plus, he's blessed with six eyes and the limitless technique. what a greedy man.

you heard someone say in a passage that satoru gojo was created when god was very much in a delightful mood. he looks like god took the time to sculpt him. the epitome of a human who received blessings from god before they're born. and again, you can't help but agree.

screw the fact that jujutsu sorcerers aren't tied to any belief, this man's existence is the perfect example of god intervening in life. 

how could you not? he doesn't have to lift a finger for anything. all he needs to do is say the word and whatever he desires will be served to him on a silver platter. satoru gojo has a life that everyone envies and yearns for, that goes without saying. and really, you're one of those people, at first. 

it all changed when he started becoming the honored one.

the man who was said to be the strongest one finally embodied the title after the star plasma vessel mission. it wasn't a whisper waiting to become a reality anymore, it's the truth that no soul can deny.

at first, you can't really tell the way his lips pressed tight whenever someone mentioned how he doesn't necessarily face death everyday as the strongest, you didn't notice how his hand would clench tightly that it bleeds when someone mentioned the life that are loss— it wasn't something catches on during the first few months he became untouchable.

but, when the realization started to settle, the picture of him that was painted on your mind started to blur. becoming a fractured memory, false memories.

as the one with power that could turn the world upside-down, even though he never said it out loud, the burden of wanting to save everyone became something unavoidable. because who is satoru gojo if he isn't the strongest one?

he knows better than anyone that he can't save everyone. it's bound for some lives to be lost along the way and he has planted that sentence in his head ever since he realizes that not every life is able to be saved. satoru gojo understands that. he lives with the heavy reality every breath he takes, where it came to the point that he outgrown the idea of saving everyone.

as long as the blood that's shattered doesn't come from his hands, he'll be fine. he'll learn to live with it no matter how much it strangles him.

because at this point of his life right now, he knows he can't save as many lives as he wants. and satoru gojo is still hanging on to the belief that maybe someday he can, he will. and since you see that part of him— he has become the light of your life, your sirius, your salvation.

"do you ever wish for a different life?" your voice cuts through the silence between you and gojo.

the trees surrounding you dance to the gentle breeze as the air kisses your skin in the most tender way while the sun starts to set down. you two are laid down on the training ground, staring at the golden sky as it slowly enveloped by the darkness, welcoming the night with open arms.

he hummed softly, pondering your question. "i don't know. never really thought about that."

it's true, it never crosses his mind. he was born for this society, after all. satoru gojo feet are already planted down the ground the moment he was born. the man could've left everything behind, but he chose to stay. if he wanted to, he would've flown and roamed around the world. beyond the sky, even. he's more than capable of doing that, after all.

"but, if it's possible someday, i'd love to have a family of my own," a long pause as he carefully arranged his words, "no matter how indifference i am— i’m a person with dreams and love, too, you know?"

you stay quiet as his words sink down through your guts. it's a bittersweet thing to hear coming from him.

he was taken away from the love he deserves since the second he was born. the man barely knows his parents, never understanding what it feels to have a home. it's no wonder he craves to have one of his own.

sure, he found family in his friends, the people who lighten up the void in him. but, it's different. far from what he craves. he would explain it— only he doesn't know how to. well, is there any way to explain something he has never experienced?

as you lay there by his side, listening to all the things he buried deep down, while marveling at the way his hair brushes his face, you couldn't help the way your chest tightens in agony.

if this is greek mythology, you would've haunted down the fates—moirai—for threading this fate on him. and they, most likely, will be throwing you all over the place to make sure you don't mess up the "thread".

but, really, the jealousy that used to creep on you whenever you saw him now replaced with longing and helplessness. longing for him to live the life he yearns for, helpless at the fact that you couldn't change this life that has been threaded for him.

you never thought of him as god's favorite anymore since then. how could you? the man who lies beside you is anything but. satoru gojo almost became the most flawless being ever created— until god decided he should bear the burden every soul would be shattered under, but him.

the months, almost a year, that passed without him were nothing but misery. and that gnawing feelings only claws you more when he gets sealed.

you didn't have to be there to know how the society crumbled when they lost him. the world tilted—loses its balance—in a snap of a finger. something inevitable.

for days after he got sealed, you found yourself engrossed in pottery, desperately trying to recreate his face that your mind started to forget. no, you never forgot about him. you're too far gone to let the man slip your mind. he had bewitched you to ever let him be forgotten. 

nonetheless, the fear of him truly slipping away from you was able to make your mind go in a haze. that’s the reason why you suddenly found yourself sculpting his face.

because you can't hold pictures and you physically need to feel your fingers brushing his face— to hold. so, with no other way, you settle for a replica of his face. and when you heard that he was free from the prison realm, you couldn't help but feel relieved. only to be crushed by the reality of his fight with the king of curses himself.

it was satoru gojo destiny. you understand that with every drop of blood which runs through you.

still, the fear of what-if crawled onto you before you were able to stop it and the more you tried to shrug everything off— the more it choked on you. not with a rope, never. it feels like a scarf, more gentle and delicate, yet still able to take you in one go. leaving you breathless.

the worst possible outcome consumed you so much that you couldn't help but stay the whole day at the studio, staring at his sculpted face. tracing every feature of his with shaky hands.

you couldn't bear the thought of losing him— your star, your sirius, the light of your life.

if the brightest star went dim, how are you supposed to continue living as if the whole world wasn't just blanketed by darkness?

praying was the only thing you could do at that moment. hopelessly wishing to any deities that are listening to grant your wishes. you even find yourself saying things you never thought would leave your lips. "if he's alive and well, i promise i’ll start praying. i never wish for anything, so please i'm asking you—"

for him to live.

and as you slowly but surely fall into the deep end even further, with the thoughts that's drowning on you, a voice you never thought you'd hear again echoes throughout the studio.

your eyes that were closed shoot open as your heart stops beating at that single moment.

oh god, if this is some twisted joke—

he called your name, sounding sweet and claiming. almost standing in the line between praying and begging. and that was your unraveling. you slowly turned around to the direction of the voice, finding yourself standing eye to eye with him.

satoru gojo.

the man stands there with scars across his body, looking disheveled, far from the one you used to see. his eyes wide and locked on you.

your breath heaving as you take in his appearance. trying to decode the figure standing in front of you, clinging on to the hope that he's real.

he took a step closer and that's all it took for you to shed tears. satoru gojo is alive.

your sirius is still shining. and he who used to shine in a way that's scorching—almost burning—now in this moment of solitude, shining in a way that makes him glow.

"if i kiss you right now," his gaze fell onto your lips for a second before returning to your eyes. "will you let me?"

he didn't have to ask, truly, because your feet were already moving to him the second he opened his mouth. your arms wrapping around his neck the second he meets you halfway as you feel his lips pressed on yours for a small kiss before he pulls away.

it was only a second before he leaned in, again, and crashed his lips against yours as his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer.

his lips moving against yours with tenderness. a hint of desire tasted your lips along with years of pent-up feelings and unsaid words. and oh god, you melted in the warmth that's his. the man himself moves one of his hands to trace lazy patterns on your back while tightening his hold on you.

something he once thought out of his reach is now in the palm of his hands and satoru gojo can't help but finally feel he's home. not in the traditional sense, a profound way.

you.

the scent of you enveloping him, feels similar to a comforting blanket on a cold night. covering him in the warmth that's uniquely you. and after a while, he broke the kiss to catch his breath as he rested his forehead against yours with his eyes half-lidded. full of longing and affection. 

your fingers find their ways to trace the scars that painted his skin— soft and gentle. treating him with the tenderness he always gave to anyone else, he always craved. the way he deserves.

"i was terrified," you whisper to him. your voice cracking a little, overwhelmed by the feelings that clouded you the past few days.

your words weren't answered with words, he answered with a soft kiss press on your temple. and in this moment, it was more than enough.

all his life, satoru gojo has been scattered into many different pieces. something that he has no control over. truthfully, he's not even sure time exists in this world. if it does, he's sure it never moves. but now, with you in his arms, he feels he has just been put back together. with you pressed against his body, time started moving the way they're supposed to.

"... my lucky star, if it weren't for you, i wouldn't be standing here."

you, his lucky star, who keeps hovering around him was the sole reason he was able to fight the king of curses and defy death.

if it weren't for you, he would've been long gone.

standing in front of him is the woman who never left his side and truly sees the person he is. despite never having fully undressed himself, you're able to see right through him— from skin and bones, to his soul. and that was enough reason for him to crawl away far from death, back to you.

in this moment where everything finally falls to where it belongs, finding its rightful place, you couldn't help but feel gratitude to the deities that listens to your prayers and grants it.

while wrapped in the warmth of his arms, you find yourself mentally getting down on your knees, thanking the fates—moirai—for threading this fate on both of you.

you may have cursed them some times ago. though, with him standing safe and sound in front of you, after saving the many lives he always dreamed about— with your pride and ego that's bigger than the sky, you're more than willing to admit defeat and apologize.

if this is greek mythology.

( ✦ ) @besidesjustmyamour @httpskrys @1stmagnoila @vegasbabyyyy @mariteez @babybitchy12 @violetpurplez @scaraslover @ritsatoru @enouche @wh1ms1soul @raendarkfaerie @bakugouswaif @mellyie @angelita-uchiha @vamqyx @luvleixo @iam-souless @taylorissogoofy @liveforkny @cruziival72 @buhchira @jennyistrendy @fushiguroooozzz @sovaintilla @fxckinbreathe @neutralizeeverymaninsight @loowyinsixeyes @withersworld @bunnydoeprincesspink @daddyaremi @whispers-of-aurora @sexykissesss @nanahach1

Grumbling, you squeeze his forearm that’s closest to you, sinking your nails into his skin, “Mmmph…s’cozy, shh.”

He lets out a more hearty laugh, flexing his forearm for you in the process, “Did you just shush me?” 

“Mmhm…shhhh.” Your voice becomes a needy whine, turning your head to the side to rub your cheek on him, “…Ruining it…quiet, you.”

With his continuing sweet laugh that warms your heart, he still sounds a tad offended, “I’m ruining it!?” When you don’t reply and continue to smush your cheek into him, he simply watches, loving deeply when you behave in any capacity how he often does. He kisses the top of your head, “You’re so cute.” After waiting a second to see if you’d stop—you don’t, he hums again before speaking, “Do you know what today is, doll?”

You shake your head no, using it as an excuse to keep rubbing on him. After, you bring your face full frontal back into the side of his pec, “Mmm, mm-mm. Shh!”

He laughs again, brushing away some stray hairs of yours splayed across his chest, “Just about day fourteen of your cycle.” 

You release a small groan into him, a little frustration rising that he won’t just let you have your fun without a bit of a pestering and a tease, “Mmm, so?” Your voice is muffled due to your mouth—your whole face—being actively pressed against him.

“So…” He waits for your reaction.

“Oh—oh.” You lift your head up quickly, looking at him with bleary eyes from having them closed for so long, “Can you—!?” He knows your cycle better than you do. While helpful, it left little information to the imagination, and he can always sense any changes in your behavior before you even process that they’re happening. It truly did make him the sweetest, best, and most informed boyfriend there ever was.

He grins, holding back another laugh while nodding, “Oh, yeah.” You stare at him a bit abashed, squeezing your legs together while you press your face back into him out of embarrassment and a rising, needy desire to have your face right back where it was, “Well, even if I couldn’t...” His voice lowers, “Look at you, pup.”

You groan again, “Mmm, you’re so big…so warm...just—shhh.” You playfully nip at his skin through his shirt.

He chuckles, using one of his hands to stroke your hair as you nuzzle him, “Okay, baby. Whatever you say…” All he needed to do was wait.

This wouldn’t end until you’re lifting his shirt up and shoving your face underneath. As soon as he goes to grab it and lift, you’re whining loudly, biting into his pec. “No! Mm-mm, leave me under here!”

He seals you back underneath his shirt and lets go, “Okay, okay! You’re so cute, pup. You can stay under there as long as you’d like.”

You press your lips into his skin, “Hmph…good.”

He’s like a furnace, so warm, and so, so, soft. His skin is electrifying to touch—whether it’s with your hands, your mouth, your body... You let your bottom lip drag across his skin, under and then over the side swell of his pec, your teeth grazing the space and closing—but not around his skin, like you’re teasing yourself as opposed to him.

When you feel him wiggle in his seat from your touch, you reach over and press your left hand against his hip that’s furthest from you, finally sinking your teeth into his skin. His voice is a reserved whimper, “H-hey—”

“Mmmph…” Needily, your mouth opens again, wide, sucking on his skin—taking however much of his muscle will fit into your mouth with a vacuumed pressure. While you suck, you let your tongue caress the skin that’s in your mouth.

His hips twitch again, “Pup—ngh—”

You shake your head gently, holding him in your mouth, “Mm-mm.” After you let him go, you mix deliberate and sloppy kisses to his skin, turning your focus and attention onto the space just beside his nipple.

By this point, you’re panting, quiet groans and whines slipping past your lips. He tastes so good and smells even better, the cedary scent of him contained and more powerful beneath the confines of his shirt. The more you suck, bite, lick, and kiss him...the harder you squeeze your thighs together.

When you truly process his scent and let it overwhelm you, you moan into his skin. You delicately let your tongue graze his skin, once just beside his nipple before going directly over it—softly...slowly...tantalizingly...

“Shit—mmm…” His hands press against you underneath his shirt. You press your lips into him softly before licking again, teasing the outer edge of his nipple with the tip of your tongue. He moans to the feeling, “Babe—”

Cutting him off, and by doing so like he frequently does to you, you let your lips wrap around him softly, sucking tenderly before applying more pressure and letting your tongue massage the bud. You feel his hips buck beneath your left hand, moaning openly against his skin at his reaction. You let go momentarily, only to flick your tongue against him before wrapping your lips around the bud again.

Without a warning other than a loud groan, he suddenly yanks his shirt up and over your head, the material landing above his chest. Caught, you release him from your mouth and smile up at him—equal parts mischievous and guilty. With his chest rising as he breaths deeply, you press your lips into him again, staring up at him with pleading, aroused eyes while you do so. “Mmm…” he shifts in his seat, a small groan sounding from his throat that makes his voice hoarse, “not even gonna let me watch you, pup?” You kiss the side of his chest, “That’s not very nice, hm?”

Moaning while doing so, you sink back into the side of his pec, biting and squeezing his muscle between your teeth. When he groans, you let go and sit up, “Off.” Like he thought, all he had to do was wait. Quickly, you lean forward and kiss the same spot you just bit, “Take it off. Right now.”

He smirks, “Yes, ma’am.” While you wait, impatiently, your fingers grip and sink into his thigh that’s closest to you. As you watch his core flex while his arms go up, your hands immediately part from his thigh to drag up his abs back to his chest. Once his shirt is off completely, he lets it drop behind the couch. He runs a hair through his hair, “Like my chest that much, princess?” 

You’re quick to straddle his lap, and instinctively each of his hands palm both sides of your ass, drawing you in closer with a tight grip. You wait not at all to let yourself grind down onto his lap, “Mmhm…”

As he leans forward to kiss you, you stop him by pressing your palms against the top of his chest, pushing him back into the couch. Your hands flatten, pressing harder as you drag down his muscle a short distance, “Just look at you, so fucking sexy…”

With his chest heaving and expanding under your touch, he chuckles, “Is that right?”

You sigh longingly, staring at his chest rather than at him, “Shut up.”

His eyes widen, but he can’t hide his smirk, “Geez, pup—”

You interrupt, finally meeting his eyes, “Quiet. Let me have my fun, hm?” 

After groaning, he swallows and nods, glancing down at your hands that now have a firm grip over his muscles, your nails pressing down into his skin until you make him moan.

As you continue to squeeze, palming his wide, warm muscles in your hands, his head tilts back and rests completely against the back of the couch’s edge. “Mmm... Good boy…” Before he can make a sound or move a muscle, you’re practically lunging for his throat, licking a clean, slow stripe up and over his adam’s apple.

“Ngh—oh—” His fingertips dig into your skin over the material covering your ass. When your teeth reach his jaw, you nip his skin, “F-fuck, pup—”

Leaning in on one side, your mouth is hot on his neck, not holding back in how you bite him. “Nngh!” Your hips drive down into his lap, easily feeling how hard he is—how hard he has been, likely since when you first drove your face into the side of his chest earlier.

As you retract from his neck panting, driven by a wild desire for him, he’s quickly lifting his head off the couch and gripping your face in both of his hands. “Pup—”

You don’t let him speak, crashing your mouth onto his instead. Where you may normally wait to slip your tongue into his mouth, you don’t. He moans into your mouth immediately at the contact, the grip of his hands on your face softening as he welcomes you. Reluctantly, you part from him, needing to say your piece, “I need you to cum inside me. Right now.”

“N-now?”

“Yes, Val. Right fucking now.” Your lips find his again, his groans and moans from you kissing him—grinding against him—falling easily and frequently into your mouth.

Trying to pull back from you and failing, he speaks between wet, desperate kisses, “W-wait—ngh—are you—mmm—sure?”

“Mhm.” Breaking away, your hands press against his chest as you grind down more intentionally. “Now, stop talking and help me get all my clothes off.”

When he doesn’t immediately react, your mouth goes straight back for his neck. You sink in, sucking on his flesh hard as you grind more aggressively against his cock. “F-fuck—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to eat me, baby.”

Releasing his neck with a gasp, you bring your mouth right by his ear, whispering, “If you don’t help me get us both naked, right now...then yes, I will.”

“Pup—” he chuckles, only to silenced by his own moan when you nip his earlobe, “m-my god—nngh—” He groans again, starting to peel you off his lap by your waist. His voice becomes low, “Alright, I’ll give you what you want.”

“Please—yes, right now. I need you inside me.” You try to kiss him but can’t as he’s assertively pulling you off his lap and putting you on your feet in front of the couch.

After an aggressive handful of minutes involving mostly a frantic stripping of clothing, your back is pressed against the couch, your right leg up on Valko’s shoulder and your left pulled up by your hand underneath your knee. He’s planked above you, his left hand grabbing the couch’s armrest above your head, and his right holding his cock in his hand as he’s actively torturing you with it.

You’re a whining, dripping mess—submitted to him, “Valko please—h-holy fuck—put it in, I c-can’t take it!” You’re not sure you’ve ever felt so fucking hot before—quite literally burning up beneath him.

He fights a smile, carefully, and much too slow for your liking, grinds the head of his cock against your throbbing clit, “Gosh, pup—s’needy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, y-yes! Val, put your cock inside me r-right now—I fuckin’—oh m-my god—s-stop teasing me—nngh—you asshole.” Each word that comes out of your mouth is interrupted by a pathetic whine.

He tsks at you, running his cock back down then up the length of your slit, “Hey, now, baby. No need to be mean, hm?”

Your voice cracks, whines that have become explicit moans interrupting practically every other word, “S-sorry but—nngh, fuck! You’re being s-so—”

He hums deeply from his throat, withholding his need to moan while trying to stay in control, “Sorry, gorgeous—mmm—I am kinda being a dick, huh? ...You’re just so fucking sexy, begging for me.”

With your free right hand, you reach for whatever part of his arm on the couch is available to you, gripping aggressively, “Ugh! Nngh—s-stop it—p-please!”

Pulling his eyes from yours, he watches as he grinds his cock against you, “Mmm—you’re so fucking wet, my god. Look at you…”

Utterly desperate for him, you’re saying anything and everything to get his cock inside you, “Mmhm—p-please, don’t you w-wanna feel? I’m so w-wet for y-your cock, p-please! I n-need you to cum inside me—” He moans, the suggestion right there for the taking. Instead, he lifts his cock the slightest bit up from you and taps against your clit, “Nngh!” Your eyes snap shut, desperation taking over in rapid, shallow breaths.

When you open your eyes again, he looks far too smug, “If y-you—ngh—don’t fuck me right n-now, I s-swear to—” Without waiting another second, thankfully, he’s sinking his tip inside you, “Mmmph!”

“Good girl—ngh—fuckin’ oh my—”

You immediately drag your left leg up even higher with your hand, pulling your thigh against your body, the action pulling him deeper, as you interrupt him, “Y-yes, yes, oh my god—m-more—more—”

He sinks slowly, like he’s trying to tame you—but also, control himself, “Nngh—s-shit—calm down, pup.”

Your hips buckle and wiggle, “No—n-no, all the way, mmm—h-holy shit—you feel s’fucking good! I c-can’t—”

Doing what he normally would himself, as he pushes in, you release your left leg and place it over his other shoulder yourself. The change in angle makes him sink further, both of you failing to contain your moans.

He stares down at you in awe; not that you weren’t ever like this—you definitely had been—but right now, it was making his vision blur and his cock throb to a painful degree. He never wants to hurt you, and often holds back from thrusting into you as hard as he possibly can in fear of hurting you. But…it seemed like you really—desperately—wanted him to do just that.

Now completely inside you, your legs above his shoulders and pushed back into a mating press by his weight, he lets both of his hands grip the couch’s armrest, tight. With each thrust, you’re begging him for more, watching his core flex and contract with his weighty thrusts into your aching cunt.

“H-harder, harder! Mmm—nngh!” Each time you cry out for him to frankly, absolutely violate you, he groans deeply, fighting against a primal urge to just completely let go and rail you to his heart’s content.

Lacking restraint with each and every thrust, when he really starts giving you what you want, all you’re mostly left with is the ability to scream yes, over, and over, again. “Just like t-that, y-yes! Yes! D-don’t stop—nngh!”

With your eyes rolled back and your head tilted back into the couch, you can’t focus on his face, instead just on the feeling of him drilling into you with all of his power. Speaking through a broken pant while you tremble, “M’gonna—m’gonna—” You can’t form the sentence, the feeling of the head of his cock penetrating you and slamming against your G-spot endlessly and quickly leaving you a weak, dizzy mess.

His eyes close, fighting so hard against his own release brimming at the surface from the feel of you—from your reactions to him fucking you as hard as he’s able. Each time he opens his eyes to admire you, he’s playing a dangerous game. When your legs start to violently shake against his shoulders and cries of pleasure pour out from your lungs, “Nngh! Oh, fuck—baby, m’gonna—” He can’t get his warning out, either.

Suddenly gaining the ability to speak at the utter need for him to fill you in his entirety, “Yes, yes—mmm—give i-it to m-me—I need—ah!” Your cries of desperation are silenced by a dramatic, deep thrust forward, his vocalized and raspy grunt like music to your ears. 

“Mmm—fuck!” He plunges again, if possible, somehow harder. Every lasting thrust from him is timed with each hot, spurt of cum you can feel warm you from the inside—accompanied unmistakably by a repeated and aggressive twitch from his cock fighting against the pressure of your walls squeezing down around him.

Since he had already knocked out all available air from you, you don’t know how, but you speak without any air in your lungs, “V-Val—h-holy fuck—yes, y-yes, t-that’s it—!”

Using the armrest of the couch, gripping it still with both hands—his knuckles completely white—for the final dose of his cum, like a medicine you require, he thrusts again, the intense pressure eeking out a loud, pathetic moan from your throat.

Slowing down slightly and calming, but neither of you recovered—not even close—he pulls out partially, glancing down between the two of you, “H-holy fuck…look at that, hm?” You’re beyond trembling. Before you can speak, he pushes back in, “Did you get what you wanted, puppy?”

Your voice is a satisfied plea, your head spinning, “Y-yes—oh my god—yes!”

He repeats the process, watching his release slick around him and ooze out between you both with each teasing thrust forward, sure to tilt up with his hips each time he’s completely inside you to press his tip against your G-spot, leaving you whining and shaking. “So damn pretty…love it when you’re full of me...”

“Kiss me, kiss me, kiss—” He chuckles, finding perhaps too much joy in your avid desperation, spreading his arms and jostling your legs off his shoulders down to his elbows so he can get to you and silence that desperation with his mouth. When his lips land on yours, that means his cock is buried its full extent inside you again, incentivizing a whiny moan from your mouth to his.

After a moment—several moments—of staying entangled, you stay exactly where you are, but he raises and sits normally on the couch, pulling your legs over his lap, petting and rubbing you lovingly while you recover, his warm, large palms flat against your skin. Still panting, “God, baby... I don’t think I’m the only one who experiences a…heat, so-to-speak.”

Completely out of breath, you weakly get out your rebuttal, “Shut…up…”

He laughs, squeezing your shins in his hands, “As you wish, princess.”

You swallow harshly, “Go—mmm—drink some water. We’re…doing that…again.”

His eyes peel off your body—truthfully, off your cunt dripping with his claim—and land on your eyes, “Again!?”

“Mmhm…s’good—so fucking good—need it…again...”

With a light growl and a laugh, he’s pulling your legs apart by your ankles, wedging his body back between your legs, “My insatiable, pup, huh? Need more of my cum, do you?”

As he’s pushing further forward, nuzzling his face into your neck, “Y-yes, oh my god—”

Speaking between kisses on your neck, “Mmm—fuck—I need five minutes.” His teeth sink into your neck, “...Make that two.”

You laugh quietly, your chest still heaving. His kisses on your neck slow, “But…I don’t get to make you cum with my mouth first, hm?”

You whine, “A-after—mmm—l-later—need you s’bad…”

He bites you again before speaking, a low growl getting cut off by a groan, “Mm—nngh—now who’s being the asshole?”

You tsk, tapping his back with your hand in defiance, “Hey!”

He quickly pulls his face from your neck, bringing his face in front of yours. “Kidding, baby. I take it back, I’m sorry,” he kisses several spots on your face, “really sorry, pup, that was mean.” He doesn’t stop kissing you or apologizing until you smile and giggle. “But asking me to keep my mouth off you…might just be meaner.” He kisses you softly, so softly it has you whining for more, “You know how much I love to make you cum that way…”

Panting, you raise your brows at him, “Are you saying you don’t want to cum inside me again, hm?”

He folds easily, too easily—in a way you absolutely love, “Okay, shit. I’ll be right back, gonna get us some water.” He hops off you with a speed that makes you laugh again. He points a finger at you, smiling, “You stay right there, hm?”

You gesture down with both of your hands to your pure comfortability sunken into the couch, legs spread and one dangling off for dramatic effect, giggling, “Do I look capable of moving to you?”

“Mmm—no…you don’t.” He teeters in place, contemplating jumping you right then after having just stood up, “Fuck! Okay, be right back.”

***

On the floor beside the couch, splayed out, “Okay, okay. …No…more…”

You roll onto your side and press your lips into his tricep, “One more?” 

“No!” He groans to the thought, his abs flexing. “Fuck…” his voice cracks into a chuckle, “you’re tryin’ to fuckin’ to kill me, pup.”

Your voice becomes a tempting coo, “You’re just so—”

He interrupts, “Don’t start, you.” He speaks through deep pants, “You got me…for all…I’m worth…”

“Doesn’t hurt to find out, does it?” You tip your fingers up his chest, leaning into him as you start to sit up.

“Back, you! Uh-uh. You’ll—” he starts laughing as you quickly plop down on top of his large frame, “kill m-me!”

“Hmm…” You press your face into his chest, “hmph…”

Stroking your hair and back lovingly, you move with the rise and fall of his chest, “How about this, princess…as soon as we wake up, I’ll fuck you even harder, as many times as you want.” You moan into his chest. “You know how I am in the morning, hm?”

“Mmhm…even harder, huh?” You bite his chest weakly, a small whimper sounding, “Can we go to sleep right now, then?”

“Oh, god.” You giggle, squeezing your limbs over his body in a wide hug to encompass the size of him. “You’re not gonna let me rest the next few days, are you?”

You lift your head and look at him with a devious smile, “Nope.” You pop the “p,” pecking his chest with your lips once, “Now, off to bed, handsome.”

“My god…” he smiles, brushing your hair back with both hands, “what have I gotten myself into?”

You smile back at him, “You love me.”

He pinches your cheek, his eyes full of authentic warmth, “Mhm, more than you know.” Wrapping his arms around you, he’s tugging you further up his torso, “C’mere…naughty thing, you.” He feigns like he’s going to bite you before giving you a gentle, sweet kiss. After the kiss, “Let’s shower first, hm? I’ll clean you up.”

“Mmm…that sounds nice.” You kiss his cheek, “Thank you, baby.”

“Good, can’t just leave my girl a mess after all that. Come on, up you go.” You whine playfully, reluctantly peeling yourself off him. “Mm-mm, don’t stand up. I got you, baby.” Your heart warms and your stomach turns. You roll off him onto the carpet, sitting up slightly. After he stands up, he squats back down beside you, “Come on, arms around my neck, hm?” You smile, wrapping your arms around him as one of his arms scoops beneath both of your knees and the other supports your back. Regardless of how spent he may be, picking you up like this is absolutely nothing to him—no matter the situation.

Holding you in his arms, he smiles before pecking your lips, “I love you, pup.”

You stroke the side of his cheek with your hand, offering a light pinch, “I love you, handsome.”

As he heads for the bathroom with you in his arms, he chuckles, “Don’t get any ideas, Miss Hunter.” You laugh in response and rest your head on his shoulder, nuzzling into his warmth once again.

***

… ... ...

“Stop it, you! Go to sleep!”

Your Satoru. Your boyfriend. And apparently, according to him you were his girlfriend. He had started using the word like he had been waiting his entire life for permission. "My girl." "My girlfriend." "Angel." "Pretty girl." "My favourite person."

The first time he called you my girl over text you stared at the message for a solid thirty seconds before throwing your phone onto your bed. Then you picked it right back up. Then you reread it. Then you buried your face in your pillow.

Satoru meanwhile had apparently been having an equally profound experience. Because somewhere between the movie theater and the following morning he realized something terrifying. He had a girlfriend. Satoru Gojo had a girlfriend. Not a temporary fling. Not someone he met at a party and forgot the next morning. Not a stranger whose number would eventually disappear somewhere in the endless scroll of his phone.

You.

You were the person he could text when he woke up. The person he could send stupid memes to. The person who actually laughed at his jokes. The person who would tolerate him rambling about something obscure for twenty minutes because you genuinely wanted to hear him talk. And perhaps most importantly you were the person who had seen him at his most embarrassingly enthusiastic and somehow still wanted him afterward.

That last part had been sitting in his head a lot. More than he would ever admit. Because the thing was. Satoru had never really thought he would have this. Not in the way he had always secretly wanted it. Someone who wanted to know him. Someone who wanted to stay. Someone who would curl against him and laugh until her stomach hurt because he said something stupid. Someone who would look at him like he was something precious.

It made him feel almost unbearably lucky. Which was annoying. Because Satoru Gojo did not like feeling unbearably anything. Except apparently unbearably lucky. And unbearably horny.

That was becoming a problem too. A very significant problem.

It had been a couple weeks since that wild night in the bathroom stall at the movies. Your first real date. The way his hands had found you there. Inside you. The heat and the rush and the desperate way you both clung to each other after. Confirming everything. He was your boyfriend now. You were his girl. Satoru Gojo was a lucky boy because he did not think he would ever have a girlfriend. Someone to spend time with. Someone to share his jokes with and hear your pretty laugh in return.

That night after he came to the realization that he actually had his hands on you. Inside you. It had all been so surreal. And now the two of you had been constantly talking over text. Even sexting. Yeah. Sexting.

The first time it happened started innocently enough. He had just gotten out of the shower.

You were lying in bed. Half watching something on your laptop when your phone buzzed. You picked it up. A message from Satoru.

toru 🩵

showered

A smiled appeared on your face immediately, a big one, as your fingers clicked his message open and began typing.

you 🩷

congratulations?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then—

toru 🩵

wow

toru 🩵

that's all i get

That made you giggle to yourself.

you 🩷

what do you want

His response took longer this time. Then your phone buzzed, a picture??? Why was he sending a picture right now, you took a sharp inhale.

And opened it. And immediately sat up. Satoru was standing in what looked like his dorm room, obviously. You've been there a couple of times to recognise the background. He was still wet. A towel hanging loosely around his neck. He wasn't smiling properly exactly. It was more of that lazy little half smirk he did when he knew precisely what he was doing. Your heart gave one stupid, traitorous little thump.

You stared. Then stared some more. Your nipples tightened under your shirt just from the sight of him like that. Fresh from the shower. Skin still warm and damp.

you 🩷

oh

His reply came instantly.

toru 🩵

oh?

You bit your lip, in anticipation

you 🩷

you look nice

toru 🩵

nice?

you 🩷

yes

toru 🩵

that's so romantic

You peered at your screen, then rolled your eyes.

you 🩷

shut up

toru 🩵

no no i'm listening

toru 🩵

tell me more about how nice i look

You could practically hear his voice. That amused teasing tone. Your pussy gave a slow warm throb as you typed.

you 🩷

your hair looks pretty

There was a pause. Longer this time. Then—

toru 🩵

pretty?

You sighed, then frowned.

you 🩷

yes

toru 🩵

you think i'm pretty?

Your cheeks warmed and there was heat pooling low in your belly now.

you 🩷

i didn't say that

toru 🩵

you literally did

you 🩷

i said your hair is pretty

toru 🩵

coward

You gasped... The audacity. No he did not.

you 🩷

excuse me?

toru 🩵

you heard me

You were smiling madly, not being able to help it anymore.

you 🩷

your hair is pretty

you 🩷

your face is pretty

you 🩷

happy now?

His answer took almost a full minute.

toru 🩵

very

Then another message.

toru 🩵

you should send me a picture too

You looked down at yourself. You were wearing an oversized shirt, it was nothing special. Nothing remotely seductive. Your hair was messy. You had not done anything to look pretty. But your body was already reacting. Skin tingling. Pussy getting slick just from talking to him.

you 🩷

i'm in bed

toru 🩵

i know

Your eyebrows lifted, a real psychic he is.

you 🩷

how?

toru 🩵

because you just told me

You laughed, and shook your head unbelievably.

you 🩷

idiot

toru 🩵

what are you wearing

Your smile faltered. Not because the question was shocking. It was just. Different. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Your nipples were hard now. Pressing against the soft fabric.

you 🩷

clothes

His response came immediately.

toru 🩵

wow

toru 🩵

incredibly specific

You pressed your lips together.

you 🩷

an oversized shirt

toru 🩵

whose?

You blinked.

you 🩷

mine

toru 🩵

boring 🙄

you 🩷

you're annoying

He didn't waste time sending the next message.

toru 🩵

take it off

Your stomach flipped, tf!? You stared at the words. A rush of shy heat flooded your face and between your legs.

you 🩷

...why?

The three dots appeared.

toru 🩵

curiosity

Another message.

toru 🩵

scientific research 😇

You laughed so suddenly you had to cover your mouth. Your clit throbbed and you wanted to touch it. You wanted his voice telling you to.

you 🩷

you're such a nerd

toru 🩵

says the girl who went to a fucking doraemon expo with me

you 🩷

i hate you

toru 🩵

no you don't

Your fingers went still. Because he was right. You did not. You really really didn't.

you 🩷

no

Then.

you 🩷

i don't

His response was almost immediate.

toru 🩵

yeah

toru 🩵

i know

You stared at the screen. And then your phone rang.

You nearly dropped it.

"Satoru?"

His voice came through warm and slightly amused.

"Hi."

"You called."

"I did."

"Why?"

"You were taking too long to answer."

You smiled despite yourself.

"To what?"

"Anything."

You rolled onto your stomach now.

"Satoru."

"Angel."

The nickname was softer over the phone. That was the problem. Everything sounded different when he said it aloud. You tucked your face into your pillow. Your pussy was wet now. Aching.

"What?"

"Are you still wearing the shirt?"

You made a tiny noise of disbelief.

"You're still on that?"

"I'm persistent."

"You're annoying." Yes he definitely was.

"You like me."

"I do." ... "fucker" - You muttered that under your breath.

The silence afterward was immediate. You could hear him breathe, it was soft and shallow, like he himself was trying hard to stay still. It made you close your eyes. You smiled.

"What's wrong?" Your voice came out a little shaky, you didn't mean for it to.

"Nothing." He said voice calm, almost assuring.

"You went quiet."

"I'm appreciating the fact that my girlfriend just admitted she likes me." Well that sounded a bit sarcastic.

"You already knew that." You retorted.

"I like hearing it."

Something in your chest softened. You turned onto your back. Your hand drifted down. Hovering shyly over your stomach.

"You're ridiculous." A small chuckle left your lips.

"Yeah."

His voice.. you can tell he was smiling. Then after a moment.

"Can I see you?"

Your heart jumped, you started to blink rapidly.

"uuuh r-right now?"

"Right now." He said straightforwardly.

"Satoru." You said, voice coming out an octave louder than necessary.

"What?"

"You've already seen me."

"I know."

"Today." You reminded.

"I know."

"Earlier." You re-affirmed.

"I know."

You could hear the grin in his voice.

"I want to see you right now, Angel."

That did something to you. Something so embarrassingly simple, had you smiling ear to ear at the ceiling. Your fingers slipped lower. Brushing over where your panties were soaked through.

"Okay." You sighed breathlessly.

There was a small pause. Then the call changed. The screen lit up, the emoticon to switch to video, you pressed it absentmindedly. And suddenly there he was. Satoru. His hair was still damp. His towel had fallen around his shoulders. He was lying back against his pillows, and his signature wire-rimmed glasses weren't on. He had one hand resting behind his head.

"Hi." He said playfully, his perfect teeth glaring at you.

You stared, eyes probably wide. He raised an eyebrow.

"Hi?"

"Yes. Hi." He tutted, then without giving you a second—

"You're staring."

"I'm not." You blinked your eyes off to the side.

"You are." He teased.

You groaned softly. "Your hair is still wet."

"That's what you noticed?" He huffed.

"Yes."

"Wow." Oh you didn't even notice the lack of his spectacles. That kinda broke his heart.

"Stop fishing for compliments." You said, eyes rolling.

"Tell me I'm pretty again."

You laughed, in disbelief.

"No."

"Please?" God... why did that sound so... ughhh.

"No." Your eyebrows pinched together.

"Angel."

Damn.

You covered your face. He laughed. Fuck. You loved his laugh. You loved how easy it was. How he never seemed embarrassed by it. Your fingers pressed lightly against your clit through the fabric.

"You're pretty." You muttered.

"What, what was that, hm?" Oh he was taunting you now.

"I said you're pretty." You said defeatedly.

"Louder."

"No."

"Come on."

"Satoru." That came out a little too whiny.

"Pretty please."

You groaned, again.

"You're pretty." You said honestly, voice loud enough for him.

He smiled and there it was. That look. The one that made you suddenly feel like you were the only person in the world.

"Thank you." That sounded so sweet, coming from him.

"You're welcome."

Then his eyes flicked downward.

"What are you wearing?"

You stared at him. He stared back. You narrowed your eyes. Your pussy clenched.

"You already know. Baka"

"I want to hear you say it."

"Ugh." You're weird."

"I'm your boyfriend."

"That doesn't explain anything."

"It explains everything."

You laughed again. Your fingers started moving in slow shy circles.

"An oversized shirt."

"Still?"

"Yes." Annoyance clear and present in your voice now.

"Nothing else?" He was prying.

You froze. Satoru's expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough though. His smile softened into something more curious. His free hand shifted lower on screen.

"Angel?"

You swallowed. Your voice came out breathy. Shy but honest.

"You're being nosy."

"Very." At least he was self-aware.

"You can't see anything."

"I didn't ask to see anything."

"You're thinking about it." Oh he definitely was.

"Maybe." That confirmed it.

Your cheeks warmed. Your nipples were so hard they ached. Your pussy was soaking. You wanted to touch yourself properly. To him. To his voice.

"Oh." He said softly.

"What?"

"You're flustered."

"I'm not." You tried to deny, to play it somewhat cool.

"You are." This asshole.

"Stop looking at me."

"Never." omg.. why was he like this?!

You hid your face. But you kept your fingers moving. Slow and awkward. Horny and unsure, no you were sure, so sure actually.

"You're so annoying."

"You're cute."

That shut you up, and Satoru laughed quietly.

"See?" His voice teased.

"See what?"

"I can make you speechless."

"Don't get excited."

"Too late."

You rolled your eyes. But you were smiling. Most times the two of you stayed like that. Talking. Teasing. Learning. There was no rush. No script. Just two people who were still figuring out how to be together. Shy in so many ways even after that bathroom stall. Still exploring every new feeling.

Sometimes the conversation drifted toward things neither of you had the courage to say directly. Questions. Curiosity. Little admissions.

Satoru'd asked what you thought about him. You told him he was irritating. He asked what else. You said he was kind. He went quiet. You asked why. He said he was not used to people saying that. You told him he should get used to it. Then he smiled.

And suddenly you understood something. The flirting was easy. The teasing was easy. But underneath it there was something softer. Something neither of you knew quite how to handle yet. Something that made every new step feel bigger than it should.

But right now your fingers kept rubbing. Little whimpers slipping past your lips, trying to be quiet but he was picking up on every stray sound. He could tell and maybe that excited you.

"Angel. Are you... touching yourself?" His voice dropped. Unfiltered.. teasing and horny, you could hear it.

You bit your lip shyly. Fuck. You were caught.. But you nodded. You nodded anyway because you couldn't keep anything from him even if you wanted to.

"Yeah. A little." Your voice came out strained. There was no going back now.

"Fuck. Don't hide it." He breathed. "Let me see you. Please."

Your heart pounded. But you switched cameras. The screen showed where your t-shirt had ridden up your tummy, and your other hand clearly shoved into the waistband of your panties. His eyes darkened when he saw it.

"You're so pretty like this." He murmured. "You're ah- um touching yourself..?" He sounded so shy and wrecked, asking a dumb question, the answer was obvious enough at this point.

It still made you whimper. Fingers slipping lower under your panties. Sliding through your wet folds.

"Yes. Satoru." Affirmations was definitely his kink.

Your breathless purr of his name, made him groan.. he was coming undone quick. His camera flipped down, now too. His sweats and boxers shoved down mid thigh, cock out and visibly hard. Flushed and pretty. Long and leaking precum at the tip. His slender hand wrapped around it. Stroking slow. All for you to see and your eyes lingered, staring intently.

"Look at what you do to me." He said. Voice rough. "So hard for you angel."

You rubbed your clit faster. Watching him. The way his hand moved. The slick sounds. His moans of your name.

"Satoru..." You gasped. Fingers circling. Wet noises filling the call on both ends.

He stroked harder. Thumb spreading precum over the tip and down his length. "Fuck. Your sounds. S'messy Angel. Let me hear your pretty cunt."

You moaned. Shy but needy. Rubbing quicker, building fast. His hips bucked. Hand flying.

"Angel. M'gonna cum." He panted. Moaning your name loud, then in the next second thick white cum streaked across his chest. Over his fingers. So much. So pretty.

You followed. Messy on your fingers. Clenching and whimpering out his name, desperately.

He caught his breath. Eyes hungry. "Can i see.. Angel.. can I see your fingers? show them to me please.." Fuck... he was begging so nicely, it did something to you.

Shy but obediently you held them up. Shiny, your arousal thick and sappy stringed on your fingers, webbing in the light.

"Good girl... fuck. Put them in your mouth.. haa-ah taste yourself f'me Angel."

You slipped them into your mouth, with a moan, Sucking softly as he wiped his cum off his chest. Licking a bit from his fingers, in sync with you.

The two of you stayed on the call. Breathing softly together. Smiling shyly, left over horniness fading way now. Both connected and sated.

Eventually Satoru's eyes left your pretty face for a second and glanced at the clock in the little upper left corner on his phone.

"It's late." He said in realization.

"It is." You knew it was by now.

"You should sleep." Voice tender-soft.

"You first." You murmured back.

"I'm not tired."

"Neither am I." He sounded believable but you were sure.

"You are."

"I'm not." He was going to play this game, but you weren't gonna let him win this.

"You've yawned three times."

That made him grin, "You're counting?"

"Obviously."

He smiled.

"Stay on the phone, with me Angel." Voice low and lazy.

You blinked.

"While we sleep?"

"Yeah."

Your heart squeezed.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay."

With that he settled deeper into his pillows. You did the same and for a while neither of you said anything. You could hear his breathing. He could hear yours.

And eventually...quietly.

"Hey angel?"

"Yeah?" Your voice came out a little drowsy.

"I'm really glad you're my girlfriend."

You smiled into the darkness.

"Me too."

A pause. Then-

"Also."

"What?"

"Your shirt is still bothering me."

You burst out laughing.

"Satoru!"

He laughed too.

And somewhere between the teasing and the laughter the call stayed connected. The two of you fell asleep like that. Not knowing exactly where this was going. Not knowing how much you would learn about each other. Not knowing how many more firsts were waiting.

Just knowing that somehow. Against all odds. Satoru Gojo had a girlfriend. And you had a boyfriend. And he was lying in bed somewhere smiling at the sound of your sleepy breathing.

Thinking probably for the hundredth time that week. Holy shit. She's really mine.

And maybe just maybe you were thinking the same thing.

Because tomorrow he would text you again. He would send something ridiculous. You would pretend to be annoyed and he'd flirt. You would flirt back. And eventually one of you would say something that made the other flustered.

And you would keep discovering each other. Slowly, carefully, and with hunger. One little secret at a time.

This time you're at his dorm room on campus.

And it starts with a pillow.

Well— you, and a pillow, and a very stupid pair of thigh-high socks that Satoru swore would be the death of him when you slid into his dorm room wearing them and nothing else but one of his oversized hoodies and a shy little smirk.

He gawked.

You straddled his pillow without a word, right in the middle of his bed, and started grinding. Soft. Slow. Just for yourself. His jaw went slack. His hands froze mid-text. And you were so casual about it, like you didn’t even notice the way he was staring at you like you’d hung the moon with your pussy.

“Practicing,” you’d murmured, shrugging cutely.

“For what?” he asked, voice wrecked.

Your smile was pure trouble. “Riding.”

Satoru dropped his phone. Physically. Onto the floor.

You giggled. "I wanted to see if I could get off just humping something."

He made a sound like he'd been punched.

So now here you are— on your hands and knees, still wearing his hoodie and those sinful socks, pussy flushed and puffy from humping his favorite dorm pillow, hips twitching like you're almost there. You don't even realize you're whimpering until his hands slide around your hips, and he speaks, low and starving, right behind you.

“Angel…”

You look back over your shoulder.

Satoru is kneeling behind you, shirtless, eyes dark with hunger. He brushes your ass with his palm. Then slips his hand between your thighs and cups your pussy over the pillow. Soaked-sticky and messy.

“You’re so wet,” he groans. “You were gonna cum on a pillow and not even let me watch?”

“I was...testing” you pant, wearily.

He flips you like a doll.

Suddenly you’re flat on your back, head on the sheets, thighs trembling open and hoodie bunched around your waist. The pillow lies forgotten beside you, damp with slick. He looms over you, hair falling into his eyes, lips parted and pink.

“You wanna ride my face, Angel?” he asks, voice hoarse.

Your whole body shivers.

“…Can I?”

He laughs soft and stunned, worshipful almost, and leans down to kiss you like you’re the most delicious thing in the world.

“Fuck yes, you can. Sit on my face. Suffocate me. Make me drown in it.”

He lays back against the pillows, adjusting under you with arms out like a throne. His glasses are already tossed to the side, and he’s licking his lips like he can already taste you. You’re climbing over him, thighs shaking, when he grabs your hips and drags you up.

“Right here,” he whispers, eyes locked on your glistening cunt above him. “Right here, baby. Let me feel the weight of it.”

You lower slowly, knees braced, hands pressed into the wall behind his headboard. You hover above his mouth, panting and then, gently, you sank down.

His tongue meets your folds like he’s starving.

You wail.

Your pussy clenches instantly, overwhelmed by the first hot drag of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. Satoru groans, loud, grabs your thighs like he needs more, and pulls you down until you’re seated fully on his mouth.

“Satoru!” you cry out, rocking without meaning to.

His tongue slides in now, licking into your dripping pussy like he’s mapping it. He moans like it tastes like heaven, like it’s a privilege just to be under you. Your thighs squeeze around his head. Your hips roll. Your clit finds his nose. And you grind.

He’s letting you.

Letting you fuck his mouth like you need it to breathe.

“Don’t stop,” you whimper. “Don’t stop, I’m— Satoru, I’m gonna cum, I’m so close—”

He hums against your clit and the vibration breaks you.

You cum on his tongue with a scream, body jerking, hips grinding down in helpless little circles. He grabs your thighs, keeps you there, mouth open, licking, moaning, slurping like he doesn’t care that you’re sobbing above him.

You collapse forward, hips still twitching, body limp, cheek against his bare chest.

He gasps when you move off him, his face soaked, chin dripping with your slick.

“…You taste like candy,” he whispers, starry-eyed.

You’re panting, half-laughing. “That was insane.”

“I think I’m addicted to your pussy.”

You slap his chest, weakly.

He grins, wild and happy, then he murmurs, "You've got the prettiest pussy I've ever seen Angel, We need to do this again.. maybe ah-hundred times before we," His voice drops as he leans in and whispers into your ear teasingly, "fuck huh?"

Now you’ve been thinking about it all day.

All week, really.

Every time your thighs press together too tightly in class, every time you catch Satoru’s glazed-over stare sliding to your chest or how he bites his lip when you fidget in your seat—you think about riding him.

You’ve made out on his futon. You’ve touched. Explored. Cum multiple times on his fingers while crying into his neck. You’ve memorized the way he moans when you stroke him, how his cock twitches helplessly when you kiss the head and whisper how much you want to take it inside.

So now… it’s time.

You sit on his lap in his tiny, warm dorm room, legs bare, wearing nothing but one of his hoodies and knee socks, straddling him while his hands hover at your waist like he’s too scared to grip you. Your panties are already shoved to the side. His sweats are pushed down, and his cock's hard. Flushed, drooling against his belly, it twitches between your folds like it’s waiting for permission.

You’re both shaking.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers. “Not tonight. Only if you really want—”

“I need to,” you breathe.

You lean close, your nose brushing his, eyes wide and nervous but burning.

“I want to ride you, Satoru.”

He chokes on air.

“Oh my god.”

Your hand wraps around the base of his cock, hot and slick from his own arousal, and you guide him up, between your slick folds, over your clit. You both shudder. You roll your hips, let him feel the mess he’s made of you. His eyes are already fluttering back.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “You’re gonna take me?”

You nod. “Just… let me go slow.”

You lift your hips, line him up with your tight little entrance, and take a deep breath.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

He holds your waist, his grip tightening.

The tip presses in.

And holy fuck.

You’re stretching already, your walls squeezing down on him like you’re trying to keep him inside before he’s even all the way in. Your jaw falls open. He moans so loud into your shoulder you nearly lose balance.

“Oh ...oh fuck angel—angel, you’re so tight—fuck, I can’t—”

You both gasp, frozen, as you sink down another inch. It’s like a punch to your stomach and your cunt at the same time—hot, overwhelming, raw and perfect. Your thighs tremble. Your nails dig into his shoulders.

“I can feel everything,” you sob. “You’re so big, Satoru, you’re splitting me open.”

He’s crying. A little. From how tight you are. From how warm. From the way your pussy clenches around him like you love him already and he hasn’t even bottomed out yet.

“Tell me when to stop,” he pants. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You’re not,” you gasp. “Don’t stop—don’t stop. I need you.”

You sink lower. Lower. Inch by inch, your walls stretch around him, pulsing with slick heat.

Then— you bottom out.

And it feels like your whole body is going to break open from the pressure, from how full you are.

You bury your face in his shoulder. “I’m full. I’m so fucking full, I can feel you in my stomach—”

His hips twitch and he sobs again.

“I’m inside,” he whispers. “You’re letting me in. You’re my first—”

You press your lips to his ear. “You’re my first, too.”

And then— you rock.

Gently. Testing how much you can move.

And his hands slam down on your hips like he can’t take it. His cock twitches inside you, and your walls clench around him in response.

You moan.

He moans louder.

Then you start riding him, slow and messy. Tight little bounces, up n down. Just enough to feel the stretch, the slide, the overwhelming wet heat of your cunt clinging to him like your body doesn’t want to let go. It’s all instinct and desperation. The sounds of skin against skin, of slick, needy friction echoing in the tiny dorm room.

Your thighs are shaking. His hands won’t stop gripping, guiding, worshiping.

“Fuck, angel— fuck, you’re riding me—”

You cry out. “You’re so deep— I-I can’t—I feel you in my chest—”

He bucks into you by accident and you scream, throwing your head back.

“Did I hurt you?!”

“N-no—again, do that again—”

He does. And you swear you go cross-eyed.

The rhythm is clumsy. Awkward. Your knees are slipping and his hips stutter, but you don’t care. You don’t care about perfect. You care about how he moans your name like a prayer. How your pussy makes that wet little schlk sound every time you take him down to the base.

“I’m gonna cum,” he gasps. “I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t hold it—”

You grab his cheeks, force his eyes to meet yours.

“Cum in me,” you whisper. “Please. Make a mess inside me.”

His cock throbs violently.

“Angel—fuck—I love you—”

He explodes.

It’s hot. You feel it fill you— pulse after desperate pulse. Sticky, thick, messy. It overflows instantly, leaking between your thighs and down his cock while you grind and cry out again, cumming right after him. You shake through it— sobbing, clenching, writhing in his lap like your body doesn’t know how to survive this much fullness.

You collapse against his chest.

His hands cradle you.

He’s panting. Moaning your name over and over.

“I’ve never felt anything so good,” he whispers.

You kiss him then, slow and shaky-sweet.

“Neither have I.”

And then you both fall backward onto the bed, tangled, ruined, still joined at the hips.

You stay that way for a long, long time.

You’re still straddling him.

Bare thighs trembling. Pussy aching. His cock softening slowly inside you, twitching with little aftershocks, buried deep in your cunt and leaking. You can feel it. His cum—so much of it— pooling hot and sticky inside your body. Seeping out in slow, obscene dribbles every time you shift or twitch.

It’s messy. You’re flushed and overwhelmed, shivering through the afterglow and clinging to his hoodie like a lifeline.

And Satoru Gojo is staring between your legs like he’s entranced.

You glance down. Follow his line of sight.

There’s a little stream of milky white trickling from where he’s still inside you, slipping down between your folds and soaking into the mess of his hoodie bunched beneath your ass. You clench involuntarily and more leaks out— sticky-warm and filthy.

Satoru groans.

“I can see it.” His voice is wrecked. “It’s—fuck, it’s dripping out of you. That’s my cum. Inside you.”

You moan softly, hips rocking like you’re chasing the stretch again.

His hands grip your waist.

“I wanna clean you up,” he whispers, breath hot against your cheek.

You blink, dazed. “I can just— get a towel, or—”

“No. Not like that.”

You look down. He’s already pulling out—slowly— and you both gasp as his softening cock slips free of your pussy, followed immediately by a thick, wet gush of cum that drips from your folds in slow, shiny strands.

Satoru watches it fall.

Then he drops to his knees.

Right between your thighs.

“Satoru— what are you—”

“I need to,” he says, voice low, eyes blown wide and desperate. “Please. Let me clean it with my mouth.”

You can’t even think. Not with the way he’s looking at you like you’re something divine, something sweet and holy and soaked in his mess. His hands part your trembling thighs and he moans at the sight of your sticky, cum-dripping pussy glistening in the soft dorm light.

“Angel,” he whispers, reverent. “You’re ruined. I made such a mess.”

You reach down, brush his hair back. “Then clean it up.”

He dives in.

His tongue slides through your folds— warm, flat, soaking up the slick with long, filthy licks. You scream, thighs snapping around his head, because you’re so sensitive, still throbbing from your orgasm, and now his tongue is licking up his own cum from your pussy like he’s starving.

You squirm. Whimper. Try to push him back. “S-Satoru—s'too much—!”

He groans into your cunt, arms wrapping around your hips, holding you down like he’s not letting go until you’re clean.

“Can taste you,” he pants between licks. “You and me, mixed together—fuck, it’s so sweet—”

You throw your head back, moaning like a girl gone dumb.

His mouth is everywhere— lapping up the mess he made, licking into your hole, nosing against your clit until you’re gasping through gritted teeth, thighs shaking violently.

You’ve never felt anything like it.

It’s so dirty. So loving.

So deeply, terrifyingly intimate.

“Satoru—please—”

“Cum again,” he begs. “One more. Let me taste it fresh.”

And you do.

You cum with a sob, hips jerking, pussy leaking fresh slick into his mouth. He groans, drinks it, licks until you’re sobbing and twitching and clinging to his hair like you don’t know who you are anymore.

When he finally pulls back, his is face wet, chin shining, cheeks pink and you’re spread wide, limp, flushed from your ears to your tits and totally wrecked.

He climbs over you, kisses your forehead, then your lips, slowly, letting you taste yourself, his cum, the sweat and breathlessness of your shared first time.

“You’re my favourite thing,” he whispers.

You start crying.

He cradles you, strokes your hair, tucks you against his chest and wraps a blanket over your trembling body.

“I want you again,” you whisper.

He kisses your hair.

“I’m yours now,” he says. “So anytime you want me… I’m yours.

You leaned against the bannister. At least you had family. You weren’t entirely sure what you were going to do now that you were out of high school. You had always figured you would be married by now or at least have a beaux and a prospect of marriage and security.  You were pretty sure your aunt and uncle didn’t know what to do with you either. You could find a job, but you wouldn’t earn enough to support yourself. Maybe I can meet someone at a job. You could imagine him, tall with light hair and blue eyes. He should have blue eyes. He would be a regular at the soda shop you worked at (because of course you would work at a soda shop!) He would have an un-godly amount of sugar, and you would shake your head, while he grinned at you over the counter. Eventually he’d take you out, and treat you like a lady. Then you’d marry him and live in a nice house, not too big like your aunt’s, or so old where you could feel the ghosts watching you. 

A car pulled in, you could hear it from the rumble of the motor. You straightened up and stood as quick as you could. You rushed up the stairs. You could hear your aunt calling to Mable, telling her she’d greet Satoru while Mable freshened up. 

You made it to your room. Quickly, you slapped yourself across both cheeks to bring out some color. You opened your music box and pulled out the blackberry you’d hidden that morning from breakfast. You let some juice colour your lips, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You knew better. Aunt liked fresh faced girls, and she’d tell you she’d never seen Mable doing such a thing. Well, you didn’t have Mable’s looks.

You walked calmly down the stairs, your heart thudding in your chest. 

Your aunt said your name. “Go help Amelia get the table set.” Amelia was your aunt’s maid. She was nice enough, but you had thought that you might get to entertain Satoru with the rest of the family before supper.

“Yes ma’am,” you said, nodding. 

“Oh, and wash that off your mouth, dear. I didn’t raise no hussy.”

Shame curdles your excitement. You help Amelia silently while she chatters about how her beaux is getting shipped out to the Pacific in a week or two. She didn’t know because his letters were full of marks where the army had blotted out stuff she wasn’t supposed to know. Eventually you join the family at the table. Only your aunt acknowledges you, her eyes darting to your lips to make sure you had done as she said. Your uncle is staring down at his salad, probably thinking about shares and stocks, or whatever bankers think about. Satoru is staring into Mable’s pretty brown eyes. 

They look good together, brown curls and chocolaty brown eyes, against snow white hair and eyes bluer than blue. They're in love. The realization seeps into your skin like the summer sun. Satoru is going to marry Mable. And you’ll be there, Mable will probably ask you to be one of her bridesmaids even though you aren’t that close. Satoru will be wearing his uniform, because all the fellows have signed up by now. Even Satoru, he’d signed up to fly planes, you’d overheard him bragging to some of his followers. 

The realization follows you the entire evening. But when the night closes and Mable and Satoru are standing at the front door, you remember. You rush upstairs and open the little music box on your nightstand. You pull out the little paper and hold it tight. You went out the back door and around the yard to the front yard. Mable’s already gone back in. You know she’ll be in the sitting room on the telephone telling her best friend about everything that happened that night. 

He’s walking to his car when you catch up to him.

“Satoru, wait,” you huff, reaching out,

He turns, brows furrowed. He looks at you for a second like he doesn’t recognize you. Then he smiles. The one people give to a kid they want to go away. Satoru sticks his hands in his pockets, peering down at you. 

“I know you’re shipping out soon, so I wanted to give you this.” You rush out saying. You extend your hand, the paper clasped between the tips of your fingers.

“What is it?” He asks, his hands still in his pockets. 

“I painted the stars. I know the stars are different out there,” You look up at him. “I wanted to give you a piece of home - I heard you tell that Nanami boy that you want to study physics - so I -”

He cuts you off. “Physics isn’t astronomy, idiot,” his lips curl and though he doesn’t say anything else, his face practically screams “look at the idiot kid who doesn’t know anything.”

You feel like an idiot. You should be anywhere but here. You don’t say anything else, the silence just sort of sits in the air. 

Satoru frowns. “Hey, don’t look like that - I’ll take it,” he says. He reaches and grabs the paper, shoving it into his pocket. 

Your heart soars. He took it! His hands touched something your own hands had made. You beam at him.

“Be safe I - we’ll be waiting for you.”

You turn and flee like a child. Your cheeks are hot, from the exhilaration, the humiliation, and maybe even the thrill of being acknowledged. 

If you’d turned back, you would have even his form illuminated in the street lamps. Watching you, his face unreadable, hands tucked in his pockets. After a minute, he turns and walks to his car, his hands still in his pockets. 

You lay awake that night, curled up and giddy. For a few hours you felt like the hussy your aunt thought you were. You had promised yourself to never look at Satoru that way again, he was Mable’s fellow - her future husband. Then the next few hours, you giggled to yourself and imagined yourself as the one Satoru would come home to after the war. 

Contrary to popular belief, Satoru doesn’t marry Mable before he ships out, he doesn’t even propose to her or make her any promises he can’t keep. He kisses and promises her he’ll write. You knew that because you overheard her telling her best friend. 

The years pass, Mable gets even prettier, you get a job. You work at a factory, you wouldn't have been allowed to before the war, but every woman must do her part. Satoru Gojo slips from your mind, and Mable’s she meets a navy officer on medical leave. Before he ships back out they marry. You’re her bridesmaid of course. 

Life moves on. When Mable mentions one day offhandedly that the fellow she used to see, Satoru, you remember him? He had been missing and assumed dead, shot down somewhere over the pacific. 

You set your fork down. You close your eyes and say a little prayer. Memories of him come flooding back, it's been three years though. You have put away the dreams of little girls, but still, no one wants the fairytale prince of their dreams dead. Either eaten by sharks, or dead on impact, or worse a prisoner of war. You’ve heard the rumours, seen the articles about what they do to pows on the pacific front. He’d be better off dead then in one of those camps.

Please come home, Satoru. Come see our stars again. 

A man looks up, his hollow face glares up at the stars. Starvation has made him see and hear things before, but he thinks he really did see her. She was eating king cake, grinning at him. “Come on, come home to me.” He stands wincing, the scars in his back have grown infected, and any movement sends pain shooting across his body.