“we accept the love we think we deserve”

The marui pod hummed with the soft rhythm of ocean waves lapping against the woven walls, the air thick with the scent of salt and woven kelp.

Inside, the leaders of the Metkayina clan, Tonowari, broad-shouldered and regal with his intricate tattoos tracing the lines of his muscular arms, sat cross-legged on the woven mats, his light blue skin glistening faintly under the filtered light from the lagoon outside. Beside him, Ronal, the tsahik, held herself with an unyielding poise, her pregnant belly a gentle swell beneath her beaded top, her sharp eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the open flap.

Across from them, Jake leaned forward, his form powerful and scarred from battles past, his yellow eyes intense with determination. Neytiri sat at his side, her lithe body tense, ears twitching slightly as she absorbed the weight of the conversation, her tail flicking restlessly against the floor.

"We've reached out to the Omatikaya through Tarsem, the Tipani, even the Anurai." Jake said, his voice rough with frustration, gesturing broadly with his large hands. "But the Mangkwan clan's alliance with the RDA tips the scales too far. Their ash-covered warriors and those RDA machines... we're outnumbered, outgunned. We need more clans on our side if we're going to push back."

Tonowari nodded solemnly, his braided hair swaying as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The ocean and the Metkayina stand with you, Toruk Makto. But victory? It hangs like a storm cloud over the reef. Uncertain. Dark. I fear we may lose too many more than what we may gain."

Neytiri's fingers tightened around Jake's knee, her voice laced with quiet urgency.

"Eywa has guided us this far. We must unite the forest and sea against them. But without more strength..." She trailed off, her golden eyes narrowing in worry.

Ronal remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze drifting outward to the endless blue expanse where the lagoon met the sky. The discussion flowed around her like water around a rock. Tonowari's steady baritone, Jake's determined growl, Neytiri's passionate pleas but she offered no words, her hands resting protectively on her belly.

Tonowari noticed first, his brow furrowing as he turned to her, his voice softening with concern. "Ronal, my heart, what troubles you? Your silence speaks louder than the waves."

She didn't respond immediately, her teal eyes still locked on the distant horizon, where the sun dipped low, painting the water in fiery golds.

Finally, she exhaled slowly, her voice emerging calm yet weighted, like the deep currents beneath the surface. "There is a powerful clan that exists... one that, if we have them on our side, we will win against the sky demons and the ash clan."

The three fell quiet, intrigue sparking in their eyes. Jake leaned in, his ears perking forward. "What clan? We've scoured the alliances, who are they?"

Neytiri's breath caught, a flicker of recognition dawning. "Tell us, Tsahik."

Ronal turned her gaze back to them, her expression serene but edged with ancient knowledge. "The Zä'raiya clan. Their existence has faded into limited knowledge as time passed, for they are reclusive, hidden in the shadowed valleys beyond the eastern mountains. Only tsahiks from clan to clan whisper of them, passing the secret like a sacred vine."

Neytiri's eyes widened, a mix of surprise flashing across her fierce features. Her mind raced to her mother, Mo'at, the tsahik of the Omatikaya, whose wisdom had always seemed boundless.

She must have known. Neytiri thought, her tail lashing once in agitation. Why did she not tell me of them before?

Tonowari's voice rumbled with curiosity. "Zä'raiya... I've heard echoes in the old songs, but nothing more. What makes them so formidable?"

Ronal's fingers traced idle patterns on her knee, her voice weaving the tale like a ritual chant. "There is no olo'eyktan in that clan. Only the tsahik holds leadership, her word as unyielding as the roots of the Great Tree. She does not take a mate, that is her sacrifice. She remains pure, unbound by fleshly ties, spiritually bound only to Eywa. Through this, she sees the future, visions near and far, threads of fate woven before our eyes."

Jake's jaw tightened, absorbing the weight of it, his broad chest rising with a deep breath. "And their warriors?"

"Generations ago, when they fought, entire wars ended before they began." Ronal continued, her tone reverent, almost hushed. "One strike from their blades, guided by foresight, and enemies scattered like leaves in the wind. They do not seek conflict, it seeks them and breaks upon their shores."

Neytiri leaned forward, her voice trembling with hope. "If my mother knew... she would have spoken if the time was right. But now—"

Ronal's eyes darkened, a shadow crossing her face. "I am sure that the tsahik of the Mangkwan, Varang, knows of this too. If they are as desperate as we are, the RDA will force her to seek aid from Zä'raiya. The sky demons twist everything they touch."

Tonowari's fists clenched subtly, his protective instincts flaring. "Then what?"

"If Zä'raiya chooses a side…" Ronal said, her words dropping like stones into still water. "The war ends. Their visions alone could turn the tide, their warriors would seal it."

Jake's eyes burned with resolve, his voice firm. "Then we seek help from them. Tell us how."

Ronal met his gaze calmly, her expression unchanging, a quiet storm behind her eyes. "They say once the Zä'raiya rise, the world must already be ending."

Silence fell heavy in the pod, the words hanging like a prophecy. Neytiri's hand found Jake's, squeezing tightly, her heart pounding with unspoken fear. Tonowari's face grew grave, the weight of leadership pressing down.

Jake broke the quiet first, his voice steady despite the chill that had settled in his bones. "I'll go."

Neytiri's head snapped toward him, her ears flattening in alarm. "Ma Jake, no. I'll come with you. We face this together, as always."

Her voice cracked with emotion, her free hand reaching to cup his face, thumb brushing the scars along his jaw.

He shook his head gently, covering her hand with his own, his yellow eyes locking onto hers with a depth of feeling that spoke of their shared battles, their unbreakable bond. There was a pull in him, an instinctive tug from Eywa or fate or whatever force guided the Na'vi, a certainty that this journey was his alone.

"No, baby. You stay here. Help Ronal and Tonowari gather more alliances, train the warriors. And keep an eye on our kids, they need you."

She searched his face, her lips parting in protest, but the resolve in his gaze silenced her. Tears glistened in her eyes, not of weakness, but of the fierce love that bound them. "It pulls at me to let you go alone."

"I know." He murmured, leaning in to press his forehead to hers, their queues brushing in a fleeting bond. "But this... I have to."

Ronal watched them, her voice cutting through softly. "It will not be easy to gain aid from Zä'raiya. They were never one to meddle with what is not theirs. Their isolation is their shield."

Jake pulled back, nodding once, his jaw set. "I've earned trust before, in the Omatikaya, here with you. I'll do it again."

Tonowari placed a hand on Jake's shoulder, his grip firm and brotherly. "Your heart is warrior's steel, Jake Sully. Eywa guides you."

Ronal inclined her head. "There is a high possibility you will need to prove yourself there, as you did among us. Their tsahik sees all, deception withers before her."

"Then I'll prove it." Jake said, determination etching lines into his face.

He rose fluidly, his powerful legs carrying him with purpose. Turning to Neytiri, he pulled her into his arms, their bodies pressing close, her slender form against his broader one, the warmth of her skin a reminder of home. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, pouring all his unspoken promises into it, his hands cradling her face as she clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

When they parted, her eyes shimmered, but she nodded, strength returning to her posture.

Without another word, Jake strode out, the flap of the marui falling shut behind him. He moved with urgent grace toward the ikran rookery, gathering supplies, woven satchel, healing herbs from Ronal, his knife sharpened to a lethal edge, his mind already racing toward the unknown.

~

In the scorched heart of Mangkwan territory, where the ground crunched like brittle bone underfoot and the air hung heavy with the acrid tang of ash, Lyle lounged on a fallen log, his enhanced Na'vi body sprawled casually, rifle propped across his knees. The sky above was bruised with RDA exhaust trails, a constant reminder of their iron grip. Beside him sat Miles, the former colonel's posture relaxed but his sharp eyes ever watchful, his tail flicking idly against the charred earth.

Lyle smirked, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his voice dripping with crude amusement. "So, Colonel, you fuckin' that ash witch now? Varang's got that wild look, bet she's a hellcat in the furs."

Miles chuckled low, a rough sound that rumbled from his chest as he leaned back against the log, his muscular arms stretching overhead. His gaze drifted to Varang, standing a short distance away, her lithe, ash-dusted form entranced by the gleam of the AMP suit's weaponry.

She handled the rifle with a mix of reverence and hunger, her dark hair matted with soot, her body curving in ways that still sent heat through him, breasts straining against her minimal armor, hips swaying as she tested the weapon's weight.

"Thought my dick would be cut off with how tight she was squeezin' me." Miles drawled, a smirk tugging at his scarred lips, memories flashing of her nails raking down his back, her legs locked around his waist in desperate rhythm. "Worth the risk, though."

Lyle barked a laugh, slapping his thigh, the sound echoing off the barren trees. "Ha! Knew it. Just don't let some warm pussy cloud your thoughts, boss. And whatever you do, don't fall in love."

Miles shrugged, his eyes lingering on Varang's form, the way her ass flexed as she bent to inspect the gun's mechanisms, the sweat tracing paths through the ash on her skin. He felt a stir low in his gut, but pushed it aside, his mind always calculating. "Not my style, Lyle."

Lyle hummed thoughtfully, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something juicy. "Oh yeah, almost forgot. I overheard your freaky girl talkin' to one of her people last night, whisperin' by the fire."

Miles turned his head, raising a thick brow, his casual demeanor sharpening. "Yeah? Spill."

"About some powerful clan that's apparently too high up on their asses. Might cause a win for the Sullys if that clan ever decides to help out."

Miles stiffened, his body going rigid, the easy lean vanishing as he sat up straight, muscles coiling like a predator sensing threat.

His yellow eyes narrowed to slits. "What clan?"

Lyle shrugged, picking at a loose thread on his vest. "She said it's reclusive, doesn't help anyone, so not really a problem. Zä' somethin'. But sounded like bad news if they pick sides."

Piss burned through Miles like venom, his fists clenching until his knuckles paled. The thought ignited a fury in his chest, hot and unrelenting. "It will be a problem if Sully plays that card."

He surged to his feet, boots crunching ash as he stalked toward Varang's position.

"Colonel? Where you goin'?" Lyle called out, half-rising, amusement fading to confusion.

Miles didn't break stride, his voice a growl over his shoulder. "To fuck the answers out of her."

Varang glanced up as he approached, a sly smile curving her lips, but before she could speak, his hand gripped her arm, pulling her toward the shadowed tents, questions already forming on his tongue amid the promise of rough interrogation.

~

The lagoon's edge buzzed with youthful energy, the group of friends gathered on the soft sands where the water lapped gently, bioluminescent fish darting like stars beneath the surface.

Neteyam stood tall and vigilant, his lean muscles honed from endless training, his braids tied back as he scanned the horizon. Lo'ak lounged nearby, his mischievous grin ever-present, tail swishing playfully. Ao'nung, the Metkayina heir, crossed his arms over his broad chest, his teal skin marked with swirling tattoos, a teasing glint in his eyes.

Kiri sat with her legs tucked under her, her beauty softened by the sea's glow while Tuk bounced excitedly beside her. Spider perched on a rock as Tsireya and Rotxo flanked the group, her gentle smile lighting her face, his quieter presence adding balance.

Ao'nung broke the comfortable chatter first, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and rivalry. "Your father's gone already? Left without a word to the rest of us?"

Kiri nodded, her long braids swaying as she gazed out at the ikran's distant speck vanishing into the sky. "He's going to ask help from a powerful clan. One that could change everything against the RDA and Mangkwan."

Intrigue rippled through the group like a wave.

Lo'ak leaned closer to Tsireya, his hand brushing hers subtly, drawing a pretty smile from her that made his heart skip as she tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with shared secrets.

Spider grinned wide, his teeth flashing unable to contain his excitement.

Everyone's eyes turned to him, brows raised.

"What?" Kiri asked, rolling her eyes at his boyish enthusiasm.

"Just wonderin' what the girls in that clan look like." Spider admitted with a shrug, waggling his eyebrows. "Bet they're somethin' else."

Kiri swatted his arm lightly, exasperation mixing with fondness. "Boys. Always thinking with the wrong head."

Tuk giggled, her small face brightening. "I bet they're pretty! With fancy markings and everything."

Rotxo chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I guess we'll see them if your father convinces them to join us. Sounds like legends come to life."

Neteyam and Ao'nung exchanged a glance, a strange feeling tugging at them, eagerness laced with an inexplicable pull, like the call of an unseen bond. They shifted, anticipation building in their chests, eager to glimpse the people of this mysterious clan.

Lo'ak tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "What was the clan again?"

"Zä'raiya clan." Kiri replied, her voice thoughtful, echoing the name like a prayer to Eywa.

Tsireya nudged Lo'ak gently with her elbow, leaning in to whisper, her breath warm against his ear, a playful lilt in her tone. "What if you see a pretty girl from that clan? Will you forget all about me?"

Lo'ak huffed a laugh, sly and affectionate, his hand slipping discreetly to rest on Tsireya's waist, fingers splaying possessively over the curve of her hip, pulling her just a fraction closer. The touch was hidden from the others, intimate and reassuring.

"I only have eyes for you, Rey'a. Always." His voice dropped low, sincere, making her cheeks flush a deeper blue.

The group dissolved into light laughter, the tension of the war momentarily eased by their camaraderie, though the shadow of the Zä'raiya loomed large in their thoughts.

~

Deep in the veiled heart of the Zä'raiya clan's territory, where mist-shrouded vines draped ancient trees like silken veils and the air hummed with Eywa's purest whispers, the tsahik's sanctuary glowed with soft, ethereal light.

Blue eyes fluttered open, her vision clearing from the trance, beads of sweat tracing the elegant lines of her azure skin.

Before her lounged a vision of otherworldly beauty reclining on a bed of woven petals, voluptuous body a masterpiece of curves and grace. Light gray skin shimmered like polished moonstone, intricate golden markings swirling across full breasts, dipping into the valley between them, trailing down rounded hips and over the plush swell of thighs. Long white hair cascaded like a waterfall below the plump cheeks of plump ass, swaying gently as the strands catch the faint glow of floating seed pods.

Lilac eyes, coy and knowing, met hers as you sipped from a carved cup of fermented fruit juice, the sweet tang lingering on your full lips.

Sa'meyra's voice emerged soft yet resonant, carrying the weight of prophecy. "He's coming."

You hummed thoughtfully, a low, melodic sound from your throat, setting the cup aside with deliberate slowness. Your body moved with fluid elegance, breasts rising and falling with each breath, the golden marks seeming to pulse like living stars.

Sa'meyra's blue eyes held yours, intense and unblinking. "I see them. Visions of blue skies cracking, ash falling like rain, and a warrior from afar seeking our hand."

Rising gracefully, you crossed the short distance, your bare feet silent on the mossy floor, hips swaying with a natural, enticing rhythm. You reached out, your slender fingers caressing Sa'meyra's face in sisterly care, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone, your touch warm and reassuring.

"It is time then, tsmuke." You murmured, your voice a silken whisper laced with anticipation, coy smile playing on your lips.

Sa'meyra leaned into the touch, her eyes softening with resolve, the bond between you unbreakable. "Yes, this is the beginning, (Y/N). The threads of fate weave tighter, war calls, and we answer as Eywa wills."

Her hand covered yours, squeezing gently, the air between you charged with the promise of upheaval, your morally grey heart already stirring at the games to come.

"Yes. Yes, we will."

~

The wind whipped through Jake's braids as his ikran soared over the jagged eastern mountains, the landscape below shifting from the lush greens of the forests to a hidden valley shrouded in perpetual mist.

As the great winged beast crested the final ridge, the Zä’raiya territory unfolded like a dream woven from Eywa's own hand, towering trees with bark like polished silver, vines heavy with glowing blossoms that pulsed in rhythmic harmony, and rivers of crystal water carving paths through meadows dotted with bioluminescent flora. The air hummed with an ancient energy, thicker than the forest's breath, carrying scents of sweet nectar and earth untouched by human hands.

Jake's yellow eyes widened, his grip tightening on the ikran's reins. This place felt alive, watchful, as if the very ground anticipated his intrusion.

High above, perched on massive flying beasts that dwarfed even his ikran, creatures with wings like storm clouds and hides etched in iridescent scales, Zä’raiya warriors awaited.

Their forms were imposing, broader and taller than any Na'vi Jake had seen, muscles corded like woven vines under blue skin adorned with black markings that shimmered like captured obsidians. They rode with effortless command, spears glinting in the diffused light, eyes fixed on the newcomer with a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Jake guided his ikran lower, circling once before landing on a broad ledge carved into the cliffside. He dismounted swiftly, his bare feet sinking into the soft, mossy earth, and raised his hands in the universal gesture of peace, palms open.

"I come in peace." He called out, his voice steady but respectful, echoing off the stone walls. "I wish to speak with the tsahik of the Zä’raiya clan."

The warriors descended in a graceful formation, their beasts folding wings with thunderous flaps that stirred the mist.

One, a towering male with a scar tracing his jaw and queue braided with bone beads, leaped down and approached, his lips curling into a deep chuckle that rumbled like distant thunder. The others joined in, low laughter rippling through them, not mocking but knowing, as if his request was a child's plea before a storm.

"Toruk Makto, yes?" The lead warrior said, his voice gravelly, eyes narrowing as he sized Jake up, from the scars on his chest to the queue draped over his shoulder. "The one who led victory against the sky demons? Here, it means nothing. You are an outsider, forest walker."

Jake's jaw tightened, but he held his ground, ears flicking forward in acknowledgment. He'd expected resistance, Ronal's warnings echoed in his mind but the weight of their stares pressed like an unseen hand.

He opened his mouth to respond, drawing on the diplomacy that had won him allies before, when the warrior held up a hand, his expression shifting to something almost amused.

"However…" He continued, gesturing with a broad sweep of his arm toward the heart of the valley. "Our tsahik Sa'meyra, already saw you coming before you even knew of our clan. We are here to lead you to her. Come."

Relief mixed with caution in Jake's chest as he remounted briefly to follow, the warriors guiding him downward in a spiraling descent. They landed in a central clearing ringed by woven structures elevated on massive tree roots, maruis that blended seamlessly with the environment, walls of living vines that glowed softly at night, platforms connected by swaying bridges.

The people of Zä’raiya emerged from their homes, their deeper blue skin blending to the vibrant surroundings, black markings swirling in intricate patterns across lithe yet powerful bodies. Women with flowing black hair moved with ethereal grace, carrying baskets of glowing fruits. Men, even larger than the warriors above, sharpened blades that hummed with embedded crystals.

All eyes turned to Jake, whispers trailing him like shadows.

Outsider, Toruk Makto, seeker.

At the far end of the clearing, atop a dais of woven stone, stood Sa’meyra, the tsahik.

Her azure skin gleamed under a veil of fine fabric, her form slender and commanding, adorned in robes embroidered with golden threads that mimicked Eywa's neural networks. But what caught Jake's breath was the blindfold, a strip of dark silk bound across her eyes, leaving her face serene, unseeing yet all-seeing.

She stood motionless, hands clasped before her, exuding an aura that made the air around her shimmer.

"Jake Sully." She intoned, her voice clear and resonant, carrying without effort across the gathering crowd. "We welcome you to Zä’raiya."

Jake approached, dipping his head in deep respect, one fist to his chest as he remembers the name from the warrior earlier. "Tsahik Sa’meyra, I am honored. Eywa's winds have guided me here."

His tone held the gravity of a warrior seeking counsel, his tail still as he met the invisible weight of her gaze.

She inclined her head, a faint smile touching her lips.

"One of my people will guide you to a marui. Rest, for the journey taxes even the strong." Turning slightly, she addressed a nearby attendant, a young female with similar black marks. "Take him. I know why you are here, Jake Sully. I have already seen it. We will speak in an hour at the bonfire. Rest first."

With that, Sa’meyra turned and glided away, her movements fluid, the crowd parting like water.

Jake followed the attendant across a bridge, the wood creaking softly under his weight, until they reached a spacious marui overlooking a cascading waterfall. Inside, the space was simple yet luxurious, soft furs piled on a low platform, walls alive with climbing flowers that released a calming scent. He sank onto the furs, exhaling deeply as the door flap closed behind him.

This place... Jake's mind wandered, tracing the beauty he'd glimpsed.

The territory was more stunning than any he'd known. The Omatikaya's glowing forests paled against this misty paradise, where every leaf seemed to whisper secrets. The men here were giants, their frames built for battles unseen, shoulders broad enough to eclipse the sun. And the tsahik with blindfolded eyes? A ritual, perhaps, to sharpen her inner sight, binding her closer to Eywa. He felt the clan's power thrumming through the ground, ancient and unyielding. Those beasts the warriors rode... larger than his Toruk, fiercer, with eyes that held storms.

Gaining their aid wouldn't be a request, it'd be a trial, forged in fire and vision.

An hour passed in contemplative silence, broken by a soft knock. A warrior fetched him, leading through winding paths to the central gathering circle, where a massive bonfire crackled to life, flames dancing in hues of gold and violet.

The clan assembled in a wide ring, bodies adorned in ceremonial paints that glowed under the firelight. Drums began a slow, hypnotic rhythm, and performers stepped into the light, warriors and dancers moving in synchronized grace.

Jake took a seat on a log near the front, the heat of the fire warming his skin, when a commanding presence settled beside him.

Sa’meyra, blindfold still in place, her posture regal, the scent of sacred herbs clinging to her.

"Ting Mikyun will start now." She murmured, her voice blending with the rising drums. "The Dance of Memory. This is an important ritual of our clan for Eywa. Watch."

The performance unfolded, bodies twisting in patterns that told stories of ancestors, leaps evoking flights over mountains, sweeps mimicking the flow of rivers.

But as the dance peaked, your form emerged at the center, drawing every eye, including Jake's.

You moved like liquid starlight, your voluptuous body a symphony of curves under the fire's glow. Light gray skin, smooth and luminous, was etched with golden markings that swirled from the swell of your full breasts, nipples pebbled faintly against the sheer fabric draped across them to the dip of your waist, flaring out over wide hips and the plush roundness of your ass, cheeks plump and firm as they shifted with each sway. Your long white hair flowed like a silken river, trailing below those enticing curves, brushing your thighs with every spin. Lilac eyes sparkled with coy mischief, your full lips parted in rhythmic breaths, as you arched back, arms extended, queue swaying.

"She’s beautiful, no?" Sa’meyra smiled faintly.

Jake clears his throat and was about to speak when the gold markings in your body starts to glow as you danced.

What is this?

"I speak Eywa’s words. She becomes them." Sa'meyra drawls out. "She is deemed sacred in our clan. Her white hair, the golden marks, lilac eyes, all gifted by Eywa. She is a gift of Eywa. I heal people, she heals dead lands. I see the future, she is the weapon Eywa has not yet released. Others tame beasts, beasts walks willingly beside her."

The dance was memory and prophecy intertwined, your hips rolling in waves that evoked Eywa's pulse, breasts heaving with the intensity, drawing Jake's gaze inexorably, a heat stirring unbidden in his core despite the loyalty etched in his heart.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

As the ritual wove on, Sa’meyra leaned closer, her voice cutting through the drums like a clear stream. "There is a reason our clan has been reclusive for so long. Previous tsahiks saw visions of the war brought by sky demons, plagues of metal and fire scarring Pandora's skin. They closed us off to avoid the taint, preserving our purity for Eywa's will. We’ve glimpsed multiple threads of this war, Jake Sully. In some, you triumph, the forests blooming anew, in others, you fall, ash choking the skies, and in a few... Eywa falls silent, Pandora a grave."

Jake sat frozen, his focus splintering, half on the mesmerizing sway of your body, the way your thighs flexed and parted in the dance's crescendo, sweat glistening on your gray skin like dew and half on her words, which landed like blows. His tail stilled, ears pinned back in grim absorption.

Sa’meyra's lips curved in amusement, her blindfolded face tilting toward the fire.

"The deciding variable in every future?" She nudged her head toward you, the figure commanding the circle with hips grinding in slow, hypnotic circles, hair whipping like a veil. "(Y/N)."

Jake turned to her, brows furrowing in question, his voice low and urgent amid the rising cheers. "What do you mean? Who is she to this?"

But Sa’meyra only smiled knowingly, her fingers tapping a subtle rhythm on her knee. "We will not follow warriors or fathers. We will follow Eywa’s chosen voice. It is not I who will decide if you are worthy of our help."

With that, she rose fluidly and departed into the shadows, her robes whispering against the ground.

The drums peaked, and you concluded the dance with a final, graceful spin, arms flung wide, body arching in a bow that thrust your breasts forward, hips jutted subtly as you held the pose.

Your lilac eyes locked onto Jake's across the fire, and you smiled prettily, a coy curve of your lips that sent a jolt through him, innocent yet laced with promise.

The clan erupted in claps and cheers, voices rising in harmonious praise, the energy electric as the bonfire flared brighter. Tables laden with roasted meats, glowing fruits, and fermented nectars were unveiled, the gathering shifting to communal dining under the stars.

Jake remained seated, mind reeling from Sa’meyra's revelations, the pull of your dance lingering like a phantom touch.

Then, you appeared beside him, materializing from the crowd with silent grace, your voluptuous form close enough that he caught your scent, sweet like the valley's blossoms mingled with the earthy musk of sweat from the ritual, intoxicating and wild. It hit him low, making his throat tighten, a groan threatening to escape as his body reacted against his will, cock twitching faintly in his loincloth.

You sat closely, your thigh brushing his, the heat of your gray skin seeping through, golden markings inches from his arm.

In your hand, a plump red fruit, its skin taut and glistening.

"Taste." You said softly, your voice a silken purr, lilac eyes half-lidded as you lifted it toward his lips, waiting expectantly.

He hesitated, the intimacy of the gesture stirring guilt. Neytiri's face flashing in his mind, their bond a sacred fire.

This feels like cheating already. He thought, tail coiling tight.

But your gaze held him, innocent and unyielding, he parted his lips leaning in. You pressed the fruit gently, juice bursting as his teeth sank in, sweet nectar flooding his mouth, richer than any Omatikaya berry. Your tail flickered in delight, a happy glint sparkling in your lilac eyes as you watched him chew, the simple act feeling charged and forbidden.

He swallowed, nodding as the flavor lingered, warm and addictive.

"I like it." He admitted, voice rougher than intended, eyes tracing the curve of your lips.

You smiled shyly, reaching out with delicate fingers to wipe a stray droplet of juice from the corner of his mouth, your touch lingering, soft pad of your thumb brushing his lower lip. His skin heated instantly, a flush creeping up his neck, the contact electric, stirring the air between you.

"This only grows in Zä’raiya." You murmured, voice laced with innocence that didn't reach your eyes yet he didn’t see. "The sweetest. Do you like it more than the ones you’ve tasted before?"

Your words had a double meaning to it, the sweetness of the fruit or perhaps something more tempting, a hint.

Jake's pulse quickened, the proximity of your body, breasts rising with each breath, hair draping over one shoulder, making it hard to focus.

"Yeah. More than the fruits back at my home." He said, the admission tasting like betrayal, but true in the moment, your presence weaving a spell.

You giggled then, a light, melodic sound that danced like fireflies, your hand withdrawing slowly, leaving his lips tingling.

"Good." You whispered, leaning just a fraction closer, the night promising more entanglements in your intricate web.

Conversations hummed like the distant call of nocturnal creatures, but beside you, Jake sat in a haze of contemplation, his broad shoulders tense beneath the firelight that played over his scarred blue skin. His yellow eyes darted occasionally to the dancers who had resumed lighter, celebratory movements in the periphery, but they always returned to you, drawn like a moth to the glow of your presence.

You turned your gaze to the fire, the warmth kissing your light gray skin, making the golden markings etched across your collarbone and the swell of your breasts shimmer like veins of molten gold. The sheer fabric of your ceremonial wrap clung lightly to your curves, the material whispering against your full hips as you shifted closer to him, your long white hair cascading over one shoulder in silky waves that caught the violet hues of the flames.

With a soft, inquisitive tilt of your head, you broke the companionable silence, your voice a gentle melody laced with curiosity. "You ask for aid from my sister, yes?"

Jake's ears flicked forward, his tail giving a subtle twitch as he met your lilac eyes, those pools of soft purple that seemed to hold secrets deeper than the valley's mists.

He nodded slowly, his voice steady but carrying the weight of his mission. "Yeah, that's why I'm here. The RDA, they're pushing harder, allying with clans that want us gone. We need the Zä’raiya's strength to turn the tide."

His words were earnest, his jaw set in determination, but there was a flicker of vulnerability in the way his fingers drummed lightly against his thigh, betraying the exhaustion of a leader carrying too much.

In your mind, a smirk curled like smoke, you had seen this moment in Sa’meyra's visions, the outsider's plea weaving into the clan's fate but outwardly, you offered a kind smile, your full lips curving sweetly, dimples pressing into your cheeks as you leaned in just a fraction, the scent of your skin wafting toward him.

"Then you need to prove yourself worthy, Jake Sully." You said softly, your tone laced with a gentle warning, eyes holding his with an intensity that made the fire seem dimmer. "A trial awaits you tomorrow. It's not just words or battles that sway us, it's the heart's alignment with Eywa."

He straightened, his chest expanding with a deep breath, the muscles of his torso rippling under the faint scars from old wars.

"I'll do it." He replied firmly, his voice roughened by resolve, yellow eyes locking onto yours without flinching. "Whatever it takes for my people, for all Na’vi."

There was fire in his gaze, the unyielding spirit of Toruk Makto, but beneath it, a quiet plea for understanding.

You looked at him then, your lilac eyes glimmering prettily in the firelight, wide and luminous, framed by thick lashes that fluttered like the wings of a nocturnal butterfly. The color deepened as you held his stare, a soft sparkle dancing within them that sent an unexpected warmth pooling in his gut, his knees feeling inexplicably weak despite his seated position.

It was as if your gaze stripped away the layers of his armor, leaving him exposed to the raw pull of your beauty.

"Don’t worry." You murmured reassuringly, your voice a soothing caress. "I will help you."

As the words left your lips, you reached out, your slender fingers brushing against his biceps, the touch light yet deliberate, tracing the firm ridge of muscle beneath his warm blue skin. Your palm lingered for a heartbeat, feeling the heat radiate from him, the subtle flex under your fingertips as if his body responded instinctively.

Jake gulped audibly, his throat bobbing, a flush creeping up his neck to tint his cheeks, his tail coiling tighter behind him. The contact was innocent on the surface, but it ignited something deeper, a spark that made his pulse thunder in his ears.

Emboldened by his reaction, you withdrew your hand slowly, trailing your nails ever so lightly along his arm before letting go, and shifted the conversation with effortless grace.

"Tell me about your life, Jake Sully." You prompted, your head tilting curiously, white hair slipping forward to frame your face like a halo. "What brings a warrior like you across Pandora's wilds?"

He exhaled, rubbing the spot where your touch had been, as if chasing the lingering warmth, and leaned back slightly, his posture relaxing into the rhythm of storytelling.

"I wasn't always... this." He began, gesturing vaguely to his Na’vi form with a wry half-smile. "Back in the Omatikaya, I was their Olo’eyktan. Fought the sky people, bonded with Eywa in ways I never thought possible. But the war followed us. Had to flee with my family to the Metkayina reefs. It's been... a lot. Protecting them, building alliances but it's all I know now."

His voice carried the gravel of hard-won experience, eyes distant for a moment as memories of Neytiri's fierce embrace and the children's laughter surfaced, but he pushed them down, focusing on the present, on you.

You nodded sympathetically, your expression soft and attentive, plump lips parted slightly as you absorbed his words. Then, with a coy flutter of your lashes, you posed the question that hung between you like a charged thread.

"Do you have a mate?" You bit your plump lower lip gently, the gesture drawing attention to its fullness, teeth pressing into the soft flesh as you awaited his answer.

Your heart knew the truth, Sa’meyra's visions had painted Neytiri's image clear as day, her bond with Jake a tether of vines and fire but you craved the sound of his voice admitting it, or perhaps... evading.

Jake stilled, his body going rigid beside you, yellow eyes widening fractionally as hesitation gripped him. The fire crackled louder in the sudden quiet of his mind, Neytiri's face flashing before him, her strong jaw, the way her tail had wrapped around his leg that morning, her lips pressing a fierce goodbye kiss to his.

Why the hell am I pausing? He thought, a storm brewing internally. Just say yes. She's your mate, the mother of your kids.

But doubt slithered in, insidious and tempting.

If I say no... maybe it'll open doors. Get closer to her, to the clan. For the alliance. Yeah, that's it, for the people.

He gaslit himself with the lie, ignoring the thrill that twisted in his chest at the thought of your undivided attention.

Finally, he met your gaze, voice low and steady. "No."

Your lilac eyes widened in feigned surprise, brows lifting delicately as you placed a hand over your heart, the golden markings on your fingers catching the light. Inside, laughter bubbled like a hidden spring.

Men are such liars.

But you schooled your features into shy delight, ducking your head to gaze at the ground, white hair falling forward to veil the mean glint that sharpened your eyes for a fleeting second. When you looked up, it was gone, replaced by a bashful smile that dimpled your cheeks.

"That’s… nice to hear." You replied softly, voice laced with genuine-seeming warmth. "However, I am surprised you do not have one. You are handsome, Jake."

He really is, that you can admit.

As you spoke, your gaze deliberately dropped to his lips, full and slightly parted in the fire's glow, lingering there before lifting to meet his eyes again, the look innocent yet charged with unspoken invitation.

He bit his lips to hide the growing grin on his face.

You're getting to him so easily, the thought thrilled you, a secret victory warming your core.

You continued the flirtation under the guise of kindness, your touches light and affectionate, a brush of your knee against his thigh as you laughed at something trivial in the clan's distant chatter, your fingers grazing his forearm when you passed him another cup of nectar, the pad of your thumb circling absently in what seemed like an unconscious pattern.

"The way you speak of your battles... it's inspiring." You added, voice husky with admiration, leaning in so your breath ghosted his ear. "A strong leader like you deserves someone who sees that fire in you."

Jake lets you, sinking into the attention like a man parched for rain, even as guilt gnawed at the edges of his mind.

I'm so fucked up for this.

He berated himself silently, images of Neytiri's lithe form tangled with his in their marui clashing against the allure of your coy smiles.

She's the mother of my children, the one who tamed me. And here I am, enjoying a younger, pretty woman's flirtations like some damn fool.

But he couldn't pull away, your presence was a balm to his weary soul, your laughter a melody that eased the burdens he carried.

As the night deepened, the fire burning lower and the clan thinning out to their homes, you two drew closer, your shoulder pressing lightly against his, your tail occasionally flicking to brush his in playful accident.

In his eyes, you were such an affectionate pretty little thing, all soft curves and wide-eyed wonder, your voluptuous body a vision under the stars. Full breasts rising with each breath, straining gently against the fabric, wide hips that swayed with natural grace when you adjusted your seat, plush thighs that pressed warmly against his side.

Your light gray skin glowed ethereally, a stark, beautiful contrast to the clan's typical azure tones and black markings, their blue eyes sharp and oceanic, while yours were lilac jewels, rare and mesmerizing. Your long white hair was an anomaly too, flowing like moonlight, framing a face that held both innocence and enigma.

In your eyes, he was a fucking easy man, his hesitations and blushes like strings you plucked with ease, drawing him deeper into your web. You got touchier still, your hand resting on his knee during a shared story, fingers splaying lightly over the muscle there, but you kept it just shy of inappropriate, teasing promises for later, when the trial would bind him closer to you.

Eventually, as the embers glowed softly and the valley's mists began to rise, Jake cleared his throat, standing with a stretch that showcased the powerful lines of his body.

"Let me walk you to your marui." He offered, his voice gruff but kind, extending a hand to help you up.

The gesture was protective, his yellow eyes softening as they traced your form.

You giggled shyly, the sound light and bubbling from your throat, placing your hand in his, feeling the calluses on his palm, the strength in his grip as you rose, your body brushing against him in the motion, breasts grazing his chest briefly.

"I'd like that." You murmured, biting your lip again, the plump curve inviting his gaze.

As you walked side by side along the swaying bridges and winding paths lined with glowing vines, Jake's eyes trailed down to your body, unable to resist.

Your sexy silhouette moved with hypnotic rhythm, ass cheeks shifting plushly with each step, the curve of your waist flaring to those generous hips, golden markings swirling like invitations over your skin.

He reminded himself sternly.

This is for my people. For the alliance. Get their help, then go home to Neytiri.

But the excuse rang hollow against the quickening of his heart.

You arrived at your marui, a secluded pod woven into the roots of a massive silver-barked tree, overlooking a serene pool where water lapped gently. You turned to him, looking up with a pretty smile that lit your lilac eyes, white hair tousled by the night breeze.

"Thanks for walking me, Jake." You said warmly, voice soft as a whisper. "I’ll see you tomorrow?"

He grinned, the expression boyish and genuine, dimples carving into his cheeks as he nodded. "Anytime. See you tomorrow, sevin."

The endearment slipped out naturally, his tail swaying lazily. "You’ll help me, right?"

You giggled again, nodding with feigned shyness, your hand waving lightly as he stepped back. "Of course. Goodnight, Jake."

He waved goodbye, giving you one last lingering look. Eyes roaming your face, your curves, before turning toward his temporary marui, the path lit by bioluminescent fungi.

You made him feel young again, that excitement bubbling in his chest like the first flight on his ikran, mingled with a shy thrill he hadn't known since his human days.

As his figure disappeared into the mist-shrouded paths, your smile dropped into a smirk, sharp and satisfied, lilac eyes narrowing with predatory glee. The night air cooled against your skin, but inside, heat simmered.

The game had only just begun.

Footsteps approached softly, and Sa’meyra materialized from the shadows, her azure skin blending with the dim light, blindfold not in place as her blue eyes is visible now as it’s just the two of you, presence commanding as ever.

She shook her head slowly, a knowing sigh escaping her lips.

You grinned up at her, unrepentant, biting your lower lip with a gleam in your eye that sparkled like hidden stars.

"Enjoying pretending?" She asked, her voice a mix of amusement and mild reproach, arms crossing over her embroidered robes.

"This is just the beginning." You replied, voice dripping with confidence, tail flicking triumphantly. "I’ll have him eating out of the palm of my hand before he leaves here back to his poor wife."

Meanwhile, far from the misty embrace of Zä’raiya, in the shadowed fringes of Mangkwan territory, Miles paced the dim interior of a commandeered outpost, the metallic tang of RDA tech clashing with the organic humidity of Pandora.

Lyle lounged against a crate, sharpening a knife with rhythmic scrapes, his yellow eyes glinting with boredom.

"Varang's got her hooks deep in this clan, Colonel." Lyle drawled, flicking a bit of debris from his blade. "But those rumors about the ghost clan? Zä’raiya? If the Sullys sniff that out..."

Quaritch's lips curled into a snarl, his tail lashing like a whip. "They won't. I've got eyes everywhere. If Jake's dumb enough to chase fairy tales, we'll be waiting."

His mind churned with strategies, a flicker of something darker, obsession stirring at the thought of getting revenge on Neytiri, of unfinished business with Jake.

Back among the Metkayina, the young ones gathered in hushed excitement around a glowing lagoon, Neteyam sharpening his bow while Lo’ak splashed water at Ao’nung, who retaliated with a rough shove as Tsireya laughs. Kiri floated nearby, her connection to Eywa humming softly. Tuk giggling at Spider's antics.

"You think Dad's found them yet?" Lo’ak asked, voice edged with worry, his lithe frame tense as he shifts closer to Tsireya.

Neteyam nodded steadily, his gaze scanning the group. "He will. And if that clan's as powerful as they say..."

Ao’nung smirked, flexing his arms. "Better hope they like outsiders or your dad will be in big trouble."

~

The first rays of Pandora's dawn filtered through the woven walls of Jake's temporary marui, painting the interior in soft golds and purples. The air hummed with the distant calls of awakening wildlife, and the faint scent of dew-kissed flora seeped in from the misty valleys below.

Jake stirred on his sleeping mat, his massive blue frame stretching languidly, muscles rippling under scarred skin as he rubbed the sleep from his yellow eyes. A low rumble escaped his throat, a morning voice rough and gravelly laced with the remnants of dreams, as he sat up, tail flicking lazily.

You approached his marui with purposeful grace, your bare feet padding silently along the vine-wrapped bridge, the sheer morning wrap clinging to your voluptuous form like a second skin. Sunlight danced across your light gray body, highlighting the intricate golden markings that swirled over your full breasts, dipped into the valley between them, and trailed down to the generous curve of your hips. Your long white hair swayed with each step, unbound and flowing like a river of silk, framing your face where lilac eyes sparkled with calculated innocence.

Even in the harsh clarity of daylight, you looked ethereal with your plump lips curved in a gentle smile, cheeks flushed with the cool morning air, your body a tantalizing blend of softness and strength that turned heads among the early-rising Zä’raiya warriors.

You slipped inside without knocking, the flap rustling softly, and found him half-prepared, his broad chest bare and glistening faintly with sweat from the humid night.

"Good morning, Jake Sully." You said sweetly, voice a melodic lilt that cut through the quiet, your gaze lingering appreciatively on his tousled form.

He turned, ears perking up, and that hot morning voice rumbled out in response, deep and husky like thunder rolling over the horizon. "Morning... (Y/N)."

The way he said your name sent a shiver down your spine, but you masked it with a brighter smile, stepping closer until the warmth of his body mingled with yours.

"You look ready for the day." You teased lightly, eyes tracing the lines of his abs before meeting his gaze. "Come, breakfast awaits. Let me show you how we start our mornings here."

Your tone was inviting, laced with warmth, as you extended a hand, fingers delicate against his callused palm when he took it.

Jake rose, towering over you, his presence commanding yet softened by the pull in his chest at your nearness.

You looked so pretty to him even in the daylight. No shadows to romanticize, just pure radiant allure that made his tail twitch involuntarily. He followed you out, the sway of your plush ass drawing his eyes despite his best efforts, guilt flickering like a distant storm as Neytiri's face haunted the edges of his thoughts.

The communal eating area buzzed with the clan’s energy, low tables laden with fresh fruits, roasted tubers, and woven baskets of spiced meats.

You guided him to a spot overlooking the valley, sitting closely. Your thigh pressing warmly against his, the golden markings on your skin brushing his blue hide. With a playful wink, you piled food onto his leaf-plate. Juicy slices of sun-ripened fruit that dripped nectar, tender strips of ikran meat glazed in herbal paste.

"Eat." You urged, your fingers lingering on his arm as you served him, the touch electric. "You'll need your strength for the trials today."

As he dug in, savoring the flavors that burst on his tongue, sweet and savory mingling like forbidden promises, you leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.

"Our clan is ancient, bound to Eywa in ways others can't fathom. The rites... they're tests of spirit, not just body. The first trial today is the Hunt of Echoes. You'll track a spectral direfang through the mists, a beast that vanishes like smoke, forcing you to listen to the land's whispers, align your heart with its pulse. Fail, and Eywa sees unworthiness. Succeed and trust begins." Your lilac eyes held his, wide and earnest, but inside, you reveled in the way his brows furrowed in focus, drawing him deeper into your world.

Jake swallowed a mouthful, his yellow eyes narrowing thoughtfully, the morning rasp still edging his words. "Sounds intense. And your sister... Sa’meyra. Why the blindfold? I've never seen a tsahik like that."

Curiosity burned in his gaze, mixed with respect for the leader.

You smiled softly, a secretive curve to your plump lips, reaching out to trace a finger along the edge of his plate absentmindedly. "Nobody must ever see the tsahik’s eyes except for me. It's our sacred bond, her sight is Eywa's alone, unbound by the physical world. The blindfold keeps the visions pure, untainted by mortal distractions."

Your voice carried a reverent weight, but your touch on his wrist was anything but, sending a jolt through him.

The sun climbed higher, signaling the hour, and you stood, pulling him up with you.

"It's time." You said, voice steady but encouraging. Before he could respond, you placed both hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms, the heat of his skin seeping into yours. "Good luck, Jake. Show them your fire."

Your fingers splayed over his pecs, thumbs brushing the edges in a way that made his breath hitch, determination flooding his veins like liquid resolve.

You watched him stride toward the trial grounds, a vast clearing ringed by towering silver trees, their bark shimmering like liquid metal before taking your place beside Sa’meyra on the elevated platform. The tsahik's azure form was regal, blindfold in place, her presence a calm anchor amid the gathering crowd.

As Jake began, queuing with other challengers at the mist-shrouded entrance, you leaned toward her, your true personality slipping through like a blade from silk.

"He's performing well already." Sa’meyra murmured, her voice a serene thread, sensing the flows of energy without sight.

You smirked, lilac eyes glinting with predatory amusement, white hair whipping in the breeze. "Of course he is. I've got him wrapped around my finger. Guilty, eager, and oh-so-determined. By the end of these trials, he'll beg for more than just our aid."

Your tone dripped with wicked delight, tail curling smugly as you watched Jake vanish into the fog, the spectral direfang's distant howl echoing.

The trial unfolded in tense silence broken by gasps from the onlookers. Jake moved like a shadow, ears attuned to the faintest rustles, body low and coiled as he pursued the elusive beast through illusions of mist and sound. Sweat beaded on his brow, tracing paths down his chiseled jaw, but his focus was unbreakable. Leaping over roots, dodging phantom strikes until he cornered the direfang, not with a kill, but a bonding queue that linked their tsahìks, proving harmony with Eywa.

The crowd erupted as he emerged, the beast tamed at his side, chest heaving, yellow eyes fierce with triumph.

You were impressed, a genuine spark of admiration mixing with your scheming. His power raw, unyielding, a warrior's grace that stirred something deeper in your core.

When he scanned the platform, his gaze locked on yours immediately, seeking approval like a pup craving praise. You granted it with a sweet smile, dimples flashing, waving lightly as pride swelled in your chest.

Sa’meyra raised her arms, voice carrying like wind through the trees. "Jake Sully has passed the first trial! Eywa sees his truth. Tomorrow, the next challenge awaits."

Cheers rose, but you were already moving, running down the steps with fluid grace, your breasts bouncing softly under the wrap, hips swaying hypnotically.

You reached him breathless, throwing your arms around his neck in a hug that pressed your curves flush against his sweat-slicked torso.

"You were incredible!" You praised, voice bubbling with excitement, lips brushing his ear. "So strong, so attuned. I knew you could do it."

Your hands roamed his back, feeling the play of muscles, nails grazing lightly and Jake ate it all up, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as a grin split his face, dimples deep and boyish.

"Couldn't have without your words." He rumbled, voice thick with elation, inhaling the wildflower scent of your hair.

The contact lingered, his body responding despite the twinge of guilt.

Pulling back slightly, you tilted your head, lilac eyes sparkling. "I want to show you something special. A place in our territory that's like stepping into a dream."

He nodded eagerly, curiosity piqued, and you led him away from the crowds, through winding paths veiled in glowing vines.

The spot was a hidden glade, a fantasy woven from Pandora's magic. Crystalline pools reflecting skies of endless violet, flowers blooming in iridescent cascades that hummed with bioluminescence, air thick with the perfume of eternal spring. Towering ferns arched overhead like cathedral spires, and soft moss carpeted the ground like velvet. Jake's eyes widened in awe, mouth parting as he took it in, tail stilling in wonder.

"This... it's unreal." He breathed, voice hushed with reverence.

You knelt by a cluster of luminous blooms, plucking a pretty flower, its petals a swirl of silver and gold, unfading and eternal. The motion made your wrap ride up slightly, exposing the smooth expanse of your thigh, golden markings glowing softly. You looked so pretty like that, serene and radiant, white hair tumbling forward, that Jake's heart thudded heavily in his chest, attraction surging hot and intense, guilt crashing in its wake like waves against Neytiri's memory.

What am I doing? He thought, but his eyes devoured you anyway.

A wood sprite drifted lazily from the foliage, its translucent form glowing softly as it floated over you, brushing your shoulder before wafting to Jake. Only he saw it, the delicate tendril of Eywa's favor, and he bit his lip, a grin tugging at the corners as elation bloomed. A sign, approval perhaps, or temptation wrapped in divine will.

"Come sit." You called softly, patting the moss beside you. He complied, lowering his bulk carefully, the ground yielding under him.

You snuggled closer to his side, your soft body molding against his arm, head resting on his shoulder as you reached up, tucking the flower behind his ear. Its petals framed his face, contrasting his blue skin beautifully.

Your lilac eyes glimmered up at him, wide and playful. "You look cute, Jake Sully."

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, rumbling through his chest as he gazed down at you, feeling a rush of nostalgia. You made him feel young again, back in the days when life was simple, flirtations without the weight of leadership, excitement without the shadows of war.

"Cute, huh? Not sure that's the word for Toruk Makto." He teased, but his yellow eyes softened, hand coming up to steady the flower.

"This flower doesn't die." You explained, voice soft as you traced its edge. "It's like this place. Timeless. I come here when I want to be alone, to think, away from the visions and duties."

You turned to look at him shyly, lashes lowering demurely, biting your plump lip. "What about you, Jake? What's your type? The kind of person who catches your eye?"

He paused, gaze drifting over the glade before settling on you, words tumbling out unknowingly descriptive.

"Someone fierce but kind with eyes that see right through you... pretty smile, sweet, a spirit that's wild and free." As he spoke, his voice grew huskier, unaware he painted your portrait, attraction thickening the air.

Inside, you smirked at how easy this was but outwardly, you blushed, ducking your head.

"Mine? Someone who takes care of me, mature and steady..." You blinked up at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a whisper. "...and older."

A thrill shot through Jake, relief mingling with the heat pooling low in his gut, your words a direct arrow to his desires, easing the guilt just enough to let temptation breathe.

"Can I... nap on your lap?" You asked innocently, already shifting. "Just for a bit."

"Yeah." He murmured, voice rough, helping you settle.

You laid your head on his thick thighs, the muscle firm beneath your cheek, body curling slightly as you “closed” your eyes, breathing evening out in feigned sleep.

When Jake thought you were asleep, his gaze trailed over your pretty face, plump lips parted softly, lashes fanning cheeks, lilac eyes hidden but their memory burning. It wandered lower, to your clothed body. The rise and fall of your full breasts, nipples faintly outlined against the fabric, the dip of your waist flaring to wide hips, thighs pressed together invitingly.

Attraction swelled in him, undeniable, his cock twitching faintly in his loincloth.

Gently, he began playing with your hair, fingers threading through the white strands, twisting them softly. He plucked another flower, tucking it behind your ear with a smile, admiring how pretty you looked in his lap.

Vulnerable. Enchanting. A siren in repose.

His hands moved to your arms, caressing the smooth gray skin, tracing golden markings with feather-light touches. Fingers grazed the swell of your plump boobs, accidental at first, then lingering as desire clouded his judgment, the soft give under his touch intoxicating.

You smirked in your mind, heat coiling tight, and “sleepily” arched your back, pressing forward so his fingers brushed your hardened nipple through the thin material. The graze was deliberate, electric.

Jake stiffened, breath catching, a groan nearly escaping his throat, deep and guttural, but he held it back, jaw clenching as he pulled his hand away, heart pounding with a mix of shame and aching want.

As the day waned in Zä’raiya, the glade's magic held you both in its embrace, the line between ally and temptation blurring further with every shared breath. The glade's perpetual twilight wrapped around you both like a lover's embrace, the bioluminescent flowers casting a soft, ethereal glow that danced across Jake's relaxed features.

Your feigned nap had deepened into true slumber, your body sinking heavier against his thick thighs, breaths syncing with the gentle rustle of leaves overhead. The warmth of his presence lulled you, and soon, Jake's eyelids grew heavy too. His massive frame eased back onto the plush moss, careful not to disturb you, one arm draping loosely over his abdomen as sleep claimed him. The world faded into quiet harmony, only the distant trill of nocturnal creatures punctuating the peace.

An hour slipped by in that timeless haven, the sun dipping lower toward the horizon, painting the crystalline pools in hues of amber and indigo.

You stirred first, lilac eyes fluttering open to the sight of Jake's serene face, his strong jaw slackened, full lips parted slightly, yellow eyes hidden behind closed lids fringed with dark lashes. A smirk curled your plump lips as you propped yourself up on one elbow, white hair cascading over your shoulder like a veil.

He really was handsome like this, all the burdens of leadership stripped away, leaving a warrior at rest, his broad chest rising and falling steadily, blue skin dappled in glowing specks from the flora around you.

With deliberate care, you shifted, your voluptuous body moving fluidly as you were still on his thighs. Gently, you maneuvered, sliding out from your place and cradling his head in your hands, lowering it to rest on your lap instead. The weight of him was solid, comforting, his braids splaying across your gray thighs. You traced his face then, fingertips ghosting over the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the faint scars from battles past, down to the curve of his mouth.

Your gaze drifted to the flowers nearby, their petals unfurling in silent bloom, mirroring the calculated bloom of your scheme.

One way to get him is to make him feel like he’s young again.

You thought, a predatory thrill coiling in your core.

Be his escape, the picture of the good life, the thrill, the excitement, the sweetness. What his wife made him feel when they were young, but with you, you’ll do more. Push boundaries, ignite fires she’s let smolder. And with that, he’s all yours.

The idea sent a rush of heat through your veins, your full breasts heaving slightly with restrained anticipation. You bit your lip hard to stifle the laugh bubbling up, not wanting to rouse him yet, the sharp sting grounding your amusement.

Leaning down, your breath warm against his ear, you whispered into the wind, voice a silky murmur laced with irony. "What a lucky wife you have."

The words hung in the air like a secret promise, your fingers continuing their caress, stroking along his temple, threading through his braids, down the column of his throat where his pulse beat steady and strong. You gazed out at the forest beyond, the silver trees whispering secrets of their own, your tail curling lazily as you savored the power in this intimate reversal.

Jake stirred beneath your touch, a low hum rumbling from his chest as awareness crept in. His yellow eyes cracked open, the first thing he registered the softness of your thigh pillowing his head, plush and warm. He blinked up at you, taking in your pretty face beaming down, lilac eyes sparkling with mischief, white hair framing your features like a halo of moonlight.

A slow grin spread across his lips, sleepy and genuine.

"Hi." You said softly, voice a melodic tease, your fingers pausing on his jaw.

You giggled then, the sound light and bubbling, like stream water over stones, and he chuckled back, the deep vibration traveling through his body to yours, making your skin tingle.

"Such a nice sight to wake up to." He rumbled, voice still husky from sleep, yellow eyes locking onto yours with a warmth that made your heart skip, deliberate or not, it fueled your game.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a blush you feigned deeper than it was, and you slapped his shoulder playfully, palm connecting with the firm muscle there.

"Flatterer." You accused, tone mock-scolding, but your eyes danced with delight.

Before rising, Jake shifted, pressing a soft kiss to the inner curve of your thigh, lips brushing the sensitive gray skin just above your knee, lingering for a heartbeat too long. The gesture was intimate, tender, sending a jolt straight to your core, your pussy clenching involuntarily at the promise in it.

You bit your lip again, this time for real, tasting the faint salt of your own desire as you watched him.

Another show of how he’s slowly succumbing, you mused inwardly, the sight of his mouth on your flesh etching into your mind, stoking the fire of your manipulation.

He sat up fully then, towering over you once more, and offered his large hand, calluses rough against your smooth palm as you took it. His grip was steady, pulling you to your feet with ease, your curves brushing against him in the motion, breasts grazing his arm, hips swaying close.

"Let me walk you back." He offered, voice low and protective, falling into step beside you.

As you navigated the winding paths back to the village, his hand rested gently on the small of your back, fingers splayed wide to guide you over uneven roots and vines. The touch was firmer than before, possessive in its subtlety, heat seeping through your thin wrap to brand your skin. You leaned into it slightly, letting your tail brush his leg “accidentally,” the contact electric.

At the entrance to your marui, woven from iridescent leaves and glowing fungi, you turned to face him, the dying light casting shadows that accentuated the swell of your hips and the dip of your cleavage.

"You did so well today, Jake." You said, voice warm with congratulations, lilac eyes shining. "Passing the first trial... there are two more to come, but I know you’ll conquer them."

He nodded, yellow eyes intense, jaw set with determination.

"I’ll pass them all." He vowed, voice gravelly with resolve. "To prove I’m worthy to everyone. To you."

The last words slipped out heavier, laced with something unspoken, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back up.

You giggled again, the sound flirtatious and light, taking his hand in yours to squeeze it, fingers intertwining briefly, thumb stroking his knuckles.

"I believe you." You whispered, then released him, stepping inside with a sway of your ass that you knew he watched.

Jake stood there for a moment, grinning like a fool, the flower still tucked behind his ear, before turning toward his own marui. The walk felt lighter, the weight of the day easing as memories of the glade replayed in his mind.

Inside his temporary shelter, the air cooler and shadowed, Jake stripped off his loincloth, laying back on the sleeping mat with a sigh. His body ached from the trial, muscles taut and spent, but his thoughts raced.

The war loomed large. Quaritch's snarling face, the RDA's relentless advance, the Mangkwan clan's shadow over Pandora. His kids flashed in his mind. Neteyam’s steady gaze, Lo’ak’s reckless grin, Kiri and Tuk.

They need me strong. He thought, fist clenching at his side.

Then Neytiri. Her fierce beauty, the mother of his children, the bond they’d forged in fire. Immense guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave, heavy and suffocating, twisting in his gut.

What am I doing here? Flirting, touching... she’s waiting, fighting for our family.

The thought made his chest tighten, breath shallow.

But then you intruded, your lilac eyes, that coy smile, the way your body moved like liquid silk. The guilt evaporated, replaced by a lightness that scared him as much as it thrilled.

Thinking of Neytiri felt heavy, like chains of duty and regret. Thinking of you felt like soaring on ikran winds, free and alive.

Your actions replayed, the fruit at the bonfire, your hands on his chest before the trial, the arch of your back in the glade. Your words sweet and teasing, pulling him in. Your face, plump lips, flushed cheeks, white hair glowing. Your body, full breasts straining against fabric, wide hips begging to be gripped, the soft give of your thigh under his kiss.

Heat stirred low in his belly, cock twitching as darker thoughts crept in.

What would you sound like moaning his name? Breathless, needy, lilac eyes glazed with lust?

He imagined pinning you down in that glade, your legs wrapping around his waist as he thrust deep, pounding his thick cock into your tight wet pussy, stretching you, filling you until you cried out, your golden markings shimmering with sweat.

His mind snagged on earlier, the accidental graze of his fingers over the swell of your plump boobs, the way your nipple hardened under the thin cloth.

So soft, so full... fuck.

He groaned aloud, low and tortured, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the dim light, but not the visions. His free hand drifted down, palm pressing against his hardening length, but he stopped, jaw clenched.

Think of Neytiri.

He commanded himself, summoning memories of their intimacies, her lithe body arching under him, the fierce passion in her yellow eyes, the way she’d claw his back during mating. But even as he pictured her pussy clenching around him, her moans echoing, the image warped.

Your face overlaid hers, your lilac gaze staring up, your white hair splayed on moss, your curves bouncing with each slam of his hips.

No, stop.

But he couldn’t, the guilt twisted back, lighter now, overshadowed by raw want he’s starting to feel for you.

Back in your marui, you smiled into the darkness as you chewed on the fruit you fed Jake on the first night, each step you do drawing Jake closer, the web tightening with every stolen touch.

"I’m your dream girl, huh?"

Satoru Gojo stood at center court, jersey clinging to his tall frame, his pale hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, a grin plastered across his face that was cocky and boyish all at once. His teammates swarmed him, arms slung around shoulders, shoving him, laughing, pouring water bottles over his head until his jersey darkened and clung to every line of muscle.

He was the star, but he wasn’t alone—behind him, Toji grinned sharp and wolfish, towering with his arms crossed like nothing about this game had winded him. Suguru had already pulled his hair out of its tie, pushing it back with one hand as he caught Choso in a headlock, both of them laughing hoarsely. And Sukuna? He wasn’t celebrating so much as snarling through a smile, tattoos gleaming under the stadium lights as he pointed two fingers at the scoreboard like “You see that? That’s us.”

But the cameras weren’t just on them. They were on him.

Gojo Gojo Gojo. Another championship. Another MVP. Another perfect stat line.

The big screens flashed his face, slow-motion highlights replaying above the crowd—the fadeaway three, the impossible no-look pass, the final slam dunk that sealed the win. His name echoed off the walls, until the announcer’s voice cut through:

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Finals MVP… Satoru Gojo!”

He bowed dramatically, dripping sweat, holding up the shiny gold trophy as though it weighed nothing at all. Cameras popped, flashes blinding, and he basked in it, smug as a god under the lights.

Then, someone tapped him on the shoulder. A staffer with a headset shouted over the chaos,

“Gojo! Courtside postgame interview! Now!”

Satoru’s grin widened, if that was even possible. He ruffled his wet hair back, leaned into Suguru with a lazy slap to his chest, and muttered, “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?” before swaggering toward the baseline where the broadcast team waited. His long strides carried him across the confetti-slick court, every eye following him—because Gojo never just walked. He prowled like he owned the whole damn place.

And that’s when he saw you.

Standing under the glaring lights, microphone in hand, hair perfectly styled despite the chaos, press badge gleaming against your fitted blazer. You had the poise of someone used to live TV, posture sharp, voice rehearsed—but the moment his gaze landed on you, Satoru swore the whole stadium dulled around the edges. You weren’t just another sideline reporter. You were pretty. And not just in the neat, polished way reporters usually were. There was something soft in your features, something magnetic in the way your eyes lifted to meet his as he approached.

Gojo slowed down, smirk tugging at his lips. He was supposed to be answering questions about the game, the championship, his career-defining night. But all he could think was—

Well damn. Guess I just won twice tonight.

The courtside was chaos, but controlled chaos. Crew members hustled back and forth, sound checks crackling through headsets, a cameraman already angling for the best shot. You stood in the middle of it all, calm against the storm, glancing down at your notes with the kind of focus that made it clear—this wasn’t your first finals, and you weren’t here to be distracted.

A powder brush dabbed against your cheek once more, and you thanked the makeup tech quickly before she rushed off. You adjusted your earpiece, straightened the lapel of your blazer, and let out a steadying breath. Three minutes live with Gojo. Just basketball questions. Keep it sharp.

And not once—not once—did you spare him a glance as he ambled toward you, even though the heat of his presence was unmistakable. Six-foot-six of sweat-slick muscle, his jersey clinging to broad shoulders, that trophy still in one hand like it was part of his anatomy. He smirked when he noticed you deliberately ignoring him, leaning a little closer than necessary while a sound tech clipped a mic to his collar.

The camera light flipped red. Live.

Your smile bloomed instantly, professional and practiced, your voice smooth as velvet through the mic. “Congratulations to the Tokyo Kaisen on their championship win tonight, and of course, Finals MVP—Satoru Gojo is with me now. Satoru, another incredible performance, thirty-eight points, twelve assists, eight rebounds—what’s going through your mind right now?”

Satoru didn’t answer right away. Instead, his tongue darted out, slow and careless, licking his lips before he gave you that lazy grin. He tilted the trophy in his hand like he might hand it to you, then thought better of it.

“Mm, what’s going through my mind?” he drawled, pretending to think while his eyes roamed—lingering a little too long on your mouth, the way the gloss caught the stadium lights. “Honestly, I could give you the boring answer—team effort, hard work, yadda yadda…” He leaned a little closer, blue eyes flicking back to yours. “But truthfully? I’m just glad you’re the one asking me.”

The camera didn’t catch your quick inhale, but it caught the way his grin widened, shameless.

You held steady, professionalism locking your spine. “Well, it was a team effort,” you said firmly, ignoring the way his gaze burned into you. “But you’ve been consistently strong all season. What was your mindset going into a game of this magnitude?”

Gojo finally tore his eyes off your mouth—just to trail them down your figure instead. That fitted blazer hugged your waist perfectly, the pencil skirt skimming your hips, heels giving your posture an elegance that made his throat dry. God, you were gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be stuck courtside with a mic. He couldn’t stop licking his lips, couldn’t stop shifting like he needed to bite down on something.

“My mindset?” he repeated, smirking when you glanced up at him again, all business. “To win. Always. I don’t like losing—never have, never will.” He paused, smirk deepening. “But if I’m being honest… looking like that in front of me? You’re making it real hard to concentrate on basketball right now.”

The director waved frantically off-camera, mouthing Keep it about the game! But Gojo only chuckled, eyes glued to you like the crowd, the cameras, the whole world had vanished.

And that was the dangerous part—he wasn’t trying to flirt like his usual cocky self. His voice dropped lower, his grin softened when he looked at you, his attention sharpened like you were the only one who mattered. Gojo Satoru, star of the court, MVP of the season, was whipped. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

You didn’t break. Not even when his eyes dipped down to your mouth again. Your grip on the mic was steady, your smile easy, your voice unwavering as you shifted to the next question.

“You’ve spoken all season about trust between teammates,” you said, glancing at your notes before meeting his gaze again. “How important was that trust in pulling off tonight’s win?”

Gojo exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing as he forced himself to focus. Basketball. Game. Not her mouth. Not her legs. Not the way that blouse hugged her just right under the blazer. He shoved his tongue against his teeth, swallowed, then finally dragged his eyes back up where they belonged.

“Trust’s everything,” he said, voice softer now, less of that cocky lilt. “You can’t drop forty by yourself. I know if I dish it to Suguru, he’s draining it. Toji’s gonna muscle through anyone in the paint. Sukuna—he’ll kill me if I don’t pass when he’s open.” His grin flashed, boyish and bright for the cameras. “We’re a unit. They trust me, I trust them. That’s how you win championships.”

It was a perfect answer, clean and sharp, and yet even then his gaze lingered—just a second too long. His grin softened when he looked at you, like the cameras and crowd didn’t exist. Like you were the only one he was really talking to.

You kept rolling. “Well, it certainly showed. Last question—this is your third championship, second MVP. What’s next for you, Satoru Gojo?”

He tilted his head, lips parting as if he had something smooth to say—something that would get the director screaming in your earpiece—but before he could answer, a shadow loomed behind him.

“Don’t even think about it—”

Too late.

A bucket of freezing water cascaded straight down over his head. Gojo flinched, shouting, his hair plastering instantly to his forehead, jersey clinging even tighter. He whipped around to see Choso and Suguru cracking up behind him, Toji smirking like the devil himself with an empty cooler still in hand. Sukuna just crossed his tattooed arms and barked a laugh.

You gasped and stepped back, but not fast enough. The spray caught your blouse, soaking through just enough to make the fabric cling to your skin. Your eyes widened, but your professional smile stayed glued in place as you let out a light laugh into the mic.

“Well—looks like the celebration isn’t quite over down here!” you said brightly, as the cameraman fought to keep the shot steady through his own laughter. “Satoru Gojo, congratulations again on the win and the MVP. Back to you guys at the desk.”

The red camera light blinked off.

Gojo blinked water out of his lashes, standing there like a drenched cat, his grin breaking wider by the second. He shook his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere, and leaned just close enough that only you could hear him murmur, voice low and rough with laughter,

“…Guess I’m not the only one who got wet tonight.”

The interview wrapped, the camera light dimming as crew swarmed in to reset. You exhaled, shoulders relaxing the moment the director’s voice left your ear. Already, one of the staff was guiding you toward the tunnel, a spare jacket draped over their arm in case you wanted to cover the damp patch on your blouse. You offered a polite smile, thanking them, already thinking about getting back to the media room, maybe even changing before the next segment.

Behind you, the team’s celebrations rolled on like thunder. Whoops and hollers echoed through the arena—Suguru tossing his head back in laughter, Toji dragging Sukuna into a rare half-embrace that looked more like a wrestling match, Choso already half-drenched in beer someone had cracked open too early. Gojo was right in the middle of it, arms around two teammates, flashing that blinding grin for every camera shoved in his face.

And then—he pulled away.

“Hold on a sec, boys.” He peeled his arm off Suguru’s shoulder, ignoring the jeers, the “Ohhh, where you going, MVP?” that followed him. The trophy was shoved into someone else’s hands as he slipped free of the crowd, water still dripping from the ends of his white hair, jersey clinging to every hard line of muscle. He didn’t care. His eyes were on you.

You’d just tucked your notes back into your folder when his shadow loomed.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said, low enough that only you could hear it over the chaos.

You blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the closeness, the way his pale lashes were still wet, the mischievous grin softened into something far more intent.

“Oh,” you said, recovering with that same gentle composure you always had. Your smile was warm, professional but undeniably sweet. You offered your name softly, like a secret shared between the two of you in the noisy arena.

Satoru rolled it around on his tongue immediately, savoring it like the finest wine. His grin widened, wolfish at the edges. “Pretty,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “Suits you.”

You gave a little laugh, ducking your head as you adjusted the jacket staff had draped over your shoulders. “You should be celebrating with your teammates, not bothering me.”

“Celebrating’s better when I know who to toast to,” he shot back without missing a beat, tilting his head so he could keep your gaze locked with his. His lips quirked, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t just postgame adrenaline. “Besides… think I deserve more than one win tonight.”

The staffer tugged at your elbow gently, reminding you of the schedule, but Satoru lingered, leaning down just enough that his damp hair nearly brushed your forehead, voice dropping to a husky whisper only you could catch—

“Don’t run off too quick, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”

You slipped into the tunnel with the staff, your heels clicking against concrete, a jacket draped around your shoulders. The scent of champagne and sweat faded behind you, swallowed by the busy shuffle of crew and media staff prepping the next segment.

Satoru stood where you’d left him, hands shoved into the waistband of his shorts, watching until you disappeared. A rare thing—him silent, grin tugging but softer, almost dazed.

Suguru noticed.

“Holy shit,” Suguru drawled, sliding up beside him with his hair dripping, towel slung lazily around his neck. He bumped his shoulder against Satoru’s, smirking when the MVP didn’t even flinch. “Don’t tell me the great Gojo Satoru just got fucking starstruck.”

That broke the trance. Satoru scoffed, running a hand through his soaked hair, but his ears burned red. “Shut the fuck up, Suguru.”

“Shut the fuck up, he says,” Toji chimed in, sauntering over with a beer already half-empty in his fist. His grin was wicked, eyes sharp like he’d just sniffed blood in the water. “Never seen you look at anyone like that before, kid. You were about two seconds from dropping on one knee right there on the court.”

Choso barked a laugh, towel still draped over his head. “No way. Gojo? Whipped?”

“Whipped,” Suguru confirmed, eyes glinting as he leaned forward, elbow digging into Satoru’s ribs. “Did you see the way he was looking at her? Bro, if the cameras weren’t on, you’d have been down bad enough to beg for her number right there.”

Satoru rolled his eyes, tugging the towel Suguru had around his neck and smacking him with it. “You’re all full of shit. I was just answering questions. Doing my job.”

“Answering questions?” Sukuna finally cut in, his grin sharp, tattoos flexing as he crossed his arms. “You weren’t answering questions, you were eye-fucking her so hard I thought the broadcast was about to go NSFW.”

The group howled with laughter, and Satoru swore, shoving at Sukuna’s shoulder while trying to hide the flush creeping down his neck.

“Fuck off. All of you,” he muttered, but it only made them laugh harder.

“Just admit it,” Suguru said, smirk smug as hell. “Gojo Satoru, MVP, finals hero, biggest flirt in the league… caught his match. You’re fucked, man. Absolutely fucked.”

And for once, Gojo didn’t have a comeback. He just grinned, crooked and a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought of you again.

“...Yeah,” he admitted under his breath, not quite meeting their eyes. “Maybe I am.”

The boys erupted again, jeers and curses echoing through the tunnel, but Satoru didn’t care. He was still thinking about the way your name had sounded on his tongue.

The hotel suite was chaos in the way only a championship night could be. Jerseys were peeled off, showers were running in rotation, room service trays already littering the coffee table—half-eaten burgers, fries dumped out of cartons, empty champagne bottles from the team’s celebratory stash. Music was blaring from Toji’s speaker, bass rattling the floor.

Satoru lay sprawled across one of the couches in nothing but black sweats, a towel still slung over his shoulders, phone held above his face as he scrolled. His wet hair stuck up in every direction, but he didn’t care—he was too busy cackling.

“Holy shit, you guys gotta see this,” he wheezed, rolling over to shove his phone in Suguru’s face.

Suguru, sitting cross-legged on the other end of the couch braiding his hair back, took one look and groaned. “Oh my god.”

On the screen was a TikTok edit already racking up views—slow-motion shots of the interview, zoomed in on the way Gojo kept licking his lips, then your smile, then back to his stare. Someone had slapped text over it: ‘he wants that cookie soooo bad’ followed by crying emojis.

Suguru snorted, biting down a laugh. “They’re eating you alive, man.”

Satoru only grinned wider. “Can’t even blame them. Cookie looked good as hell.”

“Cookie looked unbothered as hell,” Toji cut in from the armchair, towel draped over his head as he scrolled his own phone. “You were drooling and she didn’t even blink. That’s cold.”

“Cold-blooded,” Sukuna agreed, leaning against the window with a beer in his hand. He held his phone up, smirk devilish. “Yo, check this—someone made a compilation already. ‘Gojo Satoru trying not to flirt on live TV challenge (impossible).’”

The room erupted in laughter.

Choso, sprawled belly-down on the carpet with his feet kicked up, waved his phone. “This one says, ‘bro, the game wasn’t the only thing he was trying to score tonight.’”

“HA!” Suguru doubled over, braid half-finished, practically crying.

“‘She’s asking about rebounds, he’s thinking about bending her over,’” Toji read aloud, wheezing.

Even Sukuna cracked, laughing dark and loud, slapping his knee.

Satoru groaned, dragging a hand down his face but still grinning like a fool. “You’re all assholes. Every single one of you.”

“Assholes telling the truth,” Suguru teased, smirk tugging at his lips. He tossed a hair tie at Satoru’s chest. “Admit it—you’re fucking whipped.”

The MVP just sprawled back again, arms behind his head, grin crooked but shameless. “Maybe I am,” he said, drawl lazy, “and she’s worth it.”

That earned a round of groans and catcalls, Toji throwing a fry at him, Sukuna muttering, “Jesus, get a room already.”

But then Choso shoved his phone closer to Satoru, wide-eyed. “Look—someone captioned the clip, ‘Gojo’s not hearing shit, he’s just thinking about eating her alive.’”

Satoru barked out a laugh, rolling onto his side, hair still damp and sticking to his face. “Fuck yeah I was.”

They all burst out laughing again, the suite practically shaking with the noise.

Suguru finally stood, smoothing his hair back and heading toward the bedroom. “Alright, love-struck MVP, put your pants on. We’ve got an afterparty to get to.”

Satoru stretched, popping his shoulders, still grinning like a man who’d just won more than a championship. “Don’t worry, I’ll look good enough to catch her eye again.” He glanced at the mirror, flashing himself a wink. “Third time’s the charm.”

The rest of the team groaned, but there was no hiding it—Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine, and nothing, not even their relentless teasing, was bringing him down.

The afterparty was nothing short of decadent. The ballroom was packed wall to wall—teammates, staff, media, sponsors, even celebrities who hadn’t watched a single game but wanted to ride the championship buzz. Chandeliers glittered above, glasses clinked, and bass from the DJ thrummed through the floorboards.

“TO THREE FUCKING RINGS!” Toji roared, slamming back a shot with Sukuna beside him, both of them already half-drunk, shoulders heavy with sweat and celebration.

“Three rings, two MVPs, and one dumbass who can’t stop licking his lips on live TV,” Suguru quipped, clinking his glass with Choso as they all burst into laughter again.

Gojo rolled his eyes but grinned anyway, nursing a glass of champagne. He stood a little apart, gaze drifting over the crowd, restless. People were congratulating him left and right—slaps on the back, women slipping hands down his arm, sponsors trying to catch his attention—but he kept brushing them off with polite smiles.

He was looking for you.

And his teammates knew it.

“You’re not slick, man,” Choso muttered, bumping his shoulder as he leaned in to grab a drink from the bar. “The way your head keeps spinning like you’re waiting for her to walk in—pathetic.”

“Pathetic,” Sukuna echoed with a nasty grin, though his eyes were sharp as he scanned the crowd too. “Where’s your princess, Gojo?”

Suguru chuckled, sipping his drink. “Relax, he’s just trying to make sure the cookie shows up. Can’t blame him.”

Gojo groaned, running a hand through his perfectly styled white hair. “You fuckers are worse than the internet.”

And then—there you were.

You slipped into the room like you belonged there, satin catching the light with every step. The dress hugged every curve, the kind of elegant cut that was just as modest as it was devastating, gliding over your hips before spilling down your legs. The color made your skin glow, your smile dazzling as you laughed softly at something one of the execs said. You weren’t holding a mic anymore, but you still carried yourself like you were the center of the spotlight.

Gojo froze.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, heart lurching into his throat. The champagne in his hand suddenly felt useless, his mouth dry. The confidence he’d oozed in front of the cameras, in front of the whole arena, evaporated the second he saw you smile like that.

Suguru caught it instantly. He smirked, clapping a hand to Satoru’s back. “Aaand there it is. He’s gone. Absolutely gone.”

Toji leaned in, smirk cruel. “MVP’s scared of a girl in a dress."

“Scared?” Sukuna sneered, eyes glinting with amusement. “Look at him. Motherfucker’s about to choke on his own tongue.”

Gojo didn’t even argue. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on you, the way the higher-ups leaned in too close when they spoke, the way you tipped your head politely, satin dress shimmering with each shift of your body.

“Don’t just stand there like a pussy,” Toji barked, smacking the back of his head. “Go fucking talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Suguru added, grinning ear to ear. “Before someone else does.”

Satoru swallowed hard, tugged at his collar, and muttered under his breath, “…Shit. Why am I nervous?”

Because for once in his life, it wasn’t a game, and you weren’t just anyone.

The bass from the DJ thrummed through the ballroom floor, champagne glasses clinking in celebration. Everyone was drunk on victory—managers, execs, players from other teams. Satoru sat with his teammates at a low-lit lounge area, sprawled out in a chair with his long legs spread, but his eyes weren’t on the bottles or the people cheering them on. They were glued to you across the room.

You were in satin—soft, glossy, hugging every curve like it was made for you. The way you tilted your head back when you laughed with those higher-ups? It made his stomach twist in a way he wasn’t used to. He had dealt with interviews, pressure, finals, shit-talking crowds—but this? This was different. This was nerve-wracking.

“Man, he’s fucking cooked,” Suguru snickered, swirling his drink, leaning back like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Look at him. He’s not even hearing us.”

Toji let out a low chuckle. “He’s eye-fucking her so hard, I’m starting to feel shy, and she’s across the damn room.”

Even Choso cracked a smirk, raising his brows. “Go talk to her, bro. Sitting here drooling isn’t a strategy.”

Satoru dragged his fingers through his damp hair, already messy from the night. “You guys sound real confident for people who aren’t about to go crash a conversation with three higher-ups breathing down her neck.”

“Yeah,” Suguru clapped him on the shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “But you’re Satoru Gojo. Golden boy. MVP. They’re already kissing your ass. You think they’re gonna get mad if you steal five minutes of their staff’s time?”

The boys started hyping him up—clapping his back, whistling, tossing out “Go get her”s like they were at practice again.

Finally, with a long exhale, Satoru stood. “Fuck it.” He adjusted his jacket, ignoring every hand that reached out to shake his, every congratulation shouted as he passed. People tried to stop him—execs, reporters, random women wanting pictures—but he brushed by them all, focused on you.

The higher-ups you’d been talking to noticed him first. Their faces lit up, hands already extended.

“Gojo! Hell of a game tonight!”

“Outstanding performance, really. You pulled through for the team in a way only you could.”

He gave them one of his trademark grins—sharp, cocky, charming as hell—but it didn’t linger on them. His head tilted slightly, blue eyes locking on you like no one else in the room existed.

Then he dropped his voice just for you.

“Hey…”

The word was simple, almost too casual, but the weight of it, the way it slipped from him like he’d been dying to say it all night, made your heart skip.

“Well then—we’ll leave you two. Staff always works hard behind the scenes. Gojo, take good care.”

And just like that, they melted away, leaving you standing in your satin dress with a half-empty champagne flute, and him, nervous energy rolling off his tall frame like static.

“Hey,” he repeated, softer this time.

You smiled, professional, the same way you’d been with everyone else tonight. “Congratulations again, Gojo. That was… an incredible game.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking a little on his heels, like he didn’t quite know where to put all that restless energy. “You keep saying my name like that, I might actually start thinking you’re a fan.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Well, I am staff. I’m supposed to root for the team.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He tilted his head, grinning but his ears a little pink. “You saying it like you mean it.”

You laughed softly, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You’re reading into it.”

“Am I?” he shot back, trying to sound smooth, but his thumb rubbed anxiously over the edge of his pocket.

You tilted your champagne glass slightly, lips curved politely, playing oblivious to the way his gaze dragged over you like he was memorizing every inch. “I think you’re still a little high off that win. Maybe all that adrenaline’s making you mishear things.”

His grin faltered for half a second—like he didn’t expect you to parry so easily—but then he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, voice low, teasing again though nervous at the edges.

“Or maybe I just know exactly what I’m hearing.”

Your laugh came light, practiced, the kind you’d given countless players over the years to smooth things over. You lifted your glass, angling it toward him.

“Well,” you said gently, “whether or not you’re hearing things, I’m sure you’ll be answering that same compliment from every reporter in this room tonight. It was a record-breaking performance. You should be proud.”

Satoru blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to pivot so neatly. “...Proud, huh?” He scratched the back of his neck, lips quirking. “Kinda hard to focus on stats when there’s something else worth celebrating standing right in front of me.”

You shook your head with a polite little smile, refusing to let his words rattle you. “Your teammates are probably waiting on you. Don’t let me be the reason you miss out on your own party.”

He huffed out a laugh, dramatic, like you’d wounded him. “Damn. Cold. I’m tryna flirt, and you’re giving me the ‘go be with your friends’ line?”

“I’m not sure that was flirting,” you replied evenly, though your eyes sparkled just slightly. “Sounded more like deflecting from your own hard work.”

“Deflecting?” He leaned down a bit closer, grin turning sharper, as if daring you to break character. “I don’t need to deflect. I know I’m good. What I don’t know is why you keep dodging me like I’m some rookie trying his luck.”

You steadied yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, voice calm and firm even though the way his gaze pinned you made your skin prickle. “Because I’m working. And you’re celebrating. Two very different things.”

He chuckled under his breath, tilting his head like you’d just confirmed what he suspected. “See? You keep saying that, but I don’t buy it. You’re enjoying this just as much as I am.”

“Or maybe,” you countered softly, sipping from your glass, “I’m just good at my job.”

That made him bite his lip, eyes glittering, like he was half-amused, half-exasperated. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide if he should push harder or play it cool, before muttering—low, just for you— “You make it real hard to keep it professional, y’know that?”

Your smile didn’t falter, though the warmth in your tone sharpened just enough to cut.

“Whatever you’re doing, Gojo… I’m not buying it.”

His brows shot up. “What?”

“You’ve got a reputation,” you said plainly, lowering your glass to your side. “I’ve heard the stories. The girls, the flirting, the late-night photos. I don’t doubt you’re charming, but I don’t have the time—or the patience—for a playboy.”

For once, Satoru looked… stunned. His mouth actually opened, like he was scrambling for words. “Wait—hold on, that’s not—”

“I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when someone’s trying to run game,” you continued, calm but firm, satin catching in the light as you shifted. “And I’m too busy to be dealing with all that.”

His usual grin slipped, something more genuine flickering underneath. “I’m not—look, yeah, okay, I used to mess around, but that’s not what this is. I’m not just… running some line on you.”

You tilted your head, the polite professional smile sliding back into place. “Then maybe you’ll prove me wrong. Until then… enjoy your night, champ.”

And just like that, you turned, satin brushing over your curves as you walked away, leaving him standing there with his defense hanging in the air.

Satoru Gojo. The MVP. The man who never missed a shot, never heard no, never walked off the court without a crowd screaming his name.

Rejected.

His teammates were still hyping each other up across the room, but Satoru just stood there, blinking like you’d knocked the wind out of him more than any game ever could.

Satoru made his way back to their section, shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t fit the guy who’d just won the championship MVP. The others noticed instantly.

Toji smirked, leaning back with a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. “The fuck happened to you? You look like somebody dunked on your ass.”

Suguru narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You shot your shot and she—” He didn’t even finish before his laugh spilled out.

Choso, of all people, cracked the faintest grin, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Sukuna barked out a low, cruel laugh, tattoos flexing with the way his shoulders shook. “No way. The golden boy actually got curved? Out here thinkin’ he’s untouchable.” He clapped his hands once, loud, just to punctuate it. “That’s fucking rich.”

The whole table started in, layering jokes, cackling, calling him out. Satoru just stood there, blank. Didn’t even try to bite back. He sank into the couch, grabbed a beer off the table, and stared at the label like it had the answers to the universe.

The laughter slowed as they caught on to how quiet he was.

Then, out of nowhere, he blurted:

“…Am I a playboy?”

The silence hit like a brick wall. Suguru blinked hard, then dragged a hand over his face. Toji nearly spat out his drink. Choso muttered, deadpan, “Seriously?”

Sukuna leaned forward, grinning sharp and mean. “You’re really asking us that? After all the shit you’ve pulled? After all the times you couldn’t even remember half their names the next morning?” He tilted his head, smirking. “Yeah, Gojo. You’re a fucking playboy.”

Toji barked a laugh, slapping the table. “Un-fucking-believable. He’s actually hurt over this. Goddamn.”

Suguru sighed, though his smirk lingered. “She must’ve read you like a book if you’re sitting here questioning yourself. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Satoru dragged his hand down his face with a groan, slumping deeper into the couch. For once, there was no comeback, no grin—just that stung look, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

Satoru sat there sulking, staring into his beer like it might give him divine wisdom.

Toji leaned over, snorting. “This is rich. The man with the biggest ego in the league just got fucking humbled by a pretty face in satin. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

Sukuna howled, slamming his fist against the table. “He’s still processing it! Look at him—man’s in denial. Probably replaying it in his head like it was game tape.” He leaned closer, mocking. “‘Uh, coach, where did I go wrong? She hit me with the cold shoulder, what’s the play?’”

Choso’s voice cut through, flat as ever. “You’re pathetic. All that talent, all those rings, and you fold over one reporter.”

That got Sukuna roaring again, tears at the corner of his eyes. Toji couldn’t stop grinning, shaking his head like he’d just won a bet he never placed.

Satoru groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “You assholes are enjoying this way too much.”

“Damn right,” Sukuna shot back. “You’ve been coasting your whole career, never heard the word ‘no’ in your life. Bout time someone put you in your place.”

“Fuck off,” Satoru muttered, running his hands through his damp hair.

Suguru, who’d been lounging with his drink, finally spoke up. His tone was smooth, lazy, but his smirk cut deep. “You know, Satoru… maybe it’s not that she doesn’t like you. Maybe she just doesn’t like the version of you she thinks she knows.”

Satoru lifted his head a fraction, narrowing his eyes. “…The hell does that mean?”

Suguru swirled his glass, eyes glinting. “Means your reputation caught up to you. You’ve been fucking around for so long people assume that’s all you are. And she’s not the type to waste time. So either you prove her wrong… or you keep sitting here pouting like a jackass.”

Toji whistled low, impressed. “Damn. He actually gave you something useful instead of roasting your ass.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Suguru replied smoothly, clinking his glass against Toji’s.

Satoru muttered under his breath, half to himself, “Prove her wrong, huh?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, leaning back. “Good luck with that, lover boy. Can’t wait to watch you crash and burn again.”

The others burst into laughter while Satoru sat there, jaw clenched, already scheming.

You weren’t the type who got swept up in charm. Not in college, not when you clawed your way into the industry, and definitely not now. You’d built a reputation on being sharp, polished, untouchable. The kind of reporter who asked the hard questions without flinching, who didn’t linger at afterparties hoping for selfies, who never once slipped her professionalism for the sake of a pretty face in a jersey.

You had deadlines, early mornings, a career to protect. You didn’t have time for distractions—especially not the six-foot-six, blue-eyed kind with a history of breaking records and hearts.

Which is exactly why, when you stepped out of your rideshare the next morning, coffee in hand, your stomach flipped.

Because leaning against a sleek, black imported car parked right in front of your apartment building—like he owned the whole damn street—was none other than Satoru fucking Gojo.

The same man you’d turned down less than twelve hours ago.

He was in sweats and a fitted long-sleeve that clung to his broad chest, hair still damp like he hadn’t bothered to dry it properly after a shower. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but his grin was clear as day. That cocky, shit-eating grin that told you he was way too comfortable standing there like some scene out of a bad rom-com.

Your first thought: No way. Absolutely not.

Your second thought, one you tried to squash instantly: God, he looks good.

Satoru pushed off the car casually, hands tucked in his pockets as he strolled toward you. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You froze mid-step, keys in hand, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Gojo. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he said simply, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You blinked. “Outside my apartment?”

He shrugged, smile widening. “Where else am I supposed to wait? Thought about sending flowers but, you know… this felt more personal.”

For a moment, all you could do was gape, your brain scrambling. Reporters didn’t end up on the front page for dating players. Reporters ended up fired for dating players. And yet here he was, the biggest playboy in the league, standing in front of your building like he had all the time in the world.

And worse—like he wasn’t planning to leave until you gave him something.

Your grip tightened around your coffee cup, voice sharp. “How did you even know I lived here?”

Satoru’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something sheepish behind it. He scratched the back of his neck. “Pulled a few strings with the media team. Wasn’t easy, by the way. You’re like Fort Knox with your info.”

Your jaw dropped. “You what?” The repulsion in your tone was instant, your stomach twisting. “Gojo, that’s—no. I said already, no. So please—just leave.”

You moved past him, heels clicking against the pavement, but before you could reach the door he stepped smoothly into your path, blocking you.

This time, though, the cocky grin slipped. He held his hands up like he was surrendering, his voice quieter, stripped of all the teasing. “Wait. Just—hear me out, okay?”

You glared at him, ready to snap, but something in his face stopped you. He wasn’t smirking anymore. No sunglasses, no swagger. Just those ridiculously blue eyes searching yours with a sincerity you hadn’t expected.

“I know what people say about me,” he started, voice low. “And yeah… a lot of it’s true. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been stupid. But when I saw you out there—on the court, doing your job like you were the only one in control—I couldn’t look away. And last night? When you shut me down?” He gave a short laugh, but it was self-deprecating, almost nervous. “It didn’t piss me off. It just… made me want to prove you wrong.”

You folded your arms, trying not to let the words get to you. “You think one speech erases years of—”

“I don’t expect it to,” he cut in quickly. “But I’m not here to bullshit you. Not this time. I just want a chance. One chance. To show you I’m not the guy you think I am anymore.”

Silence hung between you, heavy, the morning air sharp against your skin. You should’ve walked away. You should’ve kept your wall up. But the sincerity in his voice—how raw it sounded without the joke coating—made your chest tighten.

You sighed, finally breaking the tension. “You’re really not going to leave unless I give in, are you?”

Satoru’s grin flickered back, softer this time. “Not a chance.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head at yourself. “Fine. One chance. That’s it. You blow it, and we’re done. Understand?”

He lit up like you’d just handed him another championship trophy, grin so wide it made your stomach flip. “Crystal clear.”

When you moved past him again, this time he didn’t block your way—just fell into step beside you, hands in his pockets, humming like he’d already won something far more important than MVP.

You slid into the passenger seat, the leather still warm from the sun, and gave him a look that could cut glass. “Where are you even planning on taking me, Gojo? It’s nine in the morning.”

He slid behind the wheel like he owned the world, buckling his seatbelt with an infuriatingly casual grin. “Patience, princess. Not every date’s candlelight and champagne.”

You huffed, sinking back against the seat. “This isn’t a date.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached behind him, fumbling in the backseat. When he straightened again, there it was in his hand: a bouquet. Real flowers, not gas-station cheap, but an actual wrapped bouquet of deep red tulips and baby’s breath, tied with ribbon.

He set it on your lap like it belonged there. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit of a date.”

You froze, staring at the bouquet like it had personally offended you. The scent drifted up, subtle and sweet, making your chest tighten. Your fingers twitched, not sure whether to shove it back at him or cradle it like it was too fragile.

“Gojo…” you finally muttered, voice lower than you meant it to be. “I don’t… know what to do with this.”

He leaned one elbow on the steering wheel, tilting his head to watch you. The cocky smirk wasn’t gone, but it was tempered with something softer. “Usually people just say thank you.”

You shot him a look, cheeks warming despite yourself. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he admitted quietly, grin easing into something less practiced. “That’s the point. You don’t have to know. Just… take it. Let me figure out the rest.”

The flowers rested against your thighs, vivid and alive, and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t have an immediate comeback.

You were still reeling when he slid into the driver’s seat, like you’d accidentally stepped into an alternate universe. Gojo Satoru—Mr. Headlines, Mr. Every-Girl’s-Dream, Mr. Can’t-Keep-His-Shirt-On-At-Afterparties—had just pulled flowers out of his backseat like some corny romance drama lead. You’d almost laughed, except the way he held them out was… different. Not smug. Not taunting. Just… sincere. And that was the part that disarmed you most.

The ride was quiet—suspiciously quiet for him. No jokes, no half-cooked innuendo. Just his hands gripping the wheel like he wasn’t sure if he was doing this right. When he finally pulled into the lot, you blinked in surprise. No valet. No five-star entrance. Just a hole-in-the-wall café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the kind of place you came to when you wanted to vanish from the world for an hour.

He turned off the engine, then rounded the car to open your door. It was automatic, effortless—but you were caught off guard anyway. You stepped out slowly, clutching the flowers like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Inside, the café was warm, quiet, filled with the smell of coffee beans and fresh bread. Definitely not what you expected from him. You slipped into the booth, still watching him with suspicion.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you said finally, tone sharper than you intended. “The flowers, the car, the breakfast—whatever this is. It’s… unnecessary.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for once there wasn’t even a trace of that signature smirk. “Maybe it is. But I wanted to.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding too loud in your ears. “Gojo—”

“Satoru.” He cut in, soft but firm. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded in a way that unsettled you more than all his games put together. “Call me Satoru. I’m not trying to sell you some flashy version of me. I’m not trying to make you another story for the tabloids. I just—” He hesitated, swallowing like the words were heavier than he expected. “I just think you’re… beautiful. And not the way people call everyone beautiful. You’re the kind of beautiful that makes me want to slow down for once.”

Your mouth went dry. You opened it, closed it again. The café’s hum of quiet chatter filled the silence you couldn’t.

He gave a short, almost nervous laugh. “And yeah, I know my reputation. I know what you think of me. But for once, I’m not playing.”

You stared at him, unsure if you should be pissed, flattered, or terrified of how close his words came to slipping under your skin.

And that’s how this whole fiasco started—with you, of all people, dating the biggest player in Japan.

You weren’t proud of it at first. In fact, every time you caught yourself smiling at a text from him, you’d roll your eyes so hard you’d give yourself a headache. This was Gojo Satoru. The man who could flirt with a lamppost and make it blush. The man whose name was basically synonymous with “scandal.” And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your mornings, your late nights, and—worst of all—your thoughts.

It started small. He showed up at your office one day with takeout from that one ramen place you’d raved about in passing. “I pulled some strings,” he’d said smugly, until you found out the ‘strings’ were just him begging the owner to open early. Then there were the random coffee runs, him standing in your doorway with two cups like he hadn’t already been waiting twenty minutes just to catch you between meetings.

The dates, though—that was where you realized he wasn’t just throwing money at you. Sure, he could’ve whisked you off to the flashiest rooftop bars and private clubs, but instead he took you to places so… normal it disarmed you. A mom-and-pop bakery where the owner knew his order by heart. An aquarium at night where he walked you through every exhibit like a tour guide, making dumb fish puns until you laughed so hard you cried. A tiny vinyl shop where he insisted you pick out records together, claiming you couldn’t really know a person until you knew their taste in music.

But then came the bigger surprises, the kind that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to admit. Once, he dragged you out of bed at dawn just to drive to the coast so you could watch the sunrise. You grumbled the whole ride there, only to find him setting out a blanket and thermos of coffee like he’d planned it for weeks. Another time, after you’d had a rough day, he showed up with your favorite snacks and put on a cheesy rom-com, dramatically reenacting half the lines until you were snorting into your pillow.

Slowly, against your better judgment, the walls you’d built against him started to crack.

Because he wasn’t just showing up. He was showing up in the ways that mattered. Remembering details. Listening. Making space for you without trying to overshadow you.

And maybe that was the biggest surprise of all—that Gojo Satoru, the man you once swore was nothing but a cocky, spoiled playboy, was patient. With you. With your doubts. With every time you tried to push him away, he simply leaned closer, steady and unshaken, like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to believe him.

So yes, it was messy. Yes, it was unexpected. Yes, it made absolutely no sense. But slowly, surely, it made you certain of him.

It hit you on a random Tuesday.

Satoru had texted you at some ungodly hour—something about, “Day off, yeah? Come watch me cook these losers in practice 😎”—and against every ounce of logic, you went.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. That you’d never actually seen him in his element outside of the big games, the lights, the cameras. But when you stepped into that echoing gym, the squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the sharp slap of the ball against the floor, the way his voice carried above everyone else’s—you froze.

He looked… happy.

Not cocky, not smug, not the showman he always was for the press. Just happy. Laughing with Suguru after sinking a three. Cussing Sukuna out when he elbowed too hard. Pointing at Toji like he was calling his own shot before weaving through and dunking anyway.

And then he saw you.

In the middle of drills, sweat dripping down his temples, hair tied back haphazardly—he grinned at you like you were the only person in that cavernous gym. And in that split second, you weren’t the reporter, you weren’t someone he was trying to impress. You were just… his.

He jogged over during a water break, panting, still buzzing with energy. “You came,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious, like it wasn’t written all over your face that you’d been caught staring.

Before you could answer, he pressed the ball into your hands. “C’mon. Take a shot.”

You laughed nervously. “Satoru, no. I’ll embarrass myself.”

“That’s impossible.” His voice was softer now, low enough that only you could hear. “You could trip over your own feet and I’d still think you were perfect.”

And god, you hated him for saying it like that—so earnestly, with none of the usual teasing lilt.

The boys started chanting from the court, egging you on. You rolled your eyes, muttered a curse, and stepped up to the line. You tossed the ball—not graceful, not skilled—and it bounced off the rim. Groans erupted from the peanut gallery.

But before you could retreat in shame, Satoru caught the rebound and, without hesitation, jumped up and slammed it through the hoop. Then he landed, arms out wide, announcing to everyone like he’d just won another championship:

“That’s an assist, baby!”

The gym roared with laughter, Toji yelling that he was whipped, Choso mumbling about secondhand embarrassment—but you? You just stood there, clutching your face because for the first time, you felt it.

That tight, terrifying squeeze in your chest.

Oh shit. I’m in love with him.

A new season meant new headlines, new pressure, new fire in every game. The arena buzzed like it always did, every seat packed, fans screaming themselves hoarse. You should’ve been locked in—ready to take notes, draft sharp questions for the postgame, keep your mind where it belonged: on your job.

But instead, your eyes strayed to him.

Gojo Satoru. Star of the team. Your… whatever he was now.

Earlier that afternoon, before tip-off, he’d shown up at your apartment with a cocky grin and his team jersey draped over his arm. “For you,” he’d said, pressing it against your chest like it was a gift of the highest order. His name sprawled across the back, his number shining bold. “So everyone knows who you’re with.”

You’d sighed, trying not to melt. “Satoru, I can’t. I have to look professional for work.”

“Professional, shmofessional,” he’d whined, slouching dramatically on your couch. “They already know you’re smarter than everyone in the room. Can’t you at least let them know you’re mine, too?”

You’d laughed, kissed his cheek, and slipped into your blazer instead. And though he sulked all the way to the arena, you didn’t think much of it.

Until now.

Something was wrong.

On the court, he wasn’t himself. His movements were sluggish, his shots rimmed out, his passes missed the mark. This was the same man who could practically close his eyes and still sink a three, but tonight? He was losing.

The crowd noticed. The commentators noticed. Hell, even his teammates were shooting him looks.

And you… you sat there in your pressed blouse and neat slacks, clutching your reporter’s notebook with a sinking feeling in your gut.

Because you didn’t know why—but for the first time since you’d met him, Satoru Gojo didn’t look unstoppable. He looked distracted. And every time his eyes flicked up into the stands, finding you not in his jersey but in neutral colors instead… it was like watching his light flicker.

Was he seriously—seriously—being like this just because you didn’t wear his damn jersey?

You sat there for another two minutes, notebook limp in your lap, watching him miss another free throw, and that was it. You were done.

You sucked in a deep breath, muttered under your breath about how absolutely ridiculous this man was, and stood up. Making your way to the staff room, you tossed your blazer over a chair, tugged your blouse free from your skirt, and pulled the jersey over your head.

Gojo Satoru’s jersey. His name sprawled bold across your back, his number gleaming like it was the only one that mattered.

Thankfully, the skirt you’d chosen for work was loose and flowy, just brushing your knees, and somehow—infuriatingly—it matched the blue trim on the jersey. You caught your reflection in the mirror and groaned.

“This man, I swear to god…” you muttered, but your cheeks were warm anyway.

By the time you stepped back out into the stands, the arena was alive with restless energy, the fans buzzing with confusion at Gojo’s off-game. His teammates were starting to pick up his slack, but it was obvious—they needed him.

And then he looked up.

His gaze swept the seats, searching, distracted, until it landed on you.

You. In his jersey.

And just like that, the switch flipped. His grin cracked wide across his face, cocky and sharp, like the man you knew. He smacked the ball back from Suguru, dribbled once, twice, and sank a clean, effortless three-pointer that sent the arena roaring.

“Unbelievable,” you breathed, pressing a hand over your face as the crowd around you went wild. “He’s actually insane.”

But when he jogged backward down the court, pointing right at you in front of everyone—crowd, cameras, his teammates—you felt it down to your bones.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t just playing for the championship. He was playing for you.

The shift was immediate.

The moment Satoru spotted you in that jersey, he went from sluggish to electric. It was like someone flipped a damn breaker inside him—the swagger came back, the confidence, the way he moved like the court was built for him.

Suguru gave him a look the next play down, catching his pass clean before sending it back. “Oh, so you’re awake now?”

“Shut up and watch,” Satoru smirked, pivoting hard and cutting through two defenders like they weren’t even there. The dunk that followed rattled the rim so loud it echoed through the entire arena.

The crowd exploded.

“THAT’S the Gojo I know!” Sukuna barked from the bench, clapping once, his grin sharp and feral. “Don’t think I didn’t see what turned you on.”

Toji snorted, wiping his face with a towel. “Man really needs his girl wearing his name before he remembers how to play ball. Jesus Christ.”

Choso, deadpan as ever, added, “Down bad.”

Suguru couldn’t help but laugh, jogging back on defense. “He’s not even denying it.”

And he wasn’t.

Because the next possession, Satoru hit another three. Then another. And another. Every time the ball left his hands, the net barely even whispered on the way down. It was poetry, pure muscle memory and instinct—but his eyes kept flicking back to you.

You, standing there in his jersey, skirt swishing when you cheered despite yourself.

The commentators were losing it, the fans on their feet, the entire stadium chanting his name like he’d been reborn. But for him? The game had narrowed into something stupidly, selfishly simple.

He was going to win this for you.

By the final buzzer, the scoreboard read like a miracle comeback. Gojo: thirty points. Ten rebounds. Seven assists. A highlight reel crammed into one game.

The crowd was thunderous, chanting his name, papers flying in the air, the arena shaking like the roof would rip right off. His teammates surrounded him, clapping his back, tugging at his jersey, yelling in his ear.

But Suguru just leaned close enough to mutter, “You realize everyone knows now, right?”

Satoru grinned, breathless, sweat slick on his temples. “Good.”

Toji barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Whipped, Gojo. Absolutely fucking whipped.”

And Sukuna—never one to pass on salt—pointed right at you in the stands. “Hope she knows she’s basically the sixth man now. Put her in the stat sheet.”

Choso only added, “Should’ve worn it from the start. We’d have blown them out by forty.”

Their voices were drowned out by the roar of the crowd, the celebration, the storm of confetti canons firing overhead. But Satoru’s gaze? His grin? His little two-fingered salute from the middle of the court?

All of it was aimed straight at you.

You were still catching your breath from screaming like a lunatic in the stands when a staffer tapped your shoulder, clipboard in hand and panic in their eyes.

“Reporter, you’re up. Post-game interview. We’re live in two.”

Your stomach dropped.

You glanced down at yourself—still in Satoru’s oversized jersey, your professional blouse balled up and forgotten in the staff room. The hem nearly swallowed your skirt, and your press badge looked completely ridiculous clipped to the neckline.

“Okay, um—just let me get changed real quick—”

“No time,” the staffer cut in, already steering you toward the tunnel where cameras were setting up. “We go live in less than two minutes.”

You swore your entire career flashed before your eyes. Getting fired, blacklisted, replaced by some fresh intern who would never let this happen. You were practically hyperventilating as they shoved a mic into your hand.

And then—because the universe hated you—a second voice rang out.

“Gojo! Interview, let’s go!” another crew member shouted, waving him over.

Satoru jogged up, hair damp, jersey sticking to his skin, still buzzing from victory. The moment his eyes landed on you in his number, professionalism officially went off the rails.

“Holy shit,” he grinned, and before you could sidestep him, he scooped you right into his arms again, hugging you like the cameras weren’t already being adjusted. “You look so good in my name, sweetheart.”

You hissed, trying to shove him off, your mic dangerously close to picking up every word. “Satoru! This is live television—”

“Then everyone’s about to see how happy I am,” he shot back, annoyingly smug, one arm still draped heavy across your shoulders.

The director’s voice blared from somewhere behind the cameras: “Positions, people! And… we’re live in five, four—”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you plastered on the brightest professional smile you could muster, standing straight despite Satoru being right there, radiating heat, his arm snug over you like he was claiming real estate.

“—three, two, one!”

The red light blinked on.

And there he was. Gojo Satoru. Fresh MVP, dripping sweat, grinning wide at the camera with his arm slung over you like you were his prize, not the one supposed to be running this damn interview.

You managed, through clenched teeth and a dazzling smile, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here with tonight’s MVP, Gojo Satoru—fresh off a stunning comeback performance. Satoru, congratulations on the win.”

He leaned into the mic, eyes glinting. “Thanks, baby. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The crowd behind the camera lost their minds.

The red light on the camera burned bright, and your smile was glued in place like your entire career depended on it—because it did.

“Gojo Satoru,” you began smoothly, voice steady even though his arm was still heavy across your shoulders, “another MVP performance tonight, and quite the comeback in the second half. What changed for you out there?”

He didn’t even glance at the camera. His ice-blue eyes slid straight to you, lips curving into that lazy grin that made you want to strangle him and kiss him all at once.

“What changed?” he echoed, pretending to think as he licked his lips. Then, without missing a beat: “Well, I looked up and saw my girl in my jersey. And suddenly, I couldn’t let her down, y’know?”

You almost dropped the mic. Almost.

Behind the camera, the director slapped his headset, mouthing WHAT THE HELL while Suguru and Sukuna were visible over his shoulder, doubled over in silent laughter.

Your laugh was professional, airy, definitely fake. “Right. Uh, motivation comes in many forms, I suppose.” You tried steering it back, fast. “Can you walk us through that final quarter? You put up fifteen points alone—”

“Mmhm.” He nodded, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. “But you’re not gonna mention that assist? The one where you bricked the shot and I turned it into a dunk?”

The arena crowd erupted in laughter—they were eating this up.

You ground your teeth behind another smile. “I’m pretty sure you were the one holding the ball, Satoru.”

He leaned closer to the mic, eyes still locked on you. “Doesn’t matter. You gave me the reason to score.”

The staff nearly fainted. The director yelled, “CUT TO CROWD, CUT TO CROWD!” but it was too late. The damage was done.

You pressed forward, desperate to salvage any professionalism. “So, looking ahead to the next game, what do you think this team needs to—”

“Oh, that’s easy.” He interrupted again, smirk curling. “I just need her in the stands. Preferably in my bed after—”

“Satoru!” you snapped under your breath, jabbing your elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him grunt. Your mic stayed trained on the camera like nothing had happened. “Next game, fans can expect more energy from Gojo Satoru. Back to you.”

The second the director yelled cut, you spun on him, whisper-shouting, “What is wrong with you!?”

But he just leaned down, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes, and murmured low so only you could hear, “Everything’s right when you’re wearing my name, sweetheart.”

-

-

-

What happened didn’t help you at all. God should’ve had mercy on you, because Satoru Gojo clearly had none.

One second you’re still replaying how you almost lost your career on live TV, his arm draped over your shoulders like you were his trophy, the director screaming, “We’re live!” while you prayed to combust. The next, you’re in his hotel room, bent over the edge of the mattress, his oversized jersey swallowing your frame while he’s absolutely drilling into you from behind.

“Still in my jersey, huh?” his voice is smug as hell, laughter rasping out between sharp thrusts that make your knees knock. “—‘We’re live in two minutes, there’s no time for that!’” he mimics the staff in a high-pitched whine, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt. “Guess they were right, weren’t they? No time for you to change.”

“Shut—shut up, Gojo—!” you manage to gasp, palms clawing at the sheets as his hips slam against yours.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“Oh, don’t get shy now. You looked so professional on camera, all serious, trying to steer the interview back like you weren’t dripping under my arm the whole time.” He leans forward, chest flush to your back, grinding his cock so deep into you that you choke. “Bet every viewer at home knew exactly what I was doing to you later.”

You want to tell him no one knew, that it was still salvageable, that your boss didn’t text you yet. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, and murmurs, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Oh wait—no camera this time, just me.”

The bastard laughs so hard at his own joke you almost scream in frustration. Almost. But then he angles his thrusts different and suddenly your voice comes out broken, needy, humiliating.

“Yeah, that’s the sound,” he groans, snapping his hips faster. “Fuck, you sound better than when you were trying to hold it together on stage. All polite, all professional.” His teeth graze your ear, and you nearly collapse when he mutters: “Let me interview you now—question one: how good does my dick feel?”

You shove back against him out of pure defiance, but it only makes him groan and laugh harder.

“God, you’re a menace,” you pant.

“And you’re still wearing my number across your back.” Another smack to your ass, another sharp thrust that rattles you. “You think you’re ever gonna live this down at work? Nah. Every time you go on camera, every time you interview someone else—they’re gonna remember this. That jersey. Me.”

It’s humiliating how much his taunting makes your walls squeeze around him, how much it fuels him to fuck you harder, rougher, laughing into your neck like this is the best entertainment of his life.

Your arms were trembling, cheek pressed against the sheets, breaths ragged as his thrusts kept knocking your body forward. You tried to form words—anything—but all that left your mouth was a strangled, “Oh my god—”

He barked out a laugh, the kind that made your stomach twist, cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. His voice dropped low and wicked against your ear:

“God isn’t here, baby. You say my name.” Another brutal thrust. “Gojo. Satoru. Say it like you did when the mics weren’t hot.”

You shook your head, more a whimper than a protest, and his hand slid around your throat—not choking, just holding, forcing your back to arch, forcing your voice out.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled, the playful arrogance from the interview dripping into something filthier, hungrier. “You think I waited this long just to fuck you quiet? No, no. I’ve been waiting for this moment—” he punctuated each word with sharp, merciless thrusts that had you clutching the sheets— “since the second you walked into that stadium looking all buttoned-up and professional. And now look at you.”

Your skirt was rucked up to your waist, his jersey swallowing your frame, your hair a mess from his grip. He was pounding you so hard the headboard rattled against the wall, the sound obscene in the otherwise sleek hotel room.

“Wearing my name on your back while I fuck you stupid,” he groaned, voice cracking just slightly as he drove in deep, his hips relentless. “Shit, you don’t even get it—you think this was about a game? Nah. You were the game. And I’m winning.”

“Satoru—” you gasped finally, voice breaking.

“There we go,” he smirked, loosening his hold just enough to press a sloppy kiss to your temple. Then he leaned back, both hands gripping your hips like handles, slamming you back onto his cock harder, faster, until your knees nearly gave out.

“Yeah, say it again. Louder. Don’t make me remind you who you belong to, jersey or not.”

You tried to bite your tongue, but the pace he set was ruthless, your body betraying you with every sound that spilled out. He chuckled darkly every time you moaned his name, every time your voice cracked, feeding off it like it was better than any victory on the court.

“Fuck, look at you. Can’t keep it professional now, can you?” he teased between heavy breaths. “All it took was me in your guts and suddenly my good little interviewer’s falling apart.”

And still—he didn’t let you come. He’d edge you close, dragging your body into bliss, then slowing just enough to keep you on the brink, laughing under his breath when you whined.

He didn’t let you catch your breath. One hard pull and you were flat on your back, legs splayed, the mattress dipping under the raw force of him as he pinned you—mating press style—chest to chest, hips marauding with no mercy. The room shrank to the press of his body and the relentless slap of skin on skin.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick, leaning so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips. He smirked, eyes hooded and dangerous. “Taking it like a champ, baby. You gonna make me proud?”

Your hands went instinctively to his shoulders, then snarled into his hair as he drove into you again and again. Each thrust was harder than the last, tailing that delicious ache from your core right up into your ribs. The headboard thudded—rhythm and percussion to his relentless tempo.

He laughed—short, sharp, delighted—at the way you trembled. “God, you look so stupidly good under me.” His fingers splayed at your hips, thumb digging into the meat of your thigh like he wanted you marked. “Say it. Say you’re mine. Say my name.”

You pushed and pushed for breath, for words that came out in a broken, wet whisper between gasps. “Satoru—” it slipped from you with more heat than you’d planned and he groaned, a sound that vibrated straight through you.

Then he did something that made your stomach flip and a ridiculous, feral part of you melt: he leaned down and spat—right into your open mouth. Not a gentle, romantic press of lips, but a rough, possessive spit that mixed with your saliva. He held your gaze in the mirror as you swallowed, watching the reflection of your own surrender.

“Good girl,” he snarled, voice thick with approval. He used that spit like it was his private lubricant, slicking between your lips with his tongue before capturing your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss—half praise, half claim. The taste of him was metallic and hot; you tasted the salt of sweat and the tang of victory all at once.

You could only shake your head against the bed, throat bobbing with every ragged inhale. He slammed harder, a punishing, rhythmic fuck that had your nails white on his shoulders and the room echoing with your sounds.

He eased momentarily only to slide his hand up to your mouth, fingers warm and slick, and pry it open. Another spit—this time slower, deliberate—dropped into your mouth and he watched you swallow it with a savage, delighted grin. “Keep that down,” he instructed, rough and ridiculously pleased at your compliance. “That’s mine. Don’t be shy.”

Your vision blurred. The mirror reflected two figures: you, exposed and trembling, and him—all predatory grace—dominating you with a grin that said he meant to savor every second. He rotated his hips, angling his cock so each plunge hit a spot that made your toes curl. The pleasure built like a storm; you rose toward some sharp, dizzy edge, and he dragged you back with a laugh that sounded equal parts triumph and mischief.

“You’re not allowed to come yet,” he said, voice steady and absolute. “Not until I say so. Not until I hear you beg to wear this jersey every damn game. Not until I hear you promise to tell the camera about your favorite parts of me.”

It was ridiculous. It was obscene. It pushed every professional instinct, every sensible barricade you’d built, to shreds. And it—infuriatingly, embarrassingly—worked. Your body rode the brink, tethered to his will, every nerve screaming for release while his hands and hips orchestrated that delicious denial.

He set a new pace—faster, meaner, more intimate—driving into you with a cadence that left no room for thought, only sensation. Between hard kisses and harsher thrusts he whispered filthy little plays on the interview banter you’d shared—inside jokes, mock compliments, that ridiculous, private swagger that made the room both a stage and a confession booth.

You were drowning in the press of him, in the taste and the spit and the shameless possessiveness, in the mirror’s unblinking witness. The world outside the hotel—cameras, fans, headlines—felt as distant as a different life. All that existed was the rhythm of his hips, the command of his voice, and the way he kept you teetering, not yet undone, waiting to pull the final cord.

He slowed just enough to let you gasp, let your legs quiver beneath him, then hauled you up to the edge of the cliff again, eyes bright and merciless.

“Beg for it,” he demanded, the grin a razor. “Tell me you want me to finish you off, tell me you’ll wear my name and mean it.”

Your reply cracked out—a broken, desperate whisper—full of surrender and need and the metallic aftertaste of his spit as it lingered on your tongue.

You crawl back toward the edge of the cliff, breath ragged and scraping, words tumbling out of you raw and urgent—nothing polished, nothing rehearsed. “Please—please, Toru—” you beg, voice breaking, the nickname slipping out hot and desperate in a way that makes your skin prickle.

It lands like a punch.

He goes still for a heartbeat, pupils blown wide, that feral grin softening into something that looks dangerously like worship. “Toru?” he rasps, voice thick and hungry. He’s always liked his name said a certain way; hearing you shorten it, make it intimate, strips whatever control he’d been playing with down to bone. He answers with motion—hands like anchors at your hips, hauling you up so your ribs press into his chest, changing the angle, claiming you harder.

“Say it again,” he breathes, low and rough. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Satoru—no—Toru—please—” you choke, the syllables tearing out of you with heat and surrender.

That’s all he needs. It’s the word that flips something locked and deadly serious inside him; the grin that follows is less teasing now and utterly victorious. He drives into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs—each thrust harder, faster, closer—until all the world narrows to the burn at your core and the press of his body over yours.

Your moans become the only punctuation. You’re helpless to do anything but ride the waves he’s making, nails scoring his back, breath stuttering in your throat. He hushes you with a brutal, claiming kiss, and the mirror catches every flash of the hunger on his face—the way his jaw works, the slick of sweat at his temple, the bright, sharp look in his eyes that says he’s finally crossed his own line.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice a thunderclap. “Say it louder. Make me remember you like this.”

“Toru—Toru—” you cry, the name a prayer and a dare, spilling from you over and over until you’re shaking, raw with want. Each time you say it, his strokes get faster, more ruthless, as if the sound feeds him oxygen. He buries himself harder, nails digging into your hips, breath ragged and fast.

The world fractures into a white-hot rope of sensation that starts low and climbs, and you feel it—an impossible tightening, an unspooling heat that swallows the rest of your thoughts. Your muscles clamp, and the first wave rips through you with a force that makes your vision white at the edges. You come around him—hard, everything collapsing and then reassembling as your body convulses in delicious, humiliating spasms.

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he speeds up, meeting you thrust for thrust, riding your orgasm like a champion until you’re left breathless and shaking beneath him. Your name is a ragged stream of sound; his only answer is a guttural, raw noise that’s half-roar, half-pleasure.

Then he folds, too—sudden and total. His hips stutter, a deep, hot pulse, and you feel him flood you, whole and fierce and claiming. He keeps moving, fucking you through his release as if to make sure the world will remember this moment, until his muscles quake and he collapses forward, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, breath hot and heavy across your skin.

For a long second the two of you are simply that—pressed together, chest to chest, sweat cooling between your bodies. You taste him on your lips when you pull away enough to blink; his grin is softer now, almost tender, a look that’s equal parts smug and stunned.

“You were perfect,” he whispers into your hair, thumb rubbing light circles on your lower back. “God, you were perfect.”

You laugh, shaky, molten and relieved, and it turns into a small, breathless sound that feels like the only right thing in the room. You bury your face against his shoulder and whisper, half teasing, half sincere, “Don’t tell Suguru I let you win.”

He huffs a laugh, kissing the crown of your head. “Not a chance. I’ll make sure they all know.”

And for once, wrapped in the aftermath—messy, loud, utterly yours—you let yourself believe it.

The media frenzy was insane. Memes of the “jersey incident” interview were everywhere, fans started calling you #TheRealMVP, and management? They panicked. You half-expected to be fired, until Satoru waltzed into that meeting, flashed his grin, and promised, “We won’t be too public about it whenever she interviews me.”

Of course, he left out the part where he’d crash your interviews with opposing players just to sling an arm around you on camera. But management’s hands were tied—ratings were through the roof, sponsors were drooling, and honestly? You were bringing in more clicks than some of the players.

So they let it slide. His teammates roasted you both constantly, fans shipped it like a rom-com, and Satoru made no effort to keep things subtle. And despite the chaos, despite the memes, despite him being an absolute menace… everyone knew the truth.

You weren’t just dating Gojo Satoru. You were the real MVP.

You remember perfectly the way you’d flipped it over and over in your hands, the gears turning in your head as you tried to crack down on the motive behind this invitation. A threat? A joke? Texting all of your friends about what a cute prank that was - only to get a shared confused reaction, and a few “April Fool’s has already passed, y’know.”

Hell, you’d even cornered the mailman, desperate to get to the bottom of this. But that wasn’t particularly helpful when he was only able to shake his head in protest, pale as a sheet, and trembling ever-so-slightly as he sped away from you. Weird. 

Without a clue as to who sent the letter, or even a follow-up in the days after, you stuffed the invitation somewhere deep in the back of your closet and handed the bouquet to your mother. Not bothering to tell your parents where it was from - because who’d worry over a stupid prank like this? It was probably one of the kids from down the street that’d gotten their grubby lil’ hands on a printer. 

You, however, had more important things to focus on - like trying to help your father revive his failing diner. It was a family business, a quaint, hearty little shop. One that was quickly, and dangerously, losing both customers and employees with the brand new fast food place that’d popped up right across the street. 

Which is why you found yourself here - working overtime on a Saturday night, looking over the empty chairs and stacks of boxes from behind the counter. Whatever, it was only a few weeks until relocation anyway.

You heave out a sigh, eyes flitting to the clock beside you - 11:21pm.

Nine minutes more, you drum your fingers in boredom, maybe you should just close up early. Because sure as hell no one else was-

“Oh? Still open?”

“Ah- Uh, yes, welcome!” Jolting out of your reverie, you stand up ramrod straight, taking in the customer standing at the door. He wasn’t one of the regulars - no, you think you’d remember if he was. Cloudy white hair, piercing blue eyes that twinkle from above his shades, even in the dim light of the diner. He was so very tall, taking up almost all of the doorframe, only getting more and more imposing as he walks up to you in quick, long strides. Magnetizing. 

And if you dared let your eyes wonder, you caught a few tattoos peeking out from his unfairly snug button-up, clashing with its flashy blue color. Dragons? Trees? Or were they flowers - roses?

“Roses.” the man in front of you answers your unspoken question, voice so very deep, and melodic - tinged with something playful in it that you wouldn’t have expected at first glance. At your raised brow he continues with a wink, “Could tell ya were checkin’ me out, sweetheart.”

“F-forgive my rudeness, sir.” you sputter, face burning. You look away from the way his muscled ripple as he crosses his arms, immediately turning to fumble with the menus, “Please take a seat and I’ll be there with you shortly.”

You’d expected him to take up a booth, or maybe head towards one of the good tables around the corner. What you did not expect was for him to plop down on the stool right in front of you, flashing you a playful grin before humming, “S’alright, m’just waitin’ for someone.”

Oh. Well, it made sense that someone like him would be taken. Swallowing, you hand over the menu, before giving him a close-lipped smile, “A lover?”

Resting his head on his palms, not bothering to even glance at the list of dishes before him. “My fiancée.”

“Congratulations, Mr…”

“Gojo Satoru.” he tilts his head, looking way too happy with himself. “Please, call me Satoru.” 

You nod softly, picking up your pen and notepad to get this conversation over with - and maybe to also avoid his heavy stare that made something hot and uncomfortable coil in your stomach. “Right, Mr-” at his disappointed whine, “Satoru. Congratulations, must be one heck of a thing to plan.”

“Oh I’m having fun with the wedding planning.” He waves off your words with a chuckle, missing - or pointedly ignoring - the way you were waiting for his order. “How’s it going for you?”

What?

You narrow your eyes at the way Satoru was batting those long lashes up at you, deceivingly innocent and waiting for your answer. “I’m sorry- Me? Did you mean with the diner relocation plans or-”

“No no no.” he laughs, loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say at someone interrupting you if you weren’t so mesmerized by that little dimple at the corner of his grin. One that moves as he plows on, “M’asking how wedding planning is going for you, wifey~”

There’s a beat of silence. One. Two. With you gaping at the pure audacity as Satoru quiets down to little titters, seemingly studying your reaction in amusement. Which slowly, but surely, drains from his face as you grit out a sharp, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re very busy and don’t have time to entertain your pick-up lines.”

Those widened blue eyes sweep the painfully empty diner, letting out a low whisper. “I can see that.” you let out a strangled noise of embarrassment at that. “But you’re really gonna ask your husband to leave?”

Huffing in frustration, “I don’t have a husband.”

“...you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. And who the fuck are you to tell me I do?”

“What?!” Satoru jumps out of his seat in shock, fast enough that the stool clatters to the floor with a deafening clang! Hands slamming on the counter as he leans over it - so close that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face with each hurried, shrill word that tumbles out of his lips. “What do you mean you don’t have a- I’m gonna kill those fuckin’- After I bought Canva premium just to make that invitation? Did the flowers come at least?”

And while Satoru is panicking, words spilling out of his mouth a mile a minute - only one of those rings in your mind - invitation. 

“You.” you hiss, barely audible over meltdown in front of you. Pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the one behind that prank with the dumbass roses.”

That seems to snap Satoru out of his dramatic monologue - and you’re glad it did. Because he looks up to meet your glare, “Hey! You didn’t like the roses?” 

And for the first time, you see Satoru more serious than he’d been ever since stepping into this diner. Eyes somewhere behind you, ablaze and almost…frightening. “Didn’t you ask him?” 

You whirl around to see your father, who’d apparently rushed downstairs at the commotion. Baseball bat to fight off the intruder hanging in midair as he stands frozen, taking in the scene before him - but more importantly, that man in front of him. “You.”

---

And, well, it’s not everyday that you’re having late night tea with your parents and one of your father’s…business associates. Even rarer when said business associate is…you gulp, praying to whoever’s above that this is all some sick dream you’ll wake up any second from. 

“So, let me get this straight…” you sigh, pinching your nose in frustration. It’s been an hour or two of trying to understand whatever this was. Giving a stern look at the two men squirming across from you in the booth. “My father was conned by one of your-” you gesture your head at Satoru, which only makes his smirk grow, “-men to take a loan from your um-”

“Family, yakuza. Anything goes.” he supplies helpfully.

You wave him off, trying as quickly as possible to brush off the ‘yakuza’ bit that makes your stomach lurch. “And now he owes you a favor of…what exactly?”

Satoru leans across the table, t-shirt opening tantalizingly. Voice dropping to an almost-pleading murmur, “Look, I just need you to pretend to be my doting, loving, charming, gorgeous-” backtracking at your withering glare, “...Anyway. I just need a fake wife for a few months, convince my family to get off my back about arranged marriage n’ carrying the Gojo legacy. Then bam! you stomp all over my heart, we divorce and I’m too heartbroken to ever get married again. Easy.” 

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You bet Satoru’s disappointed groan echoed across all 23 words of Tokyo, because it was definitely ringing in your ears amongst whirlwind thoughts of marriage? To a yakuza? Completely, and utterly ridiculous. And from his talks of “carrying the family name” it seemed like he was some sort of future head as well. Though, he definitely wasn’t acting like it right now. 

“Alright. Plan B, then.” 

Oh? You couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a manchild as sits up from where he’d been splayed all over the table in tragedy. Lacing his fingers together before turning to your father, continuing in a more diplomatic tone, “But I want the cash you took. In full. Now. Gonna hafta disguise my best friend as my wife, n’ dresses for a six foot man aren’t cheap.”

Your mother looked like she could faint right then and there. Choking out a noise of surprise, “B-but we’ve deposited it all for the relocation- Please, can’t we pay any other-”

At the firm shake of his head, you stammer, “Now? Aren’t you some yakuza nepo baby, can’t you just ask your parents for money?”

“No.” Satoru chuckles, in a tone which told you that he probably could but might just lose his head for it. Only further supported as he muses, “Not unless I want a finger cut off for dealin’ money on the side. Seriously, sweetheart, why did you think I sent you the invitation last week?”

“Take me instead.” you father cries, trying to negotiate above Satoru’s half-joking mutters of “Ugh, I’m not into ol’ men dumb enough to sign yakuza contracts.”

It was all too much. You couldn’t take out the relocation deposit - it was a new start, possibly the only thing to save your family. Nor do you have enough in savings to pay back the loan. And if Satoru’s warning was anything to listen to, then you knew that dealing with the yakuza could be dangerous. Why you? Why you? Why you? 

“Fine.”

The moment that word leaves your lips, it’s like the whole world freezes. Everyone in the room - including yourself - unsure of whether they heard you right. “I’ll do it.” you clarify, voice hesitant but firm. Eyeing the way Satoru’s eyes begin to sparkle, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. Raising a finger to shush your father’s protests, “But for a month, until we leave this place. After that m’going with my family and you’re never to contact us ever again. Deal?”

And oh Satoru seemed over the moon, reaching out to grasp your hand in a handshake - so warm, and softer than you’d imagined. “Swear on m’life, wifey. You can kill me if not.”

He was so intimidating - and intimidatingly exhilarating.

Only an hour more of arguing and a quick phone call later, men - yakuza, you assume - were flooding your family’s little diner. All tattooed and burly, looking somewhat comical as they carried your few packed-up suitcases outside. Well, at least they stayed for a late dinner. 

And ended up being witnesses to a very rushed, very rushed signing of marriage agreements. Evidence to really show up your alleged marriage. It barely even lasted a few minutes before, well, that was that - you were married, to the son of a yakuza head. 

You say a quick goodbye to your teary parents, soothing them with promises of “I’ll be back before you know it. One month. That’s all.” 

“And don’t worry about a thing,” Satoru sing-songs, coming up behind you. “If there’s anyone she’s safe with, it’s me.”

“You better keep your mitts off of my baby.” your father warns, raising the baseball bat still clutched in his hand menacingly. 

“I won’t lay a hand on her, father-in-law. And anyone that even thinks about it…” he cackles, breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll kill.”

Prancing off to hold the door of that shiny black Mercedes parked outside open for you. “Ladies first.”

With another quick hug to your parents, you hastily make your way inside. Feeling extremely out of place amongst the overly luxurious interior in your slightly-stained work uniform. God, the covers on these cushions themselves probably cost more than your house. 

“Like the car? I can buy you one. Or four, as a wedding gift.” Satoru grins. 

Oh, right. You weren’t in here alone - you were here with your new…husband. The word felt so strange to even wrap your head around, instead you turn to meet his easy smile. Clenching your jaw as you grit out, “So how do we act m-married?”

You swear he brightens up impossibly, scooting closer to you on the seat. Heart lurching as he raises his eyes to meet yours, dizzy with the heat of his proximity, he promptly pulls out his Notes app. 

“Well, you see. I forgot to send this with the invitation so you better memorize this before we get home.” flashing you a long, long list of likes and dislikes, “Here’s my favorite color and my favorite Digimon and-”

That car ride could not have been longer. Because in addition to arguing with Satoru about who the best Digimon was, you had to fill out your own version of his overly extensive list. “So we can be foolproof.” he’d whined. And you’d been so engrossed in the process that you barely noticed the looming estate out the window.

“We’re here, young master and madam Gojo.”

It took a second to register that the driver was talking to you as well as Satoru, immediately pushing your face against the window to take in the scenic site before you. Heavy wooden doors - probably taller than an average house - opening to reveal sprawling gardens. Koi ponds and rose bushes lining a pathway that led to a traditional Japanese house - all power and glory. You half wondered whether you were still in Tokyo. 

“Home sweet home.” Satoru grunts. “Such a beautiful hell, huh?”

Your home, for the next month. At least. 

And if you had any doubt that Satoru was in fact the future yakuza head, that all went out the window at the welcome you got. Men lining the wooden hallway, bowing at the waist while your all-new husband wraps a hand around your shoulders, pointing out the various rooms and ornaments as he led you in. 

“-and this is going to be our room.” he brings you in front of a large tatami room, one the size of your entire diner. 

“Ours.” you repeat. Walking unhurriedly to the king-sized bed in the middle - the only bed. Heart pounding as you take it all in. 

“Ours.” Satoru echoes, happily. And if he was any bit as affected as you are, then he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out a blue yukata from the closet, a golden Gojo emblem stamped on the back. Made with such a pretty, delicate fabric that it made you shiver to think how much it cost. “Now, I had these made jus’ for you last week. You can give me a lil’ fashion show tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest, wifey.”

It’s only when he says the word “rest” that you realize exactly how tired you are. Your long shift and the entirety of this having your eyes feeling heavier than usual. 

“Um…” you start, risking a glance at the bed. 

Satoru jolts, “Ah- don’t worry, sweetheart. You take the bed.” beginning to saunter outside to meet his team. “Got some work, so I’ll be sleeping in my office. Dream of me~”

And, really, you almost felt bad splaying yourself out on the crisp navy sheets. Sinking into the heady smell of fabric softener, and something so so Satoru. Addictive. Like an expensive cologne that made your head spin, one that wafted through your mind as you dreamt of summer weddings, and blue, blue skies.

“Ichiji.”

“Yes, young master.”

“See to it that the madam is safe. Anyone try anything funny and you bring them back alive. I wanna be the one to play with them, okay~?”

“Of course, young master.”

---

Admittedly, you probably have the best sleep of your life at the Gojo estate- or, it would’ve been if your husband didn’t burst in every morning at 7am. Handing you a ridiculously big bouquet of white roses, straight from the garden, before dragging you outside. 

Milling about the estate, Satoru was never too far behind, chattering away. Letting you hold onto his strong arm crossing the bridges, occasionally having you show up to yakuza meetings as his plus one. Relishing in the rumors spreading all through the yakuza syndicates in Tokyo. Gojo Satoru, and the commoner wife he’d do anything for.

Weirdly enough, some strange little part of you thinks he puts in a lot more work than necessary for some pretend relationship…

“I think that stupid plan is really working, y’know.” you muse to him after a few days of this. Dipping your fingers into one of your favorite koi ponds with a nod at the figures watching you from a distance - Gojo clan elders, you assume. “Those old coots hate being within a five mile radius of me.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh, “That so? S’probably the method acting then, huh? Taking good care of me, wifey?” he wiggles his eyebrows, nudging you from where he was holding an umbrella beside you. 

Furrowing your brows mockingly, “S’funny for you to say, they don’t even look at me. But they follow me around everywhere.”

“Do they annoy you, must I do my duty as a husband and gouge their eyes out?”

He…didn’t sound like he was joking. 

Rolling your eyes, you pointedly ignoring the way your heart lurches at the word “husband.” Still so jumpy at the idea. “Speaking of, your parents give up the marriage proposals, yet?”

At this, Satoru clenches his jaw. “Still nagging, but they’re finally considering you as my actual bride rather than some hijink.” he spits out, seemingly recalling whatever conversation they’d had before. “And they want to have some family ‘dinner’, but it’s going to be awful and you don’t-”

“Let’s go.” you interrupt, nodding determinedly. “The realer this marriage seems, the faster we can divorce, no?”

He blinks at you slowly, “That’s…true. For the divorce, then?”

“For the divorce.”

And, well, that was settled - you were to meet your new in-laws. The ever-elusive heads of the Gojo clan. Also one of the most powerful yakuza in all of Japan, but, semantics really.

You spend the evening cooped up with Satoru in the library, poring over the bloody history of the yakuza - with the Gojo’s heading them all. The only time he actually leaves your side is a few hours before the dinner. 

“For you.” he’d murmured, lips ghosting your ear, slipping something cold onto your finger. You look down to see one of the most beautiful rings you’ve ever seen - gold, with delicate blue and white diamonds encrusting it, cut in the shape of roses. “Can’t be married without a wedding ring, huh? Think of it as a good luck charm for tonight.”

And with that he’s swept away in a flurry of bodyguards and ruffled men, and you’re left standing there all alone. Cheeks burning, wondering how the hell he knew your perfect fit. 

You worry longer about the dinner than you spend actually preparing for it. Though, that’s probably because of the group of stylists that come into your room to help you dress. Wordlessly fussing around you despite your weak attempts at conversation, eyes averted. Almost like they were…scared of you. 

But there wasn’t much time to think of that - not when you’re being marched off in the direction of what you remember Satoru had called the family dining room. “More like a fuckin’ meeting room for those hardasses.” he’d snarked.

The moment you step in, all eyes turn to you - the only ones you recognize being Satoru’s, who immediately stands with a smile. “Ah, wifey! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” pulling you into a tight hug. His voice drops into a low, raspy murmur in your ear, “Ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in my colors, y’know.”

Traitorously, jolts of electricity run down your spine. Especially at how fucking gorgeous he looked in traditional wear. Whispering back, “Playing up the doting husband bit, huh?”

“Only for you.”

Pulling away, you drink in his dangerously handsome state. Hair so effortlessly styled, tattoos winking at you from just above his yukata - blue, to match yours. So pretty.

Stammering out, “Corny.”

“Only for-”

“Now that the girl is finally here, may we begin with dinner?” A stained voice sounds from behind Satoru, old and tinged with a tone that years of customer service told you did not bode well. Craning your head, you look over his broad shoulders, meeting the eyes of several disapproving elders. 

Shit. Some of the most dangerous people in this country right now. 

Gathered here - for you. 

Automatically, you knew which ones were his parents - painfully upright, and hauntingly beautiful in a cold, calculated way. Sat right at the head of the long table. With a jolt, you realize that you two are seated right opposite them. 

“So.” his mother starts, as you take your seat with a bow. Satoru doesn’t waste any time on niceties, plopping down right next to you, scooting closer than necessary. “Congratulations on the…wedding, my son.”

My son. You ignore the way both parents pointedly avoided looking at you. Your husband, however, does not. “What~ Not gonna wish my dear wife as well?”

It’s a silent staredown - one that has the entire room on edge. You don’t realize that you’re clenching your fists in tension until Satoru untangles them, slipping his larger hands into yours. Gaze still alarmingly intense and locked on the other side of the table.

He wins.

“Congratulations. Let us begin now.” 

You breathe out a sigh of relief, the tension only slightly broken as butlers stream into the room, carrying decadent trays of food. Well, at least the food might make up for how appalling this dinner is going to be.

It’s only 15 minutes in that you realize how very, horribly wrong you are - because the elders of the Gojo estate really don’t hold back, do they? Thank God you memorized every part of that stupid likes and dislikes list.

Besides picking apart every aspect of your relationship that they could manage to squeeze out of you between the appetizer and the main course, the main scrutiny tonight seems to be you. But in that icy, subtle way that has Satoru’s jaw clenching tighter each second. 

Lips curling, Gojo senior eyes you over his wine glass. “So, dear,” voice dripping with underlying venom despite the pet name. “Is it true our Satoru missed an esteemed marriage meeting with the Zenin group to ambush you at some rundown old diner?”

You fight to keep the smile plastered onto your face, painful and cracking under the pressure. A hand squeezing under the table to stop Satoru from opening his mouth to retort, you answer instead, “Well, ambushed wouldn’t be the word. You could say we fell in love over the counter - at my family’s diner.”

“A waitress, she said?”

“Now we know why it was this rushed. Probably pregnant.”

“The scandal. How far the Gojo name has fallen.”

The few stifled gasps from the other end of the table are so dramatic that you could almost laugh. But you don’t. Breath hitching as Mrs. Gojo chuckles, “Marrying the daughter of a lowly diner owner? How... quaint.”

“Mother, be quiet or-”

“What?” she throws her hands in exasperation. “Can’t I say anything around here. Honestly, Satoru, I’m just trying to make conversation with your new wife.”

Before either you or Satoru can react, his father speaks up, apparently not done with the interrogation. “You understand that we’re just worried, right, dear? Especially with marrying into prestigious families, of course.” The emphasis on “prestigious” is not lost on you.” And it drives you insane. 

Steeling yourself, you train your eyes on the untouched food below you. “I understand.”

Plowing on as if trying to infuriate you, “And you understand that this position is dangerous? You’ll be targeted.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Don’t be swept up in our Satoru’s charm and wealth, dear, my son just wants a way out of duty.” tone dripping with disdain, Satoru’s grip becoming tighter and tighter on yours. “The Gojo syndicate owns half of this city, we could bulldoze over that little diner of yours with only one phone call”

“My wife and I are leav-”

“I said I fuckin’ understand.” Your words hang in the air like a foul stench, and you raise your head to glare. If looks could kill, all the elders in this room would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on their graves already. “Neither me, nor my husband would ever let that happen because he knows a thing or two about respect, unlike you.” Lacing your fingers tighter with Satoru’s. “So shove your mighty family up your wrinkly asses. I don’t give a flying shit.” 

Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the old couple opposite you finally seems stunned into silence. And if it was any other situation you could’ve almost laughed at how similar they looked to Satoru when he found out you thought his proposal was a prank.

His father adjusts his glasses. “Perhaps that is so.”

Ah, if only the rest of the table would be quietened just as easily. 

“Not only is she a slut she’s a-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not even sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. Because in a split-second, the knife that was at your side is suddenly embedded, deep into the wooden table - barely even an inch away from the elder that had spoken up. 

“You’re lucky I’m matching with my wife n’ didn’t want to dirty this new yukata.” a voice sounds from your side. Melodic and so so eerie that you don’t realize for a second that it’s Satoru - your Satoru. 

He loops an arm under your legs as he stands up. Easily maneuvering you into a princess carry, forcing you to cling onto his robes for dear life as your feet dangle from the floor. You look up - maybe to snap at Satoru to put you down - only for the words to die in your throat at how absolutely fucking feral your husband looked. Eyes wide, aura menacing. A grin gracing his features, not the familiar one which had your heart racing, no - something so dangerous and cold. 

“Now,” he hums. Turning his back to the room, gaze still locked with the shocked heads inside, “My lovely wife and I will be retiring. Won’t you all say goodnight to your future madam?”

You don’t know what shocks you more - the way everyone in that room mumbles out a disdainful little “Goodnight, ma’am.”, or the way Satoru cackles as he carries you to your shared bedroom. Laying you gently on the mattress with a quiet, “Be right back, sweetheart.”

What the fuck happened?

He could’ve killed that man. And looked like he wanted to. 

Your brain yells at you - run away run away run away- But you weren’t…scared? In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been less fearful in your entire life. Especially not when Satoru stumbles back into the room, clearly rushing. Something warm spreading in your chest at the trays of food in his hands.

“Dinner’s better without a bunch of fossils on my kill list.” he grins. Settling right next to you on the bed, setting out the dinner he’d brought for you. And, well, you didn’t doubt that they really were on his kill list. 

“Hey, wifey.” Satoru speaks up after a few moments of silence, satisfied with the food laid in front of you. “M’sorry for putting you through that. No more family dinners from now.”

You inch closer to lay your head on his sculpted shoulder, a hand bringing up the food to his pretty lips. He smelled so good, faintly like pine, and clouds. It made you so dizzy. “Eat, Satoru.”

That’s all which is said, because maybe that’s all that was needed. And for a second there, you almost forget that this is all pretend.

---

“Hey, uh- mister. You alright?” you call out, voice barely audible over the rain. 

The sullen figure didn’t react at first, soaked through and eyes trained on the ground. Unmoving, even when you hesitantly drew closer, umbrella quivering in your hands. 

You should turn around - walk away like everyone else on the sidewalk was doing. But no, something about the way he sat alone, stoic to the storm around him made you inch closer. “Here.” you hold out your umbrella. “S’our diner’s, but you look like you could use this more than I do.”

He jolts, as if hearing you for the first time. A flash of blue, so quick you almost think you miss it. Still not raising his head fully, the man’s snowy hair tousles as he jerkily closes around the handle. Pretty. And so so sad.

“It’ll be alright.” you nod. 

And with that, you turn, running back in the rain to the haven of the diner, where your father was waiting impatiently - he’d just bought the boxes to start packing up for relocation. Fingers still burning ever-so-slightly where his hand had brushed against yours. How strange, you wondered his name.

---

Satoru stayed true to his word over the weeks that followed. His parents seemed well and fully intent on avoiding you. And, well, other than a few disdainful remarks, the elders mostly scurried away in fear at your very sight. 

The only thing that made your skin prickle was that the housekeepers had a penchant for peeping in on the two of you. Increasingly following you - they always did, but now…honestly, it was a bit disconcerting. 

But other than that, it was almost…peaceful. You wake up every morning to a large bouquet of burgundy roses at your bedside table - and a husband. Because Satoru had taken to sleeping on the little couch at the corner of your room every night - saying something about not wanting to rouse suspicion because if he actually had a wife he’d be “taking her to bed every night”. Somehow, you didn’t doubt it. 

“Funny how it’s getting close to a month of being married, but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” you deadpan. Looking down at where he was resting his head in your lap, sprawled across the soft grass in the garden.

Something else also happened - something different.

Because Satoru was a bit touchier, a bit closer. Like right now, preening into your fingers carding through his soft hair. “Oh~? Why, wanna take me to bed, wifey?”

“You wish.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your hands still, pulse racing as your eyes bore into Satoru’s, trying to figure out what sort of bad joke this was. Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning down closer - too closer. Close enough that you could count every shade of blue in his hungry gaze. But by the grace of whoever was above-

“Young master, please excuse the intrusion but you have-”

Sitting up abruptly, addressing the newcomer in a stone-cold tone. “How many fuckin’ times have I not told you to never bother me when I’m with my wife?”

The servant bows apologetically, sputtering out apologies as you move to get up. Flashing a smirk at Satoru’s dramatic pout, “I have to catch up on some reading anyway. See ya, Satoru.” 

“Noo~ my sweetheart don’t leave me~” 

You stifle a laugh at his little tantrum, so different from when he was serious. He was so….dizzying. “You’ll be okay, Satoru.” Glancing up nervously to meet the servant’s intense stare, studying the scene before him, how different his master was. “I’ll be at the library now.”

And Satoru notices - of course, he does. He sees that tiny flash of concern in your eyes. One that you might not have noticed yourself. He lowers his voice as you walk away, so you don’t hear him speaking behind you. Words dripping with a similar venom he always heard from his parents, “Now, tell me who you’re spying for. Names, first and last.” 

Satoru doesn’t join you in the library that day, the first time in weeks. And you find yourself missing him more than you should. It’s dark out by the time you’re raising your head from the books, joints aching from poring over them for hours. The house seems a lot quieter. Somewhat bigger. 

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong. 

Scratching the back of your head, you wander through the wooden hallways to your bedroom - wondering what was amiss. Your feet take you there as if on autopilot, thankful for Satoru’s meticulous tours. 

“Hey,” you smile softly at a servant making your bed, “Where are-”

Your question dies in your throat at the way she yelps at your words, hurrying down the corridor with a jerky bow. Weird. Leaving you all alone, and confused, muttering to yourself, it’s only then that you notice the flash of red by your bedside table. 

Not a bouquet. Only a single, red rose - a note tied around the stem, something you’d never gotten before. 

“The marriage proposals have been revoked, your contract is fulfilled, my ex-wife.”

Oh, reading that hurt more than it should’ve. You should be happy at being free, a few days earlier than expected at that - but it was over - just like that. You didn’t want to leave him. You didn’t want to leave him.You didn’t want to leave him.

 Were you going insane?

Clutching the flower like a lifeline, heaving out a sigh, “Maybe Satoru knows…”

“Thinking of me?”

Startled, you whirl behind to face your husband. In the dim-lighting, making out the stoney expression on his face, eyes wide and a little duller than they had been earlier today. 

“Satoru?”

His eyes light up at the mere sound of your voice - then you’re engulfed in him. Wrapping you in his arms, bowing his body into yours, so tight that it almost hurts. But you let him, fisting the fresh yukata in your hands - and that’s when you realize, he’s changed his robes since this morning. “Are you okay?” you whisper into his shoulder. Drinking in the smell of his cologne, and something faintly metallic. 

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to take the opportunity - to run away from this yakuza and his slaughter and whatever this was. But how could you? Staying rooted to the spot, not even a speck of fear.

Satoru heaves out a heavy breath, tickling the hairs at your nape as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Those nosy elders won’t be bothering you anymore, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”

A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and you didn’t want to think too hard about what they meant. Instead, you guide him to your bed - and, surprisingly, he allows you to. Letting the two of you sink into the plush mattress. With Satoru still in your arms. He repeats, “You’re free to go.”

Run away. Run away. Run away-

There it was again - that strained little manta. You stare right into his eyes, voice thick at the sinking feeling in your stomach. “My 30 days aren’t over yet.” 

“Leave. Please.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, like your hands drawing patterns down his back had broken some dam. “M’not a good man.” 

You press your lips to his forehead, searing and a desperate attempt to soothe the man. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m yakuza, sweetheart. Doomed to follow my parents here.” he mutters, strained and voice more unsure than you’ve ever heard. And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into your skin, “I hate it here, and you should, too. All these fuckin-”

“So go with me instead.”

“What if-”

“Toru.‘ you cut off his words, slurring and spilling out of his mouth. Gently, you pry him away from his little haven, reeling back to take a good look at the face he’s been hiding for so long. Hair mussed, curtaining his whirling eyes - all disheveled and vulnerable where he was once so suave. 

Your eyes bore into his, unwavering. “It’ll be alright, Toru.”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. Only when his lips meet yours, soft, and so so sweet, do you realize that this is everything you ever want right now - possibly these past few weeks. “Y’can kill me if you don’ want his.” he mutters into your open mouth.  

It’s so desperate - a messy clash of teeth and saliva, Satoru was drinking you in like you were the last drop of water on Earth. He tasted so sweet, like candy almost, and the gentle caress of a lover. You were addicted like you could do this forever and ever and-

And then he’s pulling away. A disappointed little whine leaves you involuntarily as he parts, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the space between you two. Satoru’s mouth drops into a soft oh! at the noise, surging forward minutely like he was about to kiss you senseless again. Only to halt with a pained grunt, just a hair’s breadth from your lips. 

“M’sorry.” Claiming your lips once again, like a man possessed. Drinking in your breathless gasps. Like he never wanted to let go. “F-fuck, sweetheart. Y’don’t know how crazy you drive me.” he pants.

“Why did you pick me?” you blurt out, a question that had been nagging at the back of your mind every time Satoru slipped his hand in yours, introducing you as his loving wife. “Was it just the debt?”

He’s kissing your pulse now, canines hovering over the erratic little cadence. Breathing you in like you were intoxicating. “No.” he’s licking a long, languid stripe up your neck. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down every inch of skin he could reach. 

“Then why?” your words come out in almost an embarrassing plea. But by the way his breath hitches, you know that Satoru loves it. 

“Because.” he breathes, “You treated me like a human.”

He’s capturing your lips with his again, nipping at your bottom lips. You squeal as he pulls, suddenly wanting him to tease you like this everywhere. To have him absolutely ruin you like you know he could - treat you like the wife he claimed you were. 

But Satoru wasn’t done yet - far from it. He chuckles, kissing down your neck, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Remember that night? You probably don’t, was rainin’ so hard I thought I’d drown out there.” Worshiping the valley between your breasts as he hastily unbuckles your bra. “That night was when the marriage proposals had come in. They said I’d either carry the legacy or be forced to leave the family. Kicked out of my own home.” 

And you’re reeling from both his words and the way Satoru was rocking his hips into yours now, something hot, and so achingly hard pressing in the damp area between your legs. “Thought I was gonna take ‘em all out that night.”

“Take them all out?” your breath hitches.

“Every. Single. One.” Fingers dancing across the hem of your panties. “Wouldn’t have felt bad about it either.” 

Satoru’s licking down your navel now, humming in confirmation into your skin. “But then…” he groans, taking in the first fucking sinful sight of your drenched panties. So flimsy and already dripping for him - and after just a few kisses, really? You were heaven on Earth. “But then along came you. So pretty and all worried f’me. The daughter of that diner owner I’d loaned money too.”

You watch, heart racing as Satoru swallows in awe. Darkened gaze locked on the way your slick beads out of your pussy, bare thighs trying to close - give yourself some semblance of dignity. But no- how could you? When Satoru’s holding them apart.

“And then I knew…” he’s sliding his index underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertip before popping it into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the taste, and you’ve never seen him look so blissful. “I just had to have you.”

Rip! 

The cold air brushes against you before you even know it - only when you feel Satoru’s hot breath against your dripping cunt does it hit - this bastard just ripped your panties off. And he was dangling it like a badge of honor, breathing in your juices so animalistically. 

Your lips wobble as he just admires your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing. “Hah- please.”

“Please what?” he grins, and you can feel him licking little circles around your inner thigh. So close. “The wife of a yakuza boss has gotta know how to use her words.”

“You’re awful.”

“And yet you married me.”

With such a cute lil’ whine that makes Satoru’s cock twitch so painfully, you buck your hips closer to his hot mouth. “Wan’ your mouth on me, to eat me out. Please, Toru.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, “There’s my girl.”

You gasp when he surges forward, burying his pretty face nose-deep in your pussy. Holding your breath as he lazily licks up your folds - long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub. 

Drunk off your pussy with the way he’s so messy - seemingly unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor, ravaged clit to dipping into your sloppy hole. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You haven’t been touched this good in ages, and Satoru was well and fully intent on ruining you. 

“Shhh, don’t worry, wifey.” words muffled into your cunt, “Your husband’s gonna take care of you.” He’s throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Real good care of you.” Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. Messy enough that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Roaming for that one spot he knows will have you moaning deliciously. Pressing down, hard.  “Found it. Gonna have you screamin’ my name til’ the entire estate hears.”

You tug on his hair, urging Satoru’s mouth towards your cunt - partially because you wanted him there, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now. 

And shit how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

Satoru is grinning, you can feel it on your throbbing clit as he wraps his pretty pink lips around it. Pumping his fingers in and out, hitting that little spot each and every time. Looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over and-

“Sh-shit. Toru-”

“Mmm, yes- fuck, love it when you call me that.” he groans. And oh he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you - eyes half-lidded, such a pretty blush disting his cheeks - and making out with your pussy just as much. Tilting his head back, back, back so that your juices slide down his throat. “Feels good? Ya like when m’ruining your pretty pussy?”

“Yes!” you squirm. Shaking, bucking your hips into his touch so desperately. “Wanted it s’bad.” 

He’s becoming frenzied now, drinking in your cute little whimpers like he was addicted. But it wasn’t enough - it never was and fuck Satoru wanted more more more-

“Move your hips, yeah- jus’ like that.” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Letting you pull and angle him just as you please. 

“Gonna be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have. N’ anyone that says otherwise, m’gonna fuckin’ kill.” The vibrations have your body jerking violently. “Make you cum harder than y’ever have. C’mon, say yes.”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and bullying his tongue through your swollen folds. Stretching you, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Jaw grinding deeper into you as he eats you out like his last meal. “Ngh- fuck, yes yes yes-”

“Beg for it, beg for your husband.”

“Wanna cum- Ah! Please, wanna cum, Toru.”

One hand so messy toying with your dripping entrance - not having the patience or the sanity to even draw circles anymore. Just quick, hurried patterns to get you off. The other digging into your hips, so hard you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. Making you drag your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. Using him. 

“Hngh- Toru! Ah- fuck fuck Toru Toru T-”  You’re shaking - crying out as you cum. A guttural, strangled moan of your husband’s name. So violent, and hard that you don’t even realize at first. Just that you’re rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears.

And he doesn’t stop - not even once. If you were in any better state of mind you’d wonder whether it hurt - whether his fingers were cramping up, and his tongue was tired. If they were, he didn’t show, only letting you chase your high as roughly as you want. 

Greedily lapping up all your juices. Even when you’re blinking your vision back, chest heaving as you try to regain our breath. “S-Satoru.” you mewl, stars behind your eyes with each flick of his tongue. 

“Jus’ a bit more. Wanna taste all of you.”

You weren’t going to make it out alive.

Big, fat tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation as Satoru finally rises from what you almost worried would be his favorite seat. “All done. Now, keep that pretty lil’ cunt on display f’me, my girl.”

And your cunt is clenching in- fear? Anticipation? As your husband finally unties his yukata, letting it slide off those milky, toned shoulders. And shit he was such a fucking masterpiece. The dim-lighting bouncing off every curve and dip of those carved abs. Delicate swirls of his tattoo inching from his collarbone, down, down, down, hugging Satoru in a way that made you so half-lucidly jealous. All the way till the last inky thorn meets the neat tufts of white hair peeking up from the hem of his underwear. 

“Touch me.” he groans into your ear. The words barely leave those pretty lips before your hands are everywhere. Dancing down his tattoo, groping at this pecs - too much to worship, not enough time. 

“Toru…” you trail off, hand reaching out to brush his waistband. Tugging just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, fat tip weeping down his length, already so soaked in precum. He was so intimidatingly long - longer than anyone else you’d had before. Thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. 

And he sees right through you.

“Now now, none of that.” he tuts, pushing your bare thighs as far apart as they’d go. He spreads your cunt so shamefully with his thumb. Spitting once, twice. Some of it splatter against your thigh as Satoru mixes his saliva with your slick. “Don’t worry, wifey, m’gonna make it feel good for ya.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he drags his fat head down your folds. Wetting himself, all the preparation he was going to give you because fuck Satoru needed to be inside your pretty lil’ pussy right now. 

Then you feel like you’re being split apart - as if Satoru’s cock was pushing all the way to your lungs as he presses through the first ring of muscle.

“Ah! Ngh- Toru, s’too big!” you yelp, eyes locked on the way your lips were stretched so lewdly around his tip. Clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in, inch by fucking inch. No mercy. Absolutely none at all. 

And while he sounded like he was on cloud nine, you were having your head spin, torn between wanting to run away from his massive cock and just push yourself down for more more more. His lips claim yours - absolutely animalistic because God he needed to shut up your pretty whines or else Satoru was going to cum right here right now.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breath. Ngh- You can take it.” Satoru pants into your mouth, fucking into you in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to fit inside your snug cunt. Sounding like he was losing his sanity each time your heavenly walls milked him. “So fuckin’ tight. Jus’ relax f’me. Oh yeah, jus’ like that. You can take it you can-”

You gasp for air when he finally bottoms out inside you, tears streaming down your face and clawing at his back. 

Satoru only coos, letting you mark him up all you want. Pace increasing relentlessly, “Aww, my good lil’ wife. Taking me so well, huh?” Starting to rock his hips just a bit faster into yours, “Always knew y’would.” 

“Can y’feel me, right-.” Balls smacking against your ass, his finger tracing an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “-here?” Thumb stroking where he could feel himself bulging inside you, pressing down. Hard. 

You almost sob at the pressure, jolting - you should’ve expected that the yakuza boss would fuck so mean.

And shit you can just do nothing but take it, hips jerking wildly as Satoru pounds into you with reckless abandon. Clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, his hair - just anything. 

“C’mon~ Don’t run away from me,” he grunts, strained like he’s struggling to maintain restraint. Lacing his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper onto his cock. “Jus’ fuckin’ got you, so don’t you dare run away.”

You can only nod. Eyes glazed, cockdrunk and letting him thrust so sloppily. “Won’t run away Toru…” you babble, “Wan’ you to make me yours.”

“Mine? Gonna be all mine?”

“All yours, Toru.”

And maybe you were an idiot, maybe you were a mastermind - because with a choked out little moan of what sounded like your name, Satoru’s pulling you both to sit up. The gravity makes you bury his cock deeper and faster into your tight pussy.

With the new angle, your husband’s hitting all the right spots easily, almost as if he knew your body better than you did. Veins rubbing so deliciously against your walls, shifting around your hips to fuck up into that poor, abused spot. 

“Ya like this, huh?” he groans, fingers now toying with your ravaged clit. Rolling it around harshly between two fingers. “Always knew this cute pussy could take me s’well. Just didn’t know it would feel this fucking heavenly.”

Faster, sloppier. Bouncing you on his rock-hard cock  like he was claiming you from the inside. So, so desperate and debauched.

And exactly where you wanted to be. 

You leave delicate pink bites down this pale neck, alongside those roses - marking him in your own way as you edge closer and closer. It was too much. Everything was too much. 

“Toru-” you sob. And he already knew what that meant. With how your voice breaks so adorably and the way you’re clenching around him hard enough that it’s almost difficult to ruin that cute pussy. 

“Close?” 

“Mhm…”

“Well then.” thrusts getting sloppy, with no reason or rhythm now. Grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Cum f’me like a good lil’ wife, then.”

And that makes you throw your head back in ecstasy - it makes you cum. Thighs quivering, jolts of electricity running down all the way from your overstimulated cunt to your hazy mind. It has you chanting Satoru’s name like a lifeline while his teeth dig into your flesh. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood.

Letting out low, muffled moans into your neck while he cums as well. Hot ropes of seed filling up your poor, bloated pussy, painting your walls such a sinful white. Cumming and cumming so hard you wondered whether you’d make it out alive.

And because of the obscene position, you could feel the way it dribbled down your legs. Thick globs landing in a pool on the overpriced sheets below, smearing so lewdly between you two. Hips still fucking up into you - not even thinking about it as he pushes his seed deeper and deeper. 

You managed to raise your eyes, still dazed to meet his - exhausted, and dark with lust and something else that you really weren’t in the right mind to decipher right now. 

And then Satoru’s lips find yours again, biting and tugging lazily. Tasting so unfairly of candy and sweet, sweet trouble. Body melting into you like all the worries have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s looping his arms tighter around your waist, crushing you into an almost-painful hug against him. 

Something soft. Something new. Something that makes a little part of your heart twinge to break the kiss and pull away mere millimeters. “We better not divorce after this.”

“Of course not.” He chuckles into your lips, resting his forehead against yours like he was trying to map the constellations in your eyes. “I haven’t even given you my wedding gift yet.”

Smirking, you lock your legs tighter around Satoru’s toned waist as he lets the two of you fall back into the mattress. Sinking into it - and each other - with both exhaustion and something of a quiet, unspoken little fondness. Batting your lashes up at him, “Mhm, I remember someone talking about giving me four mercedes as a wedding gift and I’m leaving if not.”

“Well then, better get to it. Four for my in-laws to get on their good side, too,” he nuzzles the bite mark on your neck. “Because I plan to stay like this for a long, long time.”

The setting should’ve been romantic, in theory. The night was still, but not stiflingly so, and the moonlight danced around the top of the Tower teasingly, doing little to illuminate the dark. If he stepped into a crevice where the light didn’t reach his face and you tuned him out just enough, you might even call the view beautiful. But, you soon found out – only a few dates in – no view could be described as such when you have Trevor Selwyn standing next to you.

Trevor Selwyn should’ve been a perfect match, in theory. An avid member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight –  there was little else that could prove more pertinent to families, like yours, with snobby ideals of purity and the measures necessary to maintain it, generation after generation – a Slytherin, an athlete (he doesn’t like mentioning that he’s a substitute player, on his best days), and a prefect. And, as you soon found out – only one date in – he’s also an utter and complete idiot.

So, you should’ve said no, in theory. Kicked and flailed your arms like a petulant child, screamed and wailed and protested when your parents proposed a courtship between the two of you. You should’ve told Trevor himself that he possessed the tact of a Cornish Pixie and the wit of the dimmest of trolls. But, as you soon found out (after the wailing episode) – absolutely zero dates in – Trevor is nothing but persistent and your parents anything but unwavering in their resolve. 

“I’ve met the Minister once,” he remarks out of nowhere as he looks off, off of the edge of the tower with all the regality of an acclaimed emperor. 

You hum in response. You haven’t said a word all night and he hasn’t noticed a thing.

“Granted, I was only two but I recall the Minister telling my father –”

“I think I should head back, actually,” you interrupt before the anecdote can truly begin. There are a few things you’ve learned about Trevor so far but none of them are as glaringly consequential as this: if he starts talking about his father, he won’t be able to stop. Escapades from Uagadou, his adventures in Egypt warding off curses and serpents and the magical scrolls of Machu Picchu –

“Oh,” he furrows his brow as if deep in thought and you almost laugh. That boy has never had a thought in his life. 

“I don’t want to be late for prefect patrols is all,” a faux sweet lilt to your voice doesn’t do much to subdue the frown on his face. 

He nods curtly. “I’ll walk you back.”

Your refusal is automatic. “I think I’ll mana–”

“It’s no problem,” he starts walking towards the stairs and you’re left with no choice but to follow.

On any other occasion, the walk would’ve taken mere minutes. The hallways would’ve been something theatrical, a soft fusion of candlelight and the streaming moonlight at this time of night. With Selwyn by your side, however, the minutes seemed like hours, and the candlelit corridors, usually golden and warm, felt like the dull glow of a waiting room. Your shoulders ached from how stiffly you held herself as each step echoed louder than the last, as if the castle itself was sighing in disappointment and disdain.

“I had an enjoyable time tonight,” Trevor started when you finally reached and you tried your utter best to hide the discomfort when his clammy hand reached for yours. He brought it to his lips and pressed a single kiss on it before you gave him a tight-lipped smile. You expect him to then turn and go, to walk back down to his own common room but he stays standing there, his face blank. 

“Me too,” you smile, in hopes that this was the confirmation he was after. Another lesson you’ve learned about the boy has been this: nothing else pleases him as much as validation does. 

He gives some semblance of a smile back. You blink. The next thing you know he has started to lean in and his eyes are fluttering shut and his slightly puckered lips are mere inches from yours now and the ridiculousness of it all proves too much to bear – you guffaw in the most obnoxious way possible. A mixture of anger and hurt crosses his face before he retreats and you’re unsure of how to recover.

“I’m so sorry,” you cover your mouth and try to stop the laughter. “I– I just thought of a funny joke. I’m so–”

“Fix your hair, would you? It looked atrocious today,” he quips quickly to gain control of the situation back. The last thing you’ve learned about the enigma that Selwyn is is this: his superiority cannot be challenged. If it is, he will try to establish it again – by insulting you in the most seemingly hurtful manner. 

It doesn’t quite have the desired effect. You snort at his attempt and suddenly the laughter has returned. He exhales once out of his nose as he turns to go but not before calling out, “I will pick you up at the same time tomorrow night. Don’t be late.” 

The laughter dwindles at the thought of enduring this again. “I’m busy tomorrow!” 

“Don’t be late,” he calls again. 

“Charming,” you hear someone call from behind you and you can tell who it is without having to turn and look at his annoyingly perfect face. His clever quips usually carry the extraordinary ability to irk you to no end but after the night you’ve had, they seem especially akin to knives on a chalkboard. 

You can picture Cedric Diggory’s earnest yet irritating smile he seems to wear at all times, the kind that makes his honey-coloured eyes crinkle in the slightest way at the edges with no difficulty. You can picture his perfectly ironed robes, clad with pins and awards he has won over the years and his hair that falls in place like dominoes. There’s only ever one way to describe him: pristine. Always. 

Though you’d never cared much to exalt him to the status of an academic rival, it’d be foolish to call him anything else. He had a way about him that reeked of complete and utter competence at everything, which indubitably invited a certain degree of resentment from everyone. You were no exception.

And not only did the universe seem keen on making an already-horrible night worse by scheduling him as your prefect patrols partner tonight, it also seemed quite keen on wanting to humiliate you in front of him. 

“The gossip that you are, Diggory,” you huff with biting sarcasm as you finally turn to face him. “Using your patrols as a way to spy on unsuspecting young lovers. Classy.” The break of his grin is almost blinding and you have to avert your gaze to avoid damage to your visual field.

“Nothing else entertains me these days as much as your courtship, I’m afraid,” he jests, slipping an easy hand into his pocket. “If you need more time together, I understand. I’m perfectly capable of completing the patrols on my own tonight.”

With your face aflame, you shoot him a look and begrudgingly start walking beside him, arms crossed tightly over your chest like a shield and footsteps hitting stone a bit too sharply. 

“How kind of you.” You say curtly and make it a point to walk a few steps ahead of him. He doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by it: he follows a few steps behind you, but the smugness radiating off of him envelops you nonetheless. 

“You can laugh, you know,” you say again after a moment of silence. You have long-since learned that the best way to avoid embarrassment is to submit to it. You’ve been courting Selwyn long enough to know it – sheepish smiles exchanged with classmates when he pecks you on the cheek in the hallways, mortified but apologetic grimaces whenever he tries to clasp your hand in his as he walks you to your common room after supper. Judgment – if it must be served – is best served plainly. Overtly. 

He shakes his head in amusement as he finally catches up and walks in step with you. “Now, why would I laugh? That was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“That was humiliating,” you mutter under your breath before you can stop yourself. 

Cedric’s amused smile wavers as he glances at you with something you hope isn’t sympathy. And as much as you hate to say it, it wouldn’t be something you would put above him – for all the determined rebuttals and rivalries in class, Cedric has only ever been infuriatingly kind. “I think Selwyn might be a tad bit more humiliated than you, [Y/L/N].”

“Good. If he ever tries to kiss me again, I might hex him into oblivion and end up as a headline in the Daily Prophet.” 

His amusement returns and you’re glad. You’re not sure how to interact with him beyond the usual teasing remarks. “Would it be in bad taste to say that I'd quite want to see that?” His smile only grows when you roll your eyes. “Will you be doing that tomorrow night then? Shall I call the reporters?” 

You make a face. “You won’t be grinning that wide when I send a dementor after you from Azkaban, Diggory.”

“Send one after Selwyn. He’s in need of a good kiss.”

Your lips twitch at the joke and Cedric notices the slight movement. You press them together before a full-fledged smile can appear on your face and Cedric revels in it. “You’re not funny.”

“Yes, I’m sure Selwyn’s funnier,” Cedric teases. 

“Still not funny.” You take a few quicker steps to walk in front of him again, having had enough of his teasing for the night. 

He catches up again and has no particular difficulties keeping up, no matter how much you try to hasten your steps. “Forgive me for prying –”

“I won’t.”

“But, why Selwyn?” The question’s sincerity catches you off-guard.

“What?”

“I just mean – I find it hard to believe that you’re… devoid of options. So…why him?” He picks his words carefully, as if he’s weighing them in his mouth before letting them fall out. And perhaps it was due to the late hour or the undeniable warmth that Cedric’s eyes perpetually hold, but you actually considered giving him a sincere answer. 

“He’s–” you pause as you vow to yourself this would be the last display of vulnerability Cedric would be getting from you tonight. Your voice drops despite yourself, and you find your fingers fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. Something about Cedric’s quiet attention makes the truth feel heavier than usual. “He’s my parents’ choice. They want me to graduate with a prospect secured.”

His eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “If a courtship is what you’re after, I’m sure you’d find better prospects in – pardon my bluntness – anyone else.” His teasing cadence has dropped altogether now and you wrinkle your own eyebrows in confusion as you consider the notion that Cedric might actually be trying to help you. 

“It doesn’t matter who–” you pause again. “I don’t plan on marrying him, Cedric.”

Cedric frowns. 

You go on, “I’m only ‘courting’ him until graduation to subdue my parents. I won’t marry him so it doesn’t matter who it is.” You squirm in guilt as Cedric stays frowning. “And I realize it’s cruel to string him along – I do – I just – I don’t know what else to do.” 

Cedric nods after a while – a slow, courteous nod that indicates he understands but wholly disagrees with whatever you’re saying. It’s a nod you’ve seen from him when he proposes a rebuttal to whatever alternate answer you’ve proposed in class, an alternate solution to a problem and admittedly, a much more pragmatic one.  He opens his mouth to voice it before the sound of giggles fill the empty hallways from around the corner.

You both exchange a prefectly look with each other, acknowledging the obvious student out of bed, awaiting a scolding for being out past curfew. Before you two can approach to see who it is, they turn the corner themselves.

“Evelyn,” Cedric breathes out in surprise as your gaze lands on the familiar brunette-haired girl in your year, her hands firmly clasped in Damien Avery’s, matching love-sick grins plastered on both faces and lipstick stains on the latter’s neck. With their hair dishevelled and robes askew, they blink in stunned silence.

You purse your lips as you look between the two, realization cresting at once. Though Cedric’s dating life was never a particular topic of interest, you immediately recognized the girl as his girlfriend, Evelyn Waters. 

Well, ex-girlfriend as of two weeks ago. 

“Ced,” his name falls from her smudged, lipstick-stained mouth softly, her eyes widening slightly. She hastily straightens out her robe and runs a hand through her hair. “I–”

Cedric clears his throat awkwardly as he shoots Avery a lingering glare. “It’s an hour past curfew–” He manages to get out, his voice unbelievably even. He keeps his eyes on Avery, not sparing Evelyn another glance. 

“I’m a prefect, Diggory. I think we’re fine,” Avery dismisses, stepping around him. He tugs at Evelyn’s hand.

Cedric steps in front of him again, towering over the shorter boy with ease. “Forty points from Slytherin,” he says simply, his eyes uncharacteristically stoic.

Avery scoffs and looks at Cedric in disbelief. “Yeah?” He sneers. “Are you going to take another forty for theft?” 

Cedric exhales heavily through his nose at the implication. The night air has suddenly chilled and the tension is so thick, it makes it hard to breathe.

“You know… considering…everything.” Avery smirks, gesturing subtly to Evelyn’s hand he still has clasped within his own. Evelyn watches the exchange silently.

“Considering everything, Avery,” you finally find your voice in the uncomfortable silence and step forward. “I’ll be taking another hundred points away from Slytherin for your misuse of prefect privileges. Expect to hear from Professor Snape tomorrow when I formally file a complaint.”

Avery turns to you, his goblin-green eyes staring into yours for a minute before he narrows them. “This isn’t your fight, [Y/L/N]. Stay out of it.”

“I think you,” you jab a hard finger at his chest, pushing him away slightly, “should stay out of the hallways after curfew. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” You grab Cedric’s arm and tear him away from the pair. 

He doesn’t protest when you begin to lead him down a random set of stairs to get away from the scene of the stiff confrontation. Cedric walks a few steps behind you wordlessly as you chance periodic glances to make sure he’s still following. After a few moments, you slow your gait so he can catch up with you.

“Hey,” you jostle him out of his thoughts which seemed to have permanently etched a furrow in his brows as he shuffled his feet across the stone floor.

He sighs, running a quick hand over his face and then stuffing it back into his pocket. “You didn’t have to enjoy that quite so much.”

You frown. “Enjoy what?”

“Do you not normally enjoy my humiliation?” He asks with a teasing lilt in his voice, but the humour stops short of his eyes. You can tell his mind is still stuck elsewhere, replaying that scene over and over. 

“I’m not a sadist like you,” you quip. 

He offers you a quick smile as if to confirm receipt of your well-intentioned humour, but doesn’t say much else. You walk in uneasy silence once again. 

“She’s an idiot,” you say finally. “Just– for the record.”

“Hm.” He smiles wryly again but his eyes hold a heaviness that you don’t like. You can tell the breakup took a greater toll on him than he has let on the past few weeks. And you’re not exactly sure why that weighs down on your heart.

“Seriously, Diggory,” you sigh. “She’s an idiot for breaking up with you and she’s an idiot for getting with Avery.”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” 

The heaviness still hung in the air despite your attempts at trying to provide Cedric an outlet to let out his frustration. You scoff internally at his staunch unwillingness to talk ill of anyone – not even his ex-girlfriend who moved on from him in a blink of an eye. You think again of Cedric’s genuine interest in your ‘Selwynian’ plight. You sigh once before shaking your head. Were you really about to help Cedric Diggory?

“You know what? You need to stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Acting like it doesn’t bother you,” you hit him lightly on the arm. “It bothers you, right?”

He holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “Yeah. Suppose it does.” He admits quietly.

“Do you want her back?” 

He frowns at the question. “What–”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” he breathes out after a while and looks away, as if embarrassed at the confession. You can tell he’s fidgeting with his pockets nervously. 

“Then, make her jealous,” you say. “I saw how she was looking at you. She knows she made a mistake. But she won’t admit it because that’s not how it works. Make her jealous and she’ll have to admit it. It’ll get it out of her.”

He looks at you in amusement. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to help me or sabotage me.”

You scoff. “Accept the generosity before I change my mind.”

He shakes his head with a bitter smile, clicking his tongue against his teeth quietly. “That won’t work, anyway.”

“It will,” you assert. “Trust me, Diggory. It will.” 

He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know how to–”

“Date someone else,” you supply easily.

“I don’t like anyone else.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “No shit. We already established that you still like Evelyn.”

“So, I ask out a girl I’m not actually interested in?” He asks in disbelief, discomfort evident on his face. 

“Yeah,” you shrug. 

He frowns and pauses, glancing at you with confusion. “That’s cruel beyond belief, [Y/L/N].”

His admonition makes you pause, too. The familiarity of the proposal strikes you at once. It was exactly what you were doing – stringing along a clueless Selwyn until graduation and then breaking his heart without a second thought. The cruelty of it all had always been a nagging thought – but its noise had been distant and dull. It was now ringing in your ears however, your skewed perception of morality hitting you at once.

“It’s not– cruel.” You try to tell yourself, more than him. “It–”

“It’s heartless,” he says again, matter-of-factly. “This, and what you’re doing to Selwyn, by the way.” 

You sigh at his moral policing. You knew he was right, but Selwyn was a problem for another night. 

“Fine,” you relent. “How about a girl who agrees to be your fake girlfriend?” 

He scoffs lightly. “If that were so easy to find, wouldn’t you have gotten a fake boyfriend already?”

You both stop walking at the same time, your footsteps coming to a screeching halt simultaneously. It was almost as if Cedric’s words had materialized and turned into physical roadblocks. His gaze slowly turns to you, honey-brown eyes landing on yours, but you’re already watching him in stunned realization. 

“[Y/L/N] –” he begins thoughtfully.

“No. No. Absolutely not.” That look in his eyes — the one like he’s already decided. Like he’s already seen this through to the end. It makes you nervous in a way you can’t name. You start walking ahead of him rather quickly but he catches up to you with no difficulty once again. His long strides match your pace perfectly.

“This was your idea–” He tries to reason again, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing off the walls as he chases after you with a walking stride.

“My idea– was not for us to do that–” you huff out as you keep up the pace, unrelenting.

He finally catches up to you and reaches for your arm, his hand closing gently around your elbow. The warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, halting your steps more effectively than his words ever could. “It makes sense.”

You blink, momentarily thrown. “No–” 

“You won’t have to be needlessly cruel just to keep a prospect around–”

“Cedric.”

“And I won’t have to heartlessly pretend to like a girl who doesn’t know I’m pretending,” his hands find your shoulders. “It makes sense. You know it does.”

“I won’t–”

“And no more nightly dates with Selwyn,” he interrupts. “No more dodging his kisses.” 

That finally shuts you up. You shake your head though you can’t find the words to protest anymore. Cedric decides to sweeten the deal further.

“No life sentence in Azkaban, either.”

“Shut up.”

His lips tug upwards slightly and your eyes can’t help but catch on the movement. You let your eyes roam over his face — annoyingly symmetrical, irritatingly warm — and suddenly it hits you how easy it would be to fall into this lie. How dangerously tempting it is to pretend.

“No one would even believe it,” you say weakly. “We hate each other.”

“You mean you hate me?” He smiles dryly. “Because I don’t recall ever hating you.”

You avert your eyes before you start tracing his smile lines again with your gaze. “I just mean– we’re always at each other’s throats.” 

“That makes it more believable, don’t you think?” 

You shake your head, closing your eyes. “It’s a bad idea–”

You don’t get to finish your sentence before a familiar owl flies overhead and perches itself on the ledge next to you, clutching a letter. It doesn’t take long for you to realize who it’s from – the intricate green envelope and Selwyn family crest catching your eye immediately.

Cedric raises an eyebrow as he holds back a smirk. You grumble under your breath before plucking the letter from the owl begrudgingly. 

“Aren’t you going to open it?” He questions as he stifles a smile.

“No,” you huff in annoyance. “He … sends these every night. A ‘goodnight poem’, he calls them.”

Cedric doesn’t say anything, his grin already revealing he knows what your next words will be. 

You glance at the letter again — Selwyn’s cursive looping like a snake about to bite. What were you even doing?

You sigh, knowing exactly what this meant. “Fine. Let’s do it.” You cast the ignition spell, watching the green wax seal curl into smoke. “Let’s date.”

He blinks. “Wait — really?”

 “Don’t make me change my mind.”

 His grin returns, slow and lopsided. “Pretend to date,” he corrects.

“What?”

“We’re pretending,” he says cheekily, your cheeks aflame at his teasing cadence. "Don’t fall in love with me, [Y/L/N].”  

With a determined roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel. “As if, Diggory.”

You sat back for a few hours, letting it really settle in for yourself and your viewers. You had hundreds of messages and you hadn’t even finished scrolling through the first wave of submissions when the familiar usernames started sliding into your inbox—like wolves answering the call. And it was obvious, immediately, which messages you were actually going to open.

These weren’t just horny randos with messy lighting and desperate angles.

These were your regulars.

The six you already knew by username. The six who tipped with the intensity of men bidding for real estate inside your body. And now they were showing themselves to you. You hoped to whatever deity was listening that these guys were hot with huge cocks. What? It was fun to be a little superficial sometimes. First up:

EmoWithaBoner.

His message was soft-spoken, despite the picture attached being the exact opposite of that, just like always. No emojis. No bravado.

“Didn’t know how to pose,” it read. “But I thought about how you’d look on top of me, and it kind of just happened.”

It was soft, unfiltered, and a little shaky. The photo was reflected from his mirror and showed him stretched out across gray sheets, pale skin dusted with faint freckles. He looked like he went to the gym often with how built he was. Narrow hips. His cock sat flushed against his stomach, long and lean—at least seven inches, maybe more—and wait.. was that? You looked closer towards the image, inspecting it like you were trying to solve a case. Yep. It was pierced at the frenulum with a delicate curved barbell. A glint of silver. Great heavens. Saved.

TempleOfSin.

His body was art. Broad chest, warm tan skin like satin, sculpted muscle that looked carved. His torso was tapered, lean and strong, with a small trail of black hair leading down to a thick, curved cock—seven inches minimum, hand loosely resting at the base like he was showing it off without trying too hard. He was neatly trimmed. It looked like there was a bunch of robes beside him haphazardly taken off for the photo. “Consider this a formal offering,” the message read. “You could worship every inch of me truly, my loyal little follower.” Odd as always, but hot. Saved. You could hear your prayers being answered, two down and so far all was good - in fact, perfect. You were surprised these were the guys paying you, and for a second or two you felt like you should be paying them for the photos.

SixEyesOnly’s submission hit next—and of course, it came with a $500 tip before you even clicked on the message. The sight that hit your eyes made you choke a little on your own spit. 

Of course he sent multiple angles—three, actually. You picked your favorite: a half-reclined shot on luxurious navy bedding, torso lit with just the right amount of golden light. He was toned, lean muscle over abnormally long limbs, subtle abs. A soft trail of white hair led down to a perfectly girthy cock, mid-stroke—maybe just under eight inches, thick enough to stretch you open. His other hand was holding a handwritten sign: “Good enough for you?” “Oh, SixEyesOnly, absolutely.” You spoke to yourself whilst your eyes remained glued to your laptop screen. Saved. Then—unsurprisingly unhinged—daddyissuez.

“i jerked off right before i took this and got hard again just thinking about fucking you.”

And the photo… Jesus. The photo was taken in low lighting, like a scene from a noir porno. He was sitting wide-legged on a leather couch that looked like it needed replacing, legs thick and powerful, thighs dusted with black hair. His chest was solid, scars faintly visible across his abs and ribs. You closed your eyes for a second and tilted your head up to your ceiling in a silent ‘thank you’ before looking back down at the image. His cock was huge, just like the rest of him. Probably just shy of nine inches, you couldn’t keep your eyes off it. Balls heavy. Tip already glossy with precum. One hand gripped the base. The other rested lazily on his thigh like he was used to being admired. With a cock like that you couldn’t blame him. Saved. OfficeAfterHours was, predictably, meticulous. His message read like an email you’d get from someone managing your retirement plan, if that person also wanted to bend you over a desk.

“Apologies for the delay. Here’s my formal submission. Discretion guaranteed. Let me know if you'd like a second angle.”

Shot in high-resolution against crisp black sheets, his body was a symphony of intention. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, abs that looked like they’d been sculpted from marble. Not huge, but built like someone who took care of himself for discipline, not vanity. A thin trail of blonde hair led down to a cock that was gorgeous—perfect shape, thick but not excessive, probably seven inches on the dot, with veins that begged for attention. Trimmed. Clean. You could almost imagine his voice saying something like, “Breathe through it, sweetheart. You’re doing so well.” A weird sound came out of your mouth in excitement from your own fantasy. Saved.

You were already overstimulated and halfway folded into your sheets when the final message hit.

KingOfRot.

You hovered over it for a second like it might bite. Which was ironic, considering he probably would. He was always the most feral in chat—filthy, relentless, tipping like his wallet had a death wish.

You clicked.

Instant regret. Instant need.

The photo looked like it had been taken during a crime.

Bathroom mirror. Harsh yellow light. Shirt pushed up to his collarbones, muscles tensed like he’d been fucking someone just before he snapped the photo. Chest broad. Arms thick. Veins roped down to his forearms. Stomach lined with clean muscle. Ink everywhere—heavy black bands around his biceps, tattoos sharp and ceremonial-looking across his chest and stomach like a ritual.

And then his cock.

You actually flinched at the offensive monster staring right back at you through the screen. Long. Thick. Too thick. Heavy. Veins running down the shaft like it had a pulse, flushed red like it had been hard for too long. The kind of cock you’d have to apologize to your body after taking. You didn’t even want to hazard a guess at the size.

He wasn’t even touching it. It was just there holding its own weight up like a pole rather than a piece of actual flesh. 

But what got you, what really made your stomach drop, was the tattoos.

They were familiar.

You’d seen them before.

There was a guy on campus—tall, smug, terrifyingly hot in the way that sent your libido into a frenzy—who had tattoos just like that. You’d seen him walking out of the athletics building once, sweatpants slung low and his shirt mysteriously missing, laughing like he knew every secret in the world. He had loudly shouted “What!?” at you when you had stared for a little longer than needed. Embarrassingly seared into your memory for that exact reason.

You squinted.

“Nope,” you muttered. “No. Not connecting the dots. That’s above my pay grade.” Surely it couldn’t be the same guy, right? The tattoos were probably, like, one of those trends that everyone was getting. That's what you were telling yourself at least.

You were about to save the photo when you finally looked at the caption.

“Pick me. I’ll fuck you so hard your ancestors will feel it. You’ll be a fucking shrine by the time I’m done.” Was that a death threat? Probably. Should you block him? Probably. “Ancestors. Okaaaaay.” You nodded your head slowly as if he was across from you saying it with a gun pointing at you. 

And then you saved it. Of course you did. Then flopped onto your back, one arm flung over your face, trying to mentally prepare for the chaos you had just invited into your life. All at the right price of course. “Thank you to whoever is listening for blessing me with viewers that are hotter than the guys I have wilfully hooked up with for free.” You spoke to your ceiling, a common theme nowadays. Seven men. Seven bodies. Seven chances to let your subscribers watch you get absolutely wrecked on camera.

Your legs were trembling from what you decided was mostly horniness.. and a little bit of fear for your own pussy by the time you shut your laptop fully. Friday couldn't come soon enough.

Now, the real question was - who would you choose first?

toji was a top-rated character, and again, he was just added to the line-up about a few hours ago.

as you sink into the fat cushions of your pillows, you grip your phone.

it was almost eerie—it was as if the dark-haired character was looking straight at you. while you’re deep in thought, still taking in his displayed stats and filthy bio, your eyes trace back up toward his face. it reads that he’s about a staggering height of 6’2 and judging from his burly build alone, he was fuckin’ jacked.

such swole muscles . .

you couldn’t stop staring for a bit, and the black compression tank with loose-fitted shorts didn’t exactly help things either.

his stance was idle as he had an accessory of a priggish grin curling across both sides of his scarred lips.

his lips, you were so busy fawning over toji’s body that you didn’t even notice the scar that vertically ran down the right side of his mouth. it’s such a brief detail but it’s sexy.

you kind of wanted to know more about him. now that you thought about it, the game had dozens of ‘???’ symbols near the pink box where his lore was supposed to be. he’s new so you’d probably have to wait until you learn more about him.

with your eyes trailing back toward him, just so smug. you could tell from his demeanor despite him being just literal pixels on your glowy screen.

or so you thought..

“fuck it,” you sigh, lightly tapping the print of your thumb against the bright pink ‘marry me?’ button.

you did a lazy skim beforehand about the app’s so-called ‘pity system’ and how dim your chances were at actually snagging toji. like hell, you were gonna spend money on a game—you just had to hope that you were lucky.

it’s damn near close to one at night before you slouch back, sprawling your legs out in an attempt to get more comfortable.

staring at your screen and scratching your head, seconds . . minutes go by and nothing happens.

the game swallows up the last remnants of your free gems and you’re leering back at toji who you could’ve sworn just rolled his eyes at you.

what . . the . . fuuuck . .

okay, girl. sooo nothing happened. now what?

your brows start to contort together in frustration and now you are really bored.

all you wanted was to see what was the hype around this new popular dating-slash-romance-simulator game and now, you were disappointed.

then again, you’ve heard of how games like these were known to scam their players.

with an annoyed groan, you toss your phone near the edge of the bed before crawling over toward your burgundy-colored nightstand. there, you lightly pull on the wooden handle, opening your drawer.

your eyes land on your sparkly-colored rose toy. just about a few days ago, it came in the mail and you were oh-so ecstatic to try it out.

holding your thumb over the heart-shaped power button, you hear the loud ‘beeeep!’ indicating it’s turned on.

reclining back, you lift your nightgown before sighing deeply. hopefully, your cute ‘lil toy could help make you forget everything that just happened.

honestly, you didn’t really think the stupid game would work anyway. you’ll leave a one-star review later.

the entire game screamed a scam but hey, you only live once. it was worth a shot. actually, no it wasn’t.

but on the bright side,

you were starting to forget about the app the moment your pinched fingers slid your panties to the side. a soft moan leaves from your lips the moment the rubber edge of the vibrator smears against your bare clit. your back nearly arches forward, and as you’re gnawing on your bottom lip, you can feel your toes curling.

“f- fuck,” you swallow in an incoming breath, hearing the loud ‘bzzzz’-ing resounding through each of your paper-thin walls.

the stimulation had you forgetting about that shitty game within seconds. you lie back against your pillow, sweet harmonic whines purring out of your dry throat as you gradually succumb to your coarse thoughts.

then it hit you.

why don’t you just fantasize about . . him?

toji fushiguro.

dark-haired, smug grin, scarred sly lips, beefy build, and cold green eyes..

as you started to envision him in your clouded mind—you let off a soft whine. your thoughts were scrambled, but the first image that popped up in your brain was his arms. his muscles, the various veins that would pop through his biceps.

oh- you only imagined what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped around your throat.

the thoughts alone make your thighs squeeze together, and the buzzing from the toy shrieks even louder once you turn it up a single notch.

‘powering off. . !’

wait,

what?

snatched straight out of your lewd fantasm, your fingers pause as they lie against the rubber toy. your eyes widen once the vibrating stops— and then in your room, it’s dead quiet again.

“you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” you whine, the realization that your toy dying mid-fantasy making your mood turn even more sour.

first, you lose in the game and you lose at playing with yourself too? damn, girl you’re a failure!

oh uh, sorry.

“heh, need help, sugar?”

you freeze the minute your ears perk up, hearing a smoky raspy voice. its low, with a bit of huskiness underneath it too. coldness sets against your thighs, creeping at the skin that hides underneath your pulled-up nightgown before you gulp.

was that…

“yeah, it’s me. y’er wished uh- ‘dilf.’ whatever i’m supposed to say,” toji adds in a raspy tone, crossing his beefy arms with a puffed-out chest. it was as if he was reading your mind. you probably had the dumbest expression plastered across your face because toji then smirked. “what? y’er toy that failed to make you cum made you speechless too? awwwh.”

smug bastard.

a wave of embarrassment crept against your skin as you closed your dangling, open jaw. oh fuck.

he saw that- he saw you, little ‘ole you playing with yourself. just seconds ago, you were fantasizing about if he really was here, and now actually he is.

in the flesh . . . literally.

“i… uh,” you stammer, struggling to form a proper sentence. toji stands tall, a few inches away from the edge of your bed. hooded, green eyes stare at you and he’s just loving it - the way your eyes rove down his body, openly checking him out.

he wore the same outfit you picked out for him in the game.

a compression tank top with some shorts. (you added a tiny pink bow on his head just to be funny) the more you ogled at him with cute, enlarged eyes—the more you realized just how big he was. ‘big’ was an understatement, the guy was huge. toji towered over you even while you were lying in bed. “wow,” you softly utter, your eyes coincidently landing on his bulge.

toji was packed- and it was as if his bulge was having a staring contest right back at you.

“i know, darlin.’ he’s big ain’t he?” toji snickers.

you finally meet toji’s eyes before scoffing. his personality traits weren’t kidding about him at all. he’s cocky. “i’m just- you’re real?”

“pretty much.”

“but… how?”

“touch me ‘n find out, darlin.’”

you deadpan, but it was tempting.

you don’t even realize that you’re already sitting up from your bed—slowly inching yourself toward him.

toji eyes you with the same impish simper, puffed chest, and hefty arms crossed. he’s so brawny, and the moment you softly feel on his left bicep with a hand, he snickers.

“mhm,” he mumbled under his breath, and you could feel his muscles tense at your touch. multiple veins pulsed down his exposed arms and oh- the entire thing was so sensual.

you still felt embarrassed but now you started to feel something else. toji noticed you started to stare at his hands and he raised a dark brow. “this not enough for you, yeah?” your eyes widened once he then bent down, a few inches away from your face. he’s actually real, and sure, you were probably staring at literal pixels but you didn’t care. “want me ‘ta touch you, pretty girl?”

“please,” you whine, and that single word comes out of your mouth so quickly. it flew past your lips within and split a second and you didn’t even register how fuckin’ whiny you sounded in front of him.

your body was burning hot, and you were blazing up underneath your nightgown. “i- i mean, yeah,” you try to play it cool, only embarrassing yourself even further. toji’s so close thought that you could fully smell him.

he smelled manly, a citrusy mixture of wood sage and leather. it’s strong, so strong that it makes you blink thrice.

“yeah what?” toji gruffs, and god he’s just getting closer ‘n closer. by now, he’s just a few spaces away from kissing you.

you’re hoping - praying that he couldn’t hear the dramatic thumps of your heart’s weak pulse.

it’s pounding loudly, competing with drums with each ba-dump! it creates in your chest. toji softly cups your chin, and raises a thin brow once you lean into his touch right away.

“ ‘m gonna need to hear that pretty mouth tell me what to do.” and his smoky voice softens just a bit.

leafy eyes intently stare at you before they shift toward your quivering glossed lips. you’re needy and oh, could he tell.

you lock eyes with toji before letting off a cute sigh. it’s more of a frustrated one—and he’s gingerly rubbing a thumb down your pouty bottom lip. “touch- i want you to touch me, toji.”

“aht ahttt. manners, darlin’,” toji eggs on, guiding his thumb near the corner of your lips. the edge was killing you, and the haughtiness in his voice only made you more irritated. “ ‘pretty please?’ c’mon, talk to me nice.”

toji’s simper turns pompous as he watches you attempt to shoot daggers at him. your knees squeeze together and you’re just so impatient that you just sucked it up, complying. “p.. pretty please, touch me toji.”

“good girl,” he murmurs, and his voice pitched a bit lower this time. it’s almost dangerous, and you gasp once his big hand snakes around your neck.

you’re still trying to wrap your head around how this is even real - but fuck, you were never one to complain.

toji takes a glance at your snapped-shut thighs and he chuckles. “aw, poor thing. that cute rose toy didn’t seem to be much help, huh?”

“……”

ouch.

he just had to remind you of that. but his hand around your neck felt good. he’s gentle, slowly making his way down your chest. toji then starts to make you lie down on your back.

with a flop! the comfy queen-sized bed springs out and you sigh.

“toooji,” and it’s almost like you’re whining again. you hated how slow he was taking, and you knew it was on purpose. the stare he’s giving your body makes you almost moan. your room was slightly dim, but you could still make out his towering wide silhouette. “m- more.”

toji gets on your bed, the mattress dipping from the sudden weight before he grumbles. “bet you fuckin’ do,” and you gasp once he stares between your legs. you moan, watching as toji starts to smell your thighs. he doesn’t just smell though, he’s slowly rubbing his nose and entire face up and down your skin. he’s feral already, and you could tell just from the grunt that leaves his lips shortly after. “ ‘m guessin’ you don’t want me to just touch you anymore, huh sugar?”

“no,” you breathlessly reply, nearly writhing from his touch once his shaggy bangs ghost against your skin.

toji could already smell between your legs. so peachy, and he even made out the faint candied aroma of your body wash that lingered on your skin. your back was already creating an arch at the temptation alone. once his barred hands sprawl your legs apart, he stares straight at your dripping cunt.

oh - you were perfect..

toji huffs, taking a second to smear a thumb down your slit that’s dribbling with so much slit.

leisurely, it cascades down your folds and you watch with glassy eyes once he brings his same thumb up to his lips, getting a taste. “mmm, ain’t that a treat,” and you moan, a hand of yours clawing on his head. toji snickers, feeling your weak grip trying to push him further between your thighs. “my, aren’t you impatient,” toji rasps with a guffaw. “but heh- fine, spread these legs f’ me. ‘s been a while since i’ve eaten good anyway.”

and the moment toji feasts himself between your pretty plush thighs — you were fuckin’ screwed..

he was a literal animal. the second his tongue delves itself inside of your cunt - he’s insane.

toji grunts, pursing his carmine-colored lips as your feeble hips start to rock against his mouth.

“o- ohhh my god,” you’d whimper, tugging at his raven strands. his head movement was just ferocious, swerving from the left to right.

his tongue’s stupidly long too, and toji dips it inside of your pussy before fishing it right back out. he reels it out of your puffed folds before diving right back in.

he’s sluuuurping you as if his life depended on it, savoring your sweetened taste as his lips stuck against your clit. “ngh- fuck, toji,” and your lips couldn’t help but curl into a cute oval.

his tongue..

he’s bullying it between your folds, profusely circling the pointed tip around your pretty ‘lil clit. briefly, it gets trapped within his teeth and toji gives it a little nibble.

a soft yelp! rips out of your throat at the tender munch of his canines playfully munching on your sweetest spots. toji found it cute how you were so squirmy, so much so that his callused rough hands had to hold your hips down. with a cute shimmy, you’re wriggling your twitching sex against his mouth.

already, you watch the glittery stream of your slick starting to drip drip drip down his chin.

toji’s green eyes glance up at you and he snickers, popping in a single digit. slooowly, you feel his thumb sinking inside of your cunt before disappearing into the void of your entrance. you’re moaning, maintaining your firm grip on his head before whimpering. “mm, yank on it harder why don’tcha.”

toji grumps—his head pulling forward roughly at your adorable strength. he’s buried not six inches deep but nose deep, and you shiver once the tip of his button nose starts to rub up ‘n down your sobbing pussy.

he’s addicted- not only that but the epitome of pussy drunk.

“tojiiiii!” you slur out his name, a gasp shortly following out of your lips. the dexterous shapes and curves of his tongue make you whine out his name again . . and again . . and a-fuckin’-gain.

as he’s easing another thick finger inside of your cunt, you’re starting to fantasize.

why didn’t men like him exist in real life?!

he’s messy, giving each area of your cunt a multitude of sloppy kisses. bubbles of saliva trickle past the corners of his lips as he’s stuffed right between your legs.

toji’s damn near animalistic- his buds continuing to whine out for more of your divine taste.

he doesn’t think he’s tasted anything this good since.

you’re full, exhaling a sharp breath once you feel him plug in yet another digit.

“biiiig stretch, baby. three’s the fuckin’ charm,” toji huskily groans, staring straight at your pussy.

it’s so pretty, he’d never get over the shine that coats the entirety of your loving entrance. if he’d squint, he’d mistaken your clit for a blossoming flower. a more lewd one at least anyway.

it’s sloppy with the way he’s got three fat fingers barreling inside of you at once. toji watches as your stomach dips and you’re gasping, tightly pulling at his scalp. “hehhh, atta girl. get these fingers wet if you want toji sir later.”

toji sir….?

just as you were about to eye roll, you let off a moan once you hear the ridiculously wet sloshes of your cunt. he’s pumping all fingers in and out of you while flicking his tongue — multitasking.

with a ‘pop!’ he takes one out before sliding it back in, feeling you bare around each digit like a good girl. “oh- fuck, please don’t stop. pleaseplease,” and you grow even more hysterical as you’re just basically fucking against his face now.

as you’re jerking your hips against toji’s face, you feel a bit of stubble along with his slanted scar smearing against your cunt.

it tickled, but oh- you weren’t laughing.

your eyes were rolling at the enticing sways of his tongue every time. they reach deep- far deeper than the tips of his fingers if that was even possible. as toji’s still idly swirling his flat tongue inside of your gummy orifice, he hears you exhale a deep shriek. “ ‘m gonna cum!”

“awh,” toji slyly murmurs, and you coo out a surprised ‘oooh’ the moment he snatches out of his dewy-coated fingers.

they’re covered in translucent webs of your tangled slick when he gives your cunt a pat. “hear that, baby? said she’s gonna cum,” and he’s not even looking at you. verdant eyes gave your pussy his entire uninvited attention instead, and you feel him blowing his hot breath against your puffy slit. toji even presses his ear up to your wet folds before nodding. “mhm. ‘s exactly what i’m sayin.’”

“uh?? are you seriously talking to my pu—”

“quiet now, sugar. you’ll get y’er turn,” toji utters, making you moan with a spanking right against your fluttering clit. as you’re still laid back with your legs widely splayed out, you quietly bite back whimpers once his palm starts to maneuver a circle around your entrance.

a wet splash! ends up making you spurt out a few droplets of slick right onto the center of his hand. “nasty giiiirl,” he purrs, turning his palm around before licking it right up while staring dead at you.

your neck starts to feel a bit numb as it’s slightly raised just so you can keep staring at toji. he’s just toying with your pussy, casually flicking his tongue against your nub just to hear you whine.

“t- tojiiii.” you wail out, feeling your nerves practically scream at you.

you felt every bundle of axons in your body violently shake you to your very core. your thighs wrapped around toji’s broad neck, merely suffocating him—but he had to admit, going out like this wasn’t so bad..

“give it t’ me then,” he gruffly rasps against your pussy. his breath yet again fans against your folds, noticing that cute ‘lil pulse that would always occur whenever his lips were just a few inches apart.

toji even whistles against your slit, lolling out his tongue before lapping you up from top to bottom.

teasingly, he even goes down toward your neglected puckering hole to give it a loving lick. “all on my tongue, girl. hah- make a mess,” he continues, and you’re whimpering as he’s gruffly talking you through your incoming release.

all you’re seeing is nothing but white once it finally comes. bright, blinding splotches of white that blur your vision for a few seconds..

the moment you let go, you let off a sweet squalling orgasm that rings through your ears and toji’s.

more of a sobbing battle cry and it’s oh-so cute.

at least toji thought so, and he could feel the lessening hold of your fingers releasing from his ravened tresses.

toji’s slurping you clean, making sure his tongue doesn’t miss a drip of your syrupy mess. it coats down on his tongue perfectly, falling on his sizzling tastebuds and even pouring a stream down his chiseled chin.

“there we go girl, uh huhhh.” as he’s talking with his mouth full, you fall back against your bed.

you’re beat - stars clouding your vision and your current state was so cartoonish.

your legs felt like they stopped working, no batteries left in each limb and you’re still moaning whilst he’s lapping up the last few syrupy drops.

licking near the crevices of your inner thighs, toji hums. “heh. y’er cute. ‘s been a while since you’ve got eaten out, sugar?”

in a sluggish mumble, you stare at toji with metaphorical heart eyes. “i guess.”

“poor baby,” he clicks his tongue, sitting up. you’re panting heavily, watching as he gets up. toji’s broad body hovers over you and he runs a hand through his matted black strands. “y’know-” he pauses at the feeling of your hand reaching near his shorts. toji looks at you before snickering, raising a brow. “aw, don’t tell me you want a taste too. ‘s that what you want?”

“mhm,” you utter, and you don’t even realize you are drooling once you’re fondling your fingers with the hem of his briefs. they’re a viridescent green, matching his eye color. once you meet the strip of his boxers with bold black letters that read, ‘DADDY TOJI,’ you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

of course he’d wear briefs that had his name on them.

“don’t be shy, girl,” toji murmurs, placing a wide palm on your head.

you crawl forward as he’s now lying down on the bed with you on your knees. toji’s tank top was wrinkly, and it was pulled up just a tad bit for you to peep at his snatched waistline. it’s sharp, you’d guess that if you tried to touch his hips you’d be left with a paper cut. “ ‘m alllll yours t’night. and he watches as you waste no time, speedily pulling down his boxers.

you’re met that same huge bulge you saw when he was in the game—

it’s big, so big that it almost looked painful.

the way it poked out the fabric, hardening from the tent that was concealing it from being sprung out.

once you pull down his briefs, his cock eventually does spring out, and your eyes cutely widen. “f- fuck.”

“yeahh, toji sir’s gonna be inside you in a minute.”

“stop talking about your dick like it’s a person.”

“make me.”

he’s so annoying,

silence was your reply and toji snickers once he sees you deadpan. he liked getting on your nerves. he found it cute how you were trying to keep up your stubborn façade while wrapping a hand around his monstrous length at the same time.

but fuck.. he’s just so thick-

at first, toji could barely fit around your entire palm. his tip’s swollen, a ruddy crimson red with a pearly split tip.

it’s got veins running from not just one side but all, and you were frothing inside of the mouth just imagining that thing down your throat. you’re so close up to it, glancing at the tears of pre-cum that snivel from the meaty sides. you couldn’t help but give his rounded tip a few kitten kisses.

“m-mhm,” toji grunts, his core muscles underneath his tightly fitted shirt flexing.

seconds later, you softly swirl your tongue around his tip—getting a good enough taste before humming with a closed-eye smile. “go ‘head, get a taste.”

toji’s hand claws on the crown of your head once he ogles at the sight before him.

you - arched over, a hand slowly jerking up and down his hefty shaft. a vein on his dick prods against your finger the moment you cup your lips around his head. it’s massive, and it takes you a second to relax your jaw out.

“nnghm-” you blink twice, laying your wet tongue flat against his flushed crown. toji watches, and he’s oh-so smug. the hooking curve he had on his cock didn’t help either.

you could already start to feel the creases of your mouth numb as you tried to fit him inside. the bittersweet taste of his pre-cum lingers on your buds as your lashes suddenly close.

“niiiiiice ‘n slow, babygirl. you got it,” toji says in a smoky gruff.

the muscles in his burly thighs tense the more your mouth slams down on him. with his nostrils flaring up, toji lets off a loooong groan that puffs out of his chest. “fuuuckk-” he grunts, feeling your tongue circle its way around his sparkly tip.

it’s glimmering with excess dewdrops of cum and you couldn’t help but lap up every drop. toji then sits up on his knees, making you keep your current position.

his knees dig into the plush mattress as he stares at how you’re slowly taking him in your mouth.

with a hand still wrapped around his thick shaft, your lashes flutter once his bulbous cockhead kisses against your uvula. “ahn-” you gulp, a few strands of saliva pouring down the corners of your cracked lips. toji groans, feeling you already starting to lather his entire meaty length with spit as a substitute for lubricant.

it’s messy - and toji eyes you the entire time, his grip against the top of your head getting a bit stronger.

“good girl, mhm. no teeth, n- no fuckin’ teeth. wanna feel that pretty tongue ‘n that tight throat,” and you let off a muffled moan once his tip sloppily drubs against the back of your throat yet again.

you lie your tongue flat, making it wander everywhere—tasting the tasteless veins that were shaped akin to lightning strikes.

it’s all over his cock, and your eyes are closed as you try to savor every inch that eases its way down your right throat. “god- that’s it, that’s what this cute mouth is for, yeah? for dick, huh,” and some more drool seeps from your lips as toji holds up your chin, rubbing a thumb over your mouth. “p- put that mouth to good use, sugar.”

your plump lips wrap around toji’s cock as your head starts to bobble. wholly, you’re taking him in with the end of your conic-shaped tongue teasingly sliding down the midline of his shaft.

toji’s nostrils flare up as he starts to push you closer into his unsteady hips, sucking in a dramatic breath once he feels you starting to wetly fist his cock quicker with one hand.

again, it’s damn biiig, throbbing in the palm of your hand and you moan once you guide your other hand between your legs.

with quick reflexes though, toji reaches in and gives your wrist a slight swat.

“no touchin’, girl.” he grumbles, and you let off a pout as your puffed cheeks heat up. “don’t worry about her right now, she’s fine where she’s at, promise.”

if you didn’t have your mouth occupied you’d smack your lips to voice your frustration, but alas…

your head continues to bobble as you take various fat inches down your throat, occasionally taking a second to breathe for air.

toji’s abs flex as you continue, digging his thick stubby fingers down your scalp. “mmp-” you let off a muffled moan, feeling your thighs squeeze shut.

pathetically enough, you were still dripping and the conditioned air fanning against your exposed skin only made you ten times more sensitive. toji lets off a deep, heavy sigh once you start to fondle his balls.

they were all round ‘n swollen, and he nearly choked on his own words once feels your stringy saliva trickle down toward his heavy, neglected sack.

“nasty s- slut,” he huffs out, already starting to feel his cock tightening. your throat and its warmth were dangerous—and he can feel your jaw starting to slacken. “mmm, gettin’ handsy on me, yeah pretty girl?” and toji brings two fingers toward your face, plugging your nose.

it only lasts about two seconds and you moan, his dick sloppily popping out of your mouth and he hears you gasp. a lustrous stream of spit starts to dribble down your chin as you pant, cutely glaring at him.

“aw, such a messy baby. look at that wet jawww,” he smears a hand down your chin, watching you lean back in.

toji grunts, feeling you grip his base and he knew sooner rather than later, that he was getting close.

you’re opening your throat niiice and wide as if you were preparing to belt out a high note. he’s tapping back against the roof of your mouth and near your twitching uvula repeatedly, and that’s when toji starts to thrust his hips into your mouth.

“fuck, f- fuckk keep goin’,” his voice starts to pitch deeper with an even more husky rasp before he starts to pant. “ ‘m gonna cum, gonna fuckin’ cum right down this messy throat. ‘s that what ya want, pretty?”

“mhm,” your head nods, and you could feel your cunt twitching between your legs at the erotic imagery.

the mental image of toji splattering ropes and ropes of hot cum on your achy pink tongue. it makes you nearly drool just imagining it, and you start to moan again.

toji groans, never getting over the lewd sliminess of your saliva mixing. sloppy strands continue to fall past the edges of your quivering lips as your glassy eyes glance up at him.

toji’s puffing and huffing feverish heavy breaths that make you throb even more. his chest sinks in and out as he’s preparing to shoot a nice load right on your tongue. “hah- fine then, open wide baby girl. better take it all.” toji groans, shivering once your lips tickle down the slope of his frenulum.

with a loud spurt! toji ends up releasing, slimy creamy strings gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.

it comes out slow but it’s so hot- you let off a soft mewl at the bitterly somewhat sweet taste soaking on your highly anticipated tastebuds.

“mmmh.” you let off a satisfied hum, flapping your lashes as he dumps such rivulets of cum down your throat. frosty ribbons ooze down your throat one drop at a time and toji grunts.

“hah- good . . good fuckin’ girl, c’mere.” toji grunts.

as you’re trying to catch your breath yourself, he softly pulls you up by the neck, bringing you into a sultry hot kiss. you moan once his scarred lips harshly crash against yours at full speed.

toji swipes his tongue across the edge of your mouth, barely batting an eye that he’s tasting remnants of his cum on your lips.

as both tongues mercilessly fight for dominance, toji leans you to lie back down on the bed. he’s warm, and you can feel him shiver once you drag a palm down his beefy chest.

you taste a bit of mint on his tongue as he parts your legs with one hand blindly, giving your bare pussy a playful squeeze with his entire wrist.

“mmmpf-” you whimper against his lips, and toji’s big hands slowly trail their way toward your untouched tits. he squeezes them also.

you feel a curve of a smile from toji stretch against your lips as he hears you whine. still delving his greedy tongue in and out of your mouth, occasionally tilting his head, toji brushes his thumbs against the fleecy fabric of your nightgown that sheaths your perked nipples.

before you know it though—you now found yourself bent over and arched.

your lips were all hot and swollen, ridden entirely and you already missed his lips on yours as you laid chest flat down with a cute pout. you could feel toji’s eyes running down your back, shortly hearing a titter come from him once he stops to look at you.

“goddamn, sugar,” toji lets off a whistle as he enjoys the view from the back. your face was met between your fluffed pillows as you chewed on your lip in utter anticipation.

your slicked orifices were just weeping out with your syrupy arousal, clenching from the cold air aerating against it. toji wanders his eyes down the cute shape of your ass with his shaft in hand.

his stare - you could feel it, including the incoming chill that ran down your spine.

with a loud echoing spank, toji swats a hand against your ass, groaning at the jiggly flesh. “so pretty ‘n plump. ‘m gonna take my time with you.”

you moan as your ass instinctively wriggles. toji’s rough wide hands softly caress down your hips before he starts to align himself.

here it goes…

you were mentally preparing yourself, biting on the edge of your cottony pillow. the instant you feel his dewy tip smudge its head against your folds, you let off a deep sigh. shortly afterward, a sweet ‘oooh!’ departs from your lips from the fat size alone. your stomach was already seizing, and the wait was steadily killing you. “fu- fuck,” you croak out, hearing toji’s husky breathing from behind you.

all eyes were on you, and your sweet drooling cunt that just doesn’t know when to stop leaking.

it’s a gorgeous sight in his eyes—

the way how your pulsing inside your clit started to accelerate more ‘n more once he brings his flushed cockhead towards your entrance. “ahh, such a pretty pussy. let’s get the good girl a bit more loose,” toji heaves, and your mouth drops the second his hips sharply pierce inward. gradually, he’s starting to ease his way in..

he’s slow and gentle—

mainly because just a bit of pressure and he’d snap you in half like a twig.

he was that big, and once you were starting to feel the splitting stretch of his cock, you were hysterical. “ohmygoddd.” you blurb out, your hips already pathetically stuttering.

the stretch was so delicious, it’s so good that your eyes were starting to roll back toward the back of your skull yet again. toji groans, feeling your cunt trying to hug against him tightly, greeting him with a cute gummy flutter.

once his thick tip bullies its way inside with its sheer size instead of words alone… it’s game over.

a single thrust was enough to snap you right into reality, and you moan right as his hips punctuate its first hit.

that single hit soon turns into a combo, and toji’s cock started to maintain a decent pace before striking your cunt at all angles. he stares at the fat of your ass that bounces back against his sharp pelvis and he grunts.

“hah- that’s it, girl. fuck back into me, yeah.” and another rude palm smacks against your ass cheek. you whimper, feeling your toes curl at his weight pressing right up against you.

toji lifts his shirt which was practically gluing against his skin due to his masses of sweat. leaning in all the way close, he hovers his weight over you—making his abs rock against you as he starts to grind on your body.

“lemme hear ya,” he hoarsely whispers, feeling your cunt twitch the moment he wraps a hand around the back of your throat.

toji’s strokes were mean-

the epitome of ruthless once he’s just straight-up jackhammering into your walls.

your legs didn’t take long to become wobbly as you were whining his name constantly, choking on your crude inaudible syllables.

“toji—”

“again, not you little girl,” and you moan once his tip thrashes deep into your cervix. it’s nearly reaching there, attempting to drown it with sloppy vigorous kisses.

a palm goes over your mouth, muffling your sweet repetitive moans before he smirks.

“her,” and you whine, feeling him creep a free hand down between your parted thighs. toji rubs circles against your stuffed full cunt, hearing your whimpers pitch louder.

his rhythm was the definition of crazy, and as he was pounding into you continuously, you were slobbering all over the bare center of his palm. toji spanks between your legs, hearing your muffled yelp before lowly chuckling against your ear. a loud splash was heard from your cunt and he starts to smear it back against your throbbing entrance.

“mhm, see baby. she’s tryna talk to me again. ‘m more interested to see what she’s got to say,” and your eyes were practically crossed-eyed now. as toji’s deep voice talks your ear off, he playfully nibbles on your lobe. “wet pussy first, then the whiny wet girl, yeah?”

“mmph-” you moan, bawling your sheets into the open palms of your hand. toji gawks as your body starts to gradually lift.

it’s cute- your ass raises and you’re trying to match his pace. toji’s hitting you well and he’s hitting you deep.

each tilt of his hips sends you whiplash and you’re hacking on your own spit. “mmng.” as your muffled sounds resounded through your walls, you feel his hand go against your ass again.

toji’s favorite part always was to just see your skin bounce back against his.

the jiggle—it was the icing on the cake. the swerves of his hips have you getting dick-drunk within seconds.

bulging widely, your eyes enlarge the exact moment you feel something go against the back of your head.

it’s his foot- thankfully he’s wearing socks.

“fuuuck, such a nasty fuckin’ grip,” toji growls, bringing both hands toward your hips again. he’s holding you firmly, with his foot raising toward the back of your neck. you let off an even prettier moan this time, mutely gasping from the angle.

with toji’s foot near the back of your head, he’s in an even deeper position. “take it. take this dick, t- take it.” as you’re moaning, toji pushes you further into the follow.

oh- you were getting close again.

very, very close. so close that you could taste it in your tongue, it’s salty flavor never subsided.

it was coming quickly, and this time it felt a bit different.

your cunt’s glossing the entirety of toji’s cock that buries itself inside of your clingy walls before he groans. taking the pillow out of your mouth, your words and sounds aren’t so muffled anymore. “t- toji! somethin’s about to—”

“i know… iiiii know,” he cuts you off, and his thrusts against you start to slow. slow but still insanely deep.

you feel a bit of a bulge nudge against the lower pit of your tummy and you exhale. he’s in wholly, stretching out your pretty pussy and rearranging your insides—ironically enough just like his alias name.

“let go for me,” and you moan once he releases his foot from behind you, cupping your chin with a bare hand. you’re a mess, drooling from the sides of your swollen pursed lips before whining. “trust me, sugar. let go.”

at his words—you end up ‘letting go’ which fet like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

you’ve had orgasms but this felt like an entirely new world. you’re gushing out, sprinkling out a small clear stream on his cock before gasping.

your legs were on their last few hinges before collapsing and your eyes widened larger. “toji, toji s- shiiiit,” you ramble with furrowed brows and a dangling dropped jaw.

you’ve never felt more wet, and your entire body blissfully relaxes once your release comes.

toji’s still inside you before he sneers. your body gets limp and he squeezes your plump lips together. “woahhh,” he gruffs, pressing his chin onto your right shoulder. you shiver once you feel the clammy mess stick and soak between your thighs. “did you just squirt on me?”

“s- sorry, sorry,” you moan, feeling your left leg twitch. you’re still spurting out and it’s like a crashing wave that just keeps coming.

toji rubs a thumb against your lips, his hips coming to a sudden pause.

“ah. don’t apologize, silly girl,” toji coos against your neck, planting a kiss near your skin. he feels your body slumping but toji raises a brow once you make him pull out, lightly pushing him back on the bed. “oh? what’s this, sweetheart?” he lands on his chest before snickering. “atta girl. not scared ‘ta look me in the eye.”

“s.. shut up, toji.”

“hmph. how rude.”

toji ends up fucking you stupid, fucking the brain cells—whatever brain cells you had left in your brain by dumbing you down with fat inches of his cock.

round after round after round . .

you’re an entire drooling, babbling mess and despite your legs nearly giving out, you only wanted more..

he did countless positions with you, making you moan out his name constantly until it’s the only word that can slip past your glossed lips. until it’s the only word that can formulate in your brain.

you’re dumbfounded at his stamina - his speed.

you lost track of time and you were sure it was probably waaay past one am by now.

you were currently on top of toji, riding him with the loud creaks of your bed groaning in agony from both active bodies.

your hips were so sensual, rockin’ back and forth while he had a hand attached to your waist the entire time. that sly grin that painted across his lips never left. “yeahhh, girl. use those hip—ack,” and toji pauses mid-sentence once your hand wraps around his throat. “heh- the fuck?”

“you talk too much, toji.” you puff, watching his smug grin widen even more. he’s not even fazed?

oh- he’s turned on.

toji’s sat man-spread with his hand still gripping your hip. his cock’s puncturing inside of your cunt deeply, massaging thoroughly through your walls like its life depended on it.

the view of you swerving your body on his lap turned him on a lot more than he thought it would. it was just something about the way you moved your hips, going in circles and fuck- it drove him mad.

“funny comin’ from a pretty girl with a pussy who doesn’t know when to-”

you shut him up right away by placing your lips on his. toji grunts, leaning into your touch. you felt his hardened scar rub against the side of your lip before your hips quickened.

you’re slow - lustfully torturing toji with your hips. his cock’s pumping in and out of your cunt, feeling you freely writhe around him.

you taste sweet, and he tilts his head back as both crowns of teeth clash at full force. the constant stretch of his hooked cock never fails to leave you speechless as you whisper out soft moans against his thin lips.

“mmph-” toji gruffs, the bed’s creaking turning into mere wails.

you’re bouncing on him now, still having a hand wrapped around his throat before flicking your tongue against his. toji smacks your ass, then he does it again, and again.

hearing your shrilling whines makes him squeeze the fat of your flesh, eagle-spreading his legs even wider like the slut he was.

his body’s just overly glossed with sweat, it shines down his buff physique before you slowly pull away from him. slimy tangled strands of saliva tear away from each lip as toji stares at you.

it’s a mere pout on his lips before he huffs, tilting his head back. “ ‘m gonnaaa fuckin’ cummm,” he blurts in a thick tone, dragging out his elongated words due to your pussy making it hard for him to think straight. “hah- y’er hips are evil, sugar. fuck, gonna milk me.”

as he sucks in a honed sharp breath, feeling the weight of your hips swerve uncontrollably in hypnotizing arcs, toji slips out a whine.

it’s subtle, and you had to really listen to hear his husky tone pitch but you heard it. you watch as the veins in his neck pop, and as you’re still choking him, it turns him on even more.

his cock throbs fiercely inside of you, smacking against each gummy spot that’s located in your sloppy, spongy walls. you had a grip that he just couldn’t get enough of. it was cute how your hand could barely fit all the way around his thick neck anyway, but nonetheless—

toji ends up shooting blanks abruptly, a gruff groan leaving past his lips once he feels himself preparing to shoot inside of you. with your panties still glued to the sides of your thighs, you let off another bundle of exaggerated moans, slowing your pace down.

“f- fuck,” you inhale, feeling toji dig his nails into your left ass cheek. he’s clenching down his tense jaw tightly, emerald eyes flickering back for a moment as his mouth remains slightly agape.

once his milky knot’s pooling its way deep into the barrier of your womb, you let off a shuddering whine. “toji, fill me up, mhm- don’t stop.”

“ugh-” he groans, feeling the weight of his sack start to gradually shrivel up inside of you. the sight of you straddling him was enough to make him cum alone.

toji’s entire body felt hot - scorching, but compared to the dryness of his throat was an entirely different story..

he’s got so much, wads ‘n clods of creamy, gooey seed that plugs its way into your cunt.

you finally sit still, listening to the loud sloshes of all pounds of flesh grinding together. toji’s chest heaves in and out as he’s still got a hand glued to your ass, feeling his cock excessively droooool out such creamy lumps of cum.

“s- sugar,” and his sleazy smile returns on his lips again. toji’s fucked dumb just as much as you were, and you could tell because of how droopy and half-open his eyes were. “heh, got some nerve m- milkin’ me like that. some hah- nerve.”

“you don’t seem so cocky now, toji.” you hum, bringing a chaste kiss against his lips. a stocky arm wraps around your waist before his eyes close, locking lips with you for the final time, hungrily swallowing his low grunts whilst the two of you exchange saliva.

“girl whatever,” he grumbled with sass, and he was still cumming. you let off a soft moan, feeling a brief pudge from just how much he dumped into your pussy. you were leaking from the sides of your thighs, streams of frothy white tearing from each lip. toji licks against your lips before hearing your phone interrupt the two of you with a loud, screeching ‘beeeep!’ with a snarl, he huffs. “the fuck is that?”

you turn toward the side of the bed, reaching for your phone. “my phone, hold on-” and as he’s still plugged into you fully, keeping your walls tight ‘n snug with not only his shaft but his enormous sticky load, you squint. “huh..” and it’s a notification from the app ‘RENT-A-DILF!’

“what’s it say? hah- better be important,” toji mumbles, letting off a soft groan from the feeling of your hips shifting against him.

“ooh. it says . . i matched with a new character,” you reply, taking a moment to scroll your thumb down the brightly pink screen.

it displayed a new character that must’ve been added to the roster a few minutes ago.

as your eyes skim at the coral-pink description box, it mentions in bold how he’s not exactly a dilf like the other male leads….. buuuut the catch was that he was dashingly handsome.

and to be honest, the more you stared at the character with a lit cigarette sticking out of his lips and was draped in a jet-black tuxedo.. yeah, he was pretty hot.

“hm. says his name is shiu kong,” and you look back at toji who’s got a look of literal disgust. “what? do you know him?”

“Okay, that’s honestly unexpected,” you say, pleased to know that they aren’t slacking on your subject. “Does Monday sound good? That’s three more days, to be fair. I don’t want to extend it further because I have to read everyone’s work and you guys know I don’t like rushing it before turning in your final grade.”

A chorus of relief and thanks echoed in the room, all of your students either dramatically sinking in their chair or erupting in an animated conversation with their seatmate or making crying faces to portray how grateful they are.

“Thank you so much, Ms. ____!”

“I love you, Ms. ____!”

“Ms. ____, I will offer my first child to you,” one theatrically adds and you smile a bit, rolling your eyes at students like this one who is now opting to flatter you way too much for your act of kindness.

“Alright, alright. Just get it done and I’m expecting quality work, okay? Class dismissed.”

The whole class begins to gather their things at the cue and you don’t stay there a minute longer after your announcement, exiting the lecture hall to head to the faculty room where you’re certain half of the teaching staff have gone home already. It’s already 8:47 p.m., and all you want to do is head home to get the rest you deserve after an eventful day.

There was a time that having a schedule from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. wasn’t the norm for you. You used to value work life balance so much—it was even a nonnegotiable you used to say in interviews, saying that if you didn’t get enough rest within the week, then the job most likely wasn’t for you. But things have been very different for the past months; you have definitely grown out of that mindset due to the fact that you’re simply in need of another source of income to pay for your monthly rent, utility bills, and now your medication. You’re in a stage of your life wherein you consider working part time as a professor was a blessing rather than a big nuisance.

Making a right turn to where the hallway to the faculty room is, you’re too busy rearranging the papers inside the folder you’re holding to notice a man sitting on the bench placed just beside the entrance. He notices you the second you appear in his line of vision though; he straightens his posture and proceeds on standing up immediately upon seeing you closer, calling your name softly when you failed to look at his direction, too preoccupied with the thought of finally coming home that you’re oblivious that the man trying to catch your attention is Jeon Jungkook.

“____,” he calls again and this time you notice him, your eyes widening instantly.

“Holy shi—” You stop yourself from finishing that sentence. “Jungkook?”

He grins. “Hey, lamb chop.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet an old friend?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughs, following suit to you who’s already giggling just by his presence alone, outstretching his arms then. “You gonna hug me or what?”

You beam and step forward to embrace him. He returns it without hesitation, muscular arms circling around you and squeezing tightly that it lifts you up from the ground for a quick second. The faint smell of fabric conditioner on his clothes enters your nostrils and you feel like a teenager again, warmth rushing to your face while your heart hammers loudly in your chest. Regardless of how old the both of you are, you think your hopeless crush on the guy will forever live on and constantly transform you into a middle school girl whenever opportunities like these to have him near arise. You’re just happy you’ve trained yourself to be better at hiding it now compared to when you were younger.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in base or wherever it is that you’re designated?” you ask, the first to let go from the hug.

“Actually, I returned from deployment three days ago. I’m on leave for two weeks.”

“Wow. Two weeks, huh?”

“Yep. It’s the longest break I’ve gotten in a while.”

“That’s good. Everybody needs a break from time to time.”

“Says the girl has a day job and a night job.” He points out with a smirk; your heart does a little leap at how handsome he looks doing that. “When the hell did you get into teaching, by the way? I never pegged you to be the kind who can tolerate it. You hate kids.”

“You’ll find yourself tolerating lots of things in this economy.” You snort. “And my students aren’t kids. They’re in college.”

“Yeah, which you graduated from six years ago. Still technically kids.”

“Are you seriously jabbing at my age when you’re two years older than I am?”

He rolls his eyes at that one, an indication that you won the argument. “Anyway,” he starts again and you grin, “I didn’t come here to compare how old we are—”

“You didn’t?”

He sends you a look. Your grin gets even wider.

“I’m here because I was hoping to treat you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” you repeat, not masking the surprise from your voice.

Let’s get the facts straight before we proceed to this conversation.

It isn’t a lie when you say that you and Jungkook are great friends. You have been since you were 7 and your family just moved into the house next to theirs. He was a natural playmate, a companion when you couldn’t tolerate the antics of your older brother, the boy who looked out for you aside from said older brother, and the person you’ve shared significant history with throughout your youth that you can never seem to forget nor disregard.

It’s just that you never deemed that you were great enough friends for him to go out of his way and visit you at your workplace, offering to treat you for dinner. Gestures like that were reserved for your older brother, Seowon, who’s the same age as he is and who you’re sure is considered as his best friend. Compared to them, yours and Jungkook’s dynamic shifted slightly after graduating from college. What once was a really close friendship turned into a casual one, with mostly just teasing, light talks, and the occasional welfare checks at times you hear certain news from the other that’s worth speaking directly about.

At the mention of that, realization dawns on you on why he must be here.

“Jungkook…” You’re trying not to sound mad but you can’t hide the exasperation from your voice. “That’s not the real reason you’re here.”

“Of course, it is. Why else would I be here?”

“He told you, didn’t he?” you ask, not willing to drag this out. “You’re just going to give me another lecture that I definitely don’t need.”

Jungkook frowns, like he’s dismayed that you caught on pretty swiftly.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” You pressed.

“He meant well, ____.”

You scowl. To remark that Seowon is unnecessarily nosy and coddling would be an understatement. That man hasn’t left you alone the second he was aware of your condition. Usually, whenever he gets into his ‘big brother tendencies’, his girlfriend Winnie steps in and helps you lay him off your back. However, it’s different this time; no matter how much you reinstill your independence and insist that you’re fine, it’s like you’re talking to a wall.

“What exactly did you hear from him?” you query.

He seems hesitant in answering that. “That you got diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.”

You wince.

“Look,” he steps forward towards you, “I wasn’t going to bring it up unless you did, okay? I’m just here because I’m genuinely worried about you and I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Worry doesn’t vanish magically just because someone says so.”

“Well, it should—because I’m fine.”

“You sure? I heard that you’re struggling to buy insulin among other things you’re having a hard time paying.”

“Fuck. Seowon told you that too? That’s private.”

“My parents know. He just filled me in because he wants you to have as much support as you can get.”

“I don’t need that. I’m an adult. I’ve lived by myself for years. I can fend for myself just fine.”

“It doesn’t look like it from what I’ve been hearing.”

“All you’re hearing is a warped and exaggerated version of the story told by Seowon who won’t listen to a word I say.” You huff. “I’m fine and I’ve been doing everything I can, alright? I’m taking care of myself. I’m going to the doctor whenever I need to. I’m making ends meet, buying treatment for this goddamn disease and regulating my sugar levels all the fucking time. Why do you think I’ve been working two jobs for the past year? It’s because I’m doing everything I can to stay alive.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, he only remains gazing at you.

“If you’re here to offer me money or whatever because of what he said,” you add, already embarrassed that you can’t even look at him anymore, “then I don’t want it.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” he says.

“Then are you really just here to treat me to dinner?” you question sarcastically.

He laughs and you dare return your eyes at him, catching him peering at you with a fond expression. “Yes. It’s my way of doing a welfare check.”

“Welfare check.” You echo with squinted eyes. “Well, in that case, here I am—alive and healthy.”

“I can see that, and I’m glad.” He smiles. “But I need more than just seeing you. I need a conversation and an apology.”

“An apology?”

“For being the last person to know about your condition.”

“And we’re still talking about that apparently.” You mutter under your breath. “Sorry. I didn’t think that you wanted to know.”

“Of course, I would have wanted to know. It’s you we’re talking about here.”

Something about how he said you causes your lips to twitch as you fight off a smile. This isn’t a good time to dive into your romantic feelings for your childhood crush, but when he’s letting go of lines like that which are sure to have your heart soaring out of your chest, it’s hard to keep on a cool and unfazed facade. You just convince yourself that he sees you as a little sister and that’s why he’s so worried; you should already be past your ‘delulu’ phase at this age to be affected by such statements.

“I didn’t want to add to your worries,” you reason. “You already have your life to think about. Add to the fact that you’re a naval aviator—so you literally have your own life first to think about.”

“I can make space for you.”

Is he flirting? Is this a normal thing to say between friends?

You blink. “Okay, uh, that’s… that’s completely up to you, I guess.”

“I just like knowing those things first hand. It makes me worry less.”

“Got it. Next time I learn I’m dying, I’ll tell you.”

“____,” he says your name in warning, and you know he’s serious.

“Sorry.” You heat up. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass.”

“I promise that’ll be the last time I make a dark joke, Lieutenant.”

Jungkook’s nostrils flare. You prevent yourself from grinning like a fool again in success of getting on his nerves.

“Are you done here? Because I’m hungry and would really like to get going now.” He changes the subject and gestures to the faculty.

“Yeah. I’ll just get my things and then I can get out of here.”

“Great. You’re letting me take you to dinner, right?” 

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Fine.” You deadpan.

This time, he’s the one who’s beaming at you. “I’ll wait for you here and we can go.”

“Okay.”

****

When Jungkook discovered that you had type 1 diabetes through a phone call with Seowon, he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, ignoring the snores of his squadmates and overthinking what’s supposed to happen to you now that you had an autoimmune disease which he was told didn’t have a cure. He was assured that you were okay despite it, that there was medication to treat it, and that you had access to them and have been very careful with your lifestyle due to the diagnosis ever since.

He still couldn’t be put to ease though. As ridiculous as it may sound, he had this overwhelming realization that life truly was short, that you had to make certain decisions all the time because you need to adjust to what the universe is only willing to give you. It was funny coming from a person who risked his life for a living. He thinks that perhaps he never understood the philosophy of the quote ‘time is gold’ until he had a loved one on the same trajectory, always one step closer to possible death.

And so that same night, he decided to file a leave for two weeks, effective immediately after his deployment. 

He wasn’t sure what his game plan was exactly in filing that two-week leave. Was he supposed to barge in your life and force you to let him take care of you? Was he supposed to demand why you ended up having diabetes? Was he supposed to act as a big brother like your actual big brother because he was that worried about you? But if Jungkook was going to be truthful, he already had an idea on what he wanted to do in the back of his head—he just didn’t want to execute it because it was absolutely insane.

Until he heard Seowon suggest it himself when they met up at a bar to share a drink together.

“She would never say yes,” Jungkook said, beyond doubt that you won’t be persuaded that easily with a plan like that.

Seowon made a face. “I know. That girl is so hyper independent—she’d rather die than accept help.” He scoffed. “She needs it though. It’ll help with her medication and she won’t have to pay rent for that shit apartment she’s living in. Plus, she'll actually get the chance to take care of her body if she’s not juggling two jobs to have sufficient income.”

“You’re right.” Jungkook shrugged.

“You’ll do it then?”

He took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. I’d do anything for ____, you know that.”

“Even as crazy as marrying her?”

“Sure.”

Seowon stared at him, narrowing his eyes and morphing his expression into a teasing one. “Are you sure you’re not just considering this because it’s a perfect excuse to marry my sister? I know you like her.”

“I don’t like her.” 

“You’re in love with her.”

“I don’t—” Jungkook began to deny but Seowon was staring him down. “Fuck you, man. Don’t make me some kind of pervert who’s trying to lock her into marriage because he likes her. You’re the one who brought the idea up.”

Seowon laughed out loud. “I know, I just can’t believe you’d agree. It’ll benefit ____, that’s for sure—you, on the other hand? It’s career suicide.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay with the thought that she’ll be okay.”

“Because you love her, man.” Seowon pushed. “Why on earth would you consider this if you weren’t? It’s a fraudulent marriage. You’ll be thrown in the brig and be dishonorably discharged if you get caught.”

“We don’t even know if she’ll agree to this whole thing. You said it yourself, she would never say yes.”

“Yeah, unless maybe you’re the one who tries to persuade her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to buy her a ring and kneel down before her or something?”

“That can work.”

“What?” Jungkook laughed.

Seowon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how she’s been crushing on you since we were kids.”

He barked out a laugh again. That he knew; it was impossible not to when a lot of friends and cousins kept on teasing you before, especially at instances Jungkook was in the very same vicinity. “We’re not kids anymore and I barely see her though.”

“Still, it ought to count to something. It raises the chances of her agreeing.”

“You’re really cool with me marrying your sister, Won?” Jungkook asked.

Seowon placed down the beer bottle he’s consuming on the counter. “Yeah. You’re a good guy. You’re not perfect, but I know you enough to know that you won’t do anything that will purposely hurt her. Besides, if this sham marriage ends up to be a real relationship and then for some reason, you fuck up and decide to break her heart—I’ll easily know what to do, where to find you, and then I’ll do everything I can to fuck you up.”

Jungkook pressed his lips together to stifle a chuckle.

“Noted.”

****

It’s always been a big wonder to you how no matter how long it’s been since you saw each other, it still feels like no time has passed between you and Jungkook. You think that’s why you can never get over him; he always had this comforting and familiar aura that you appreciate—something that you sought for in every other person that you liked. Maybe it was impractical, maybe it was the reason you can never hold a relationship for more than two years, but unless you gain the courage to confront your feelings and tell Jungkook about it, then you constantly dispel any doubts you might have whether this was good for you or not.

You don’t want to lose him. Admitting that you harbored romantic feelings for him would just make it awkward for everyone: your brother, your family, and then his family. You don’t think you can ever trade his smile, the sound of his laughter, and all the good things about him for anything in the world. 

“Are you dating anyone?” he asks.

You choke on your drink, having just poured yourself and Jungkook a glass of water after the server arrived with the pitcher. You’re in a Japanese restaurant near the university, aware that the cuisine was a favorite for the both of you hence why it’s what you recommended when he asked where you wanted to dine. The place is packed with people from the workforce and students; you’re thankful that you don’t see any of your students within the mix.

“We’re getting straight to it, huh?” you say.

Jungkook smirks. “I’m just making sure I’m not upsetting a boyfriend by meeting you tonight.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not upsetting anyone.”

He nods in understanding. You don’t want to add more meaning to his actions for the evening but he seems glad about the information.

“How about you?” you ask back. “Are you dating anyone?”

The ends of his mouth lift a bit upwards. “Nope.”

“Why? You don’t have the time for it?”

“Precisely.”

“It must be really hard dating when you’re in the Navy then.”

“Kinda. We’re away a lot and stationed in different places most of the time. It can get really dangerous for us too and people don’t like the stress that comes with that.”

 You bob. “Does it get lonely?”

“Sometimes, but when you’re on duty, you don’t get to think about those things.” He chuckles. “Besides, I don’t know if this sounds fucked up or not—but it can get exciting. Flying a plane can be fun, you know. Not to mention that it helps when you’re surrounded by good men in your squadron.”

“You’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.”

“And you’ve always been a scaredy-cat.”

You scoff at the declaration. “No, I’m not.”

“Remember when Seowon and I forced you to ride that ship in the amusement park that sways left to right and as it goes on it falls from a higher standpoint?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you do, and Jungkook knows you do, it’s evident by how your expression is trying to feign innocence. That memory is your villain origin story; the whole pretext of why you refuse to ever visit the amusement park or ride an exhilarating ride again. Yet you can’t help but recall that it’s one of the rare instances wherein you got to hold Jungkook’s hand when you two were younger, as his hand was the one you were clinging for dear life when it happened while the other was too busy slapping Seowon in irritation.

He snickers, appearing like he’s replaying the scene in his head. “We should do that again with Seowon during my break.”

“Hell no.”

“I thought you weren’t a scaredy-cat?” He challenges.

“I’m not.” You give him a kittenish glare. “But I am busy. I have to send the final manuscript of this book I’m editing to the chief editor next week and it’s about to be finals week for my students as well.”

He fakes a shiver. “I don’t know how you can do two jobs like that, ____. Truly.”

“You work as a naval aviator so I’d say we’re pretty even.”

The waiter arrives with your orders not long after, and you and Jungkook carry on with your conversation, jumping from topic to topic without difficulty. You’re not certain when was the last time you saw each other like this to have so much to talk about—was it last Christmas? Or was it more recent or longer than that? Nevertheless, it feels good and you find yourself blushing multiple times throughout the night, whether it’s because of how his words can have two meanings or how his eyes are staring at you so intensely whenever you’re the one who’s talking.

You like the undivided attention, the back and forth that’s occurring as you discourse, the subtle touches one of you does when something funny arises, how your knees are touching underneath the table. You wonder what’s so different with this encounter that the energy feels so bizarre in a good way? As far as you’re concerned, you’re positive that you’re acting like you always have in his presence—lively, smiley, sarcastic—and aside from the little touches of flirting here and there, Jungkook’s acting like he always has too.

When dinner was done, Jungkook offered to drive you home. You obliged, no longer in the mood to annoy him for you were tired to make the effort. Before stepping outside the restaurant however, you excused yourself to the restroom first, checking your blood sugar with the glucose meter you brought along wherever you went. It’s a hassle but it’s necessary, largely because you’re still in the middle of saving up for the insulin pump that would help you regulate your sugar levels easier.

After administering yourself with the insulin injection you have, you spend a few more seconds inside the enclosed room. You should be past the point of feeling sorry for yourself, but it’s times like this wherein you’re with a loved one that the dejection hits and you wish that you’re in a better predicament than you are right now. You’re close to being broke, you’re overworked, you’re somehow fatigued all the fucking time—those factors aren’t soothing your worries at all. It’s a miracle how you manage to keep an optimistic mind amidst everything.

“Ready to go?” Jungkook smiles at you once you’re back at the table and you nod, clutching your bag tighter against your body and following him to his car.

He drives you to your place, turning the radio on, and letting it play while the both of you sit in silence. You’re both tired and you almost even sleep during the ride. It’s only when Jungkook gently shakes you awake that you realize that you’ve arrived in front of your apartment building.

“I’ll walk you up,” he insists as you’re unbuckling the seatbelt. 

“That’s no need, Kook.”

“Of course, it is,” he says. “I’ll walk you up. That’s nonnegotiable.”

So, you allow him.

It takes five minutes tops to reach the door leading to your apartment. As you rummage through your bag to grab your keys, Jungkook patiently stands there, occasionally glancing around the hallway and even smiling when the old lady that resided in the same floor got out of her room to throw out the trash. He receives a smile in return which you notice and grin fondly at.

“Well, this is me.” You turn to him, done unlocking your door. “I’d invite you inside but you should probably get going. It’s quite a long drive back home.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out a chuckle. “Hey, tonight was fun. It made me realize how I missed you.”

Your brain temporarily malfunctions; you force yourself to recover quickly. “Me too. I had fun tonight. Maybe we should do this again whenever you’re on a break.”

“Agreed.”

You flash him a smile. “You can go now. Goodnight.”

Jungkook nods, however doesn’t move a muscle. He’s looking at you, like really looking at you, his eyes moving from one feature to another, as if he’s memorizing your face or having a hard time arranging the words he wants to say. You guess it’s the latter, familiar with a tongue-tied Jungkook that it takes you a few good seconds before you’re demanding why he’s impersonating a mannequin.

“There’s something I want to say,” that’s what he utters and you almost snort due to your assumption being right.

“Okay…” The smile is still on your lips. “What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t get mad first.”

“Well, if you’re making me promise that then it’s probably worth being mad about.”

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“That’s not convincing at all.”

“It’s just…” He begins and trails, biting his lower lip, “it’s… it’s why I went here. Why I went here to see and meet you, I mean.”

You unconsciously recoil at the revelation. It’s certainly a rookie mistake to believe that there was no ulterior motive in Jungkook meeting you today. You just didn’t reckon you’d actually be truly disappointed at that—at the idea that he just didn’t randomly decide to visit and be with you earlier until now.

You draw a long breath. “Well, I knew you weren’t just feeling generous and wanted to treat me to dinner out of nowhere.”

There’s a pause and then he resumes. “Just—before I say it, you have to hear me out, okay? You have to let me explain before you berate me.”

“I can’t promise that either.”

“You have to.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because what I’m about to say is for your own sake. You know I always have your best interest at heart, don’t you?”

You wrinkle your forehead in further confusion. “Can you just get on with it? The vagueness is making me more annoyed.”

“I just don’t want you to misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand what?”

“What I—and Seowon—genuinely think is the best option.”

“Oh, and Seowon is in on this too?” You bellow. “Have you and Seowon just been conspiring behind my back the whole time?”

“Calm down.” Jungkook puts his hands on your shoulders, a chuckle inevitably escaping him. “I’m sorry for dragging it out. You should know I’m high key afraid of you, that’s why.”

“You should be.” You grumble.

Another chuckle, but he’s back to appearing anxious. You want to shout that this isn’t healthy, that you’re close to giving him a real reason to be afraid of you—yet once he blurts the confession out, you’re speechless, gawking at him and staggering backwards in complete shock. Perhaps you would have bolted as far away from him as possible if not for his solid grasp.

“What?” You hiss.

He swallows hard.

“I want you to marry me, ____.”

You don’t bolt away running. You shake off his hold on you though, and before he gets another word in, you’re hastily rushing inside your apartment and slamming the door to his face.

****

Jungkook was your first kiss.

It happened in a game of truth and dare. You were at a party of a mutual friend and when the bottle miserably pointed in Jungkook’s direction, the person who was tasked to think of his dare when it was his pick said that he dared him to do 7 minutes in heaven with you. 

He profusely refused at first, especially since Seowon was in the same party, but everybody began booing and next thing you know, Jungkook was agreeing as long as it was fine with you. When you nodded to make your consent apparent, your friends were quick to shove you both in the closet, some of them pulling Seowon back who was complaining how it wasn’t right to bully you into doing 7 minutes in heaven with Jungkook. They calmed him down once they bullied him into agreeing too.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Jungkook told you in the darkness, his breath fawning over your face. “You don’t have to feel pressured. It’s just a stupid game.”

You blushed.

Secretly, you were hoping that he’d kiss you or touch you. Who didn’t want to do anything with their crush at the age of 15? A lot can happen in 7 minutes. You were aware that sometimes people made out, went as far as third base, and although you didn’t want to go that far with Jungkook, you wanted something to happen while you were stuck in this small closet with him. There weren’t a lot of instances that put both of you in this kind of situation; you wished that you were brave enough to ask him to kiss you or do the first move yourself.

5 minutes in, Jungkook turned towards you.

“Is it true that Taehyung kissed you last week?”

You whipped your head so fast that you might have given yourself whiplash. “That’s—that’s not true. Where did you hear that?”

“During homeroom. Some girls were talking about it.”

Your cheeks burned. “Oh.”

“So, it’s not true?”

“No.” You shook your head. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” You laughed weakly.

It was his turn to seem stunned. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet?”

You shook your head again, then realized he might not see you doing so. “Not yet.”

“Want me to change that?” he asked, grinning.

He said that with a boyish grin and teasing tone, but you sucked at social cues (plus, you really couldn’t see shit that much) that you started nodding.

“Okay,” you told him.

“Huh?”

“You can kiss me.”

“Oh, oh, shit—I didn’t—” He was blabbering, about to take back what he offered. “I mean, I was just joking but—”

You widen your eyes. “You were? Oh my God, I’m sorry, I thought you were—”

“No, it was my fault. That was a little out of line for me. I’m sorry.” He was laughing and you felt like burying yourself 6 feet under. “It was a stupid thing to say. But if you want me to kiss you, it’s cool.”

“It is?” Hope sparked within you.

“Yeah. It’ll just be a peck anyway.” You can tell he was smiling through his voice. “Just don’t tell Seowon because he might punch me in the face for kissing his sister.”

You cackled. “Deal.”

56 seconds before the 7 minutes were up, Jungkook leaned down to match your level and placed his lips on yours. 

****

You’re seething with rage, the embodiment of Godzilla, channeling the God of War, Ares, in your body; you harshly press Seowon’s number on your phone to call him and he answers after three rings.

“What’s up?”

“I will fucking murder you,” you snarl.

A beat. You hear shuffling. Then he answers, “you already talked with Jungkook?”

The nonchalance and calmness in his voice drives you to be more frustrated than you already are. “Yes, I have! What is wrong with you? Why would you plant that idea on his head?” You yell, not caring that your walls are thin and that your voice can probably be heard by the couple that lived next door. You’re feeling a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and every negative emotion that exists at the moment. You’re comparable to a bull who just saw the color red.

“____, it won’t be a big deal if you don’t make it to be.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“Did you even let Jungkook explain?”

“I don’t need him to spell everything out. I know why he’s asking me to marry him.”

“Then you know too that it’d be good for you.”

“Marrying him won’t be good for me.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t!”

“You’ll get health insurance benefits that you don’t get with your current jobs. You can pay less rent once you move in at Jungkook’s place—there’s a huge chance he won’t even let you pay him while you stay there too. He’s away most of the time anyway, so staying there wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, you can start studying for a masters degree like you’ve always wanted.”

You groan. “Not like this. This is crazy.”

“The both of you can divorce once you’ve saved up a little. It really isn’t that complicated.”

“It’s a sham marriage!”

“It’s a sham marriage with Jungkook.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Are you sure? Your grade school diary might disagree.”

“Oh my God, that’s fucking low of you to bring that up. You just gave me another reason to hate you.” You stomp around the living room, acting like a teenager because of your brother’s behavior. This isn’t the first time he revealed that he’s read your diary before; that doesn’t mean it’s less infuriating to be reminded that he has. “I swear, you better fucking sleeping with one eye open tonight. I’m choking you to death.”

Seowon laughs out loud. “Just marry him. He’s surprisingly amicable with the idea.”

“That’s because you’re pressuring him! I bet you and Mom devised this entire thing together.”

“Mom doesn’t know. To be fair, she’d probably have the same reaction as you. It’s all me and Jungkook.”

“Wow. You have two brains and yet none of you thought this was goddamn stupid?”

“It’s not stupid. It’s genius if you come to think of it,” he says. “Jungkook just wants to help you, dude. He wants to make sure you’ll be okay and all that shit. You’re the reason he filed for a two-week leave, did he tell you?”

Your heart does that jumping thing again. “No.”

“Well, he did. He’s on a break for two weeks because he wants to convince you to marry him and actually marry you within that time frame.”

“This is nuts.” You sigh, finally flopping down the sofa and rubbing your face with your free hand. “The both of you are nuts. How are you okay with this?”

“It’s Jungkook. I trust him. Don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, I just—” you cut yourself off and frown, “I just feel like it’s unfair for him. I’m marrying him because of military spouse benefits and what does he get?”

There’s a long pause, and you almost check your phone to see whether Seowon has already hung up on you or not.

“It’s better that Jungkook answers that question,” he tells you finally.

“Why? You can’t answer it on behalf of him?”

“Something like that.” You can imagine him shrugging. “All I know is that he’s genuinely concerned about your health and your financial status right now. So, just think about it, okay?”

“God, fuck it, fine. I’ll think about it.” You grimace.

You hang up and glance at the door.

You don’t think the conversation you just had with Seowon took that much time. The initial rush you had upon having your longtime crush propose to you is wearing off and you’re realizing that it was a dick move to literally slam the door right in Jungkook’s face earlier, leading you to stand up from your seat and look through the peephole to check if he’s still there.

He isn’t, which you sigh in relief at.

As you lean against the door and regulate your breathing, you think how funny it is that Seowon is right about one thing—and that was grade school you would have been delighted at the thought of getting married to Jungkook. He’s your dream guy; your parents loved him, his parents loved you, the both of you got along very well, and his personality and looks are everything that you’re looking for in a partner. It sucks that you live in a world where the only reason he wants to marry you is because he’s afraid you’ll die because of self-neglect. 

Your phone pings and you unlock the screen to look at the message that flashes on it.

Jungkook: hey, seowon just messaged me to say that you two already talked Jungkook: i’m sorry for jumping on you with a topic like that… Jungkook: i’m shit at confrontation lol Jungkook: also it’s the first time i’m proposing so give me some slack

You scoff at his audacity to joke about it this soon.

You: it’s okay You: i’m sorry too for what i did You: the answer is no btw

Jungkook: already??? Jungkook: let’s talk about it first

You: no need You: i don’t want to marry you

Jungkook: oof that’s harsh

You: sorry not sorry?

He doesn’t respond and you think you’re safe. Maybe Jungkook does take no for an answer and you’re confused because you’re a little disappointed that he’s not falling on his knees, begging you to marry him like what your imagination is supplying you.

However, after you took a shower and went to check your phone again, you see that Jungkook messaged you a few minutes ago in response to your last message.

Jungkook: give me 10 days and i’ll change your mind

You have the urge to go take a shower again because of how hot your body is feeling at the statement.

You: hate to break it to you but you’re not matthew mcconaughey

Jungkook: 🤣🤣🤣

****

It’s not part of Jungkook’s branding to chase a woman. Typically, women chase him; they chase him in every city and country that he gets stationed in, flirting with him and hoping that they’ll get the chance to take him home for the night for a mindblowing one-night stand. They never succeed though, for despite their pretty faces and sultry gestures, Jungkook only smiles and declines every offer, saying that he had a girl waiting back home that he loved very much.

He used to think that he only used that as an excuse because he’s not the type to hook up with every attractive girl he meets. There are times when he succumbs, when he gives into the temptation of a little fun, especially after a life threatening or highly stressful mission—but most of the time, he thinks he declines and use that pronouncement of his because his mind reverts him to the idea of you, to what would happen if he just gained the balls to ask you out.

Evidently, although asking you out and asking you to marry him are two completely different things, he’s a bit afraid that your answer will always be a hard no. It’s what you’ve been literally spelling out to him since the day he presented the idea, regardless of how he’s trying his best in swooning you or explaining how this is the perfect plan to help you gain an upper hand with your diagnosis.

“I’ll file a restraining order against you, I’m serious,” you say to him when he appears yet again outside the faculty room, waiting for you to gather your things and head home. You’re wearing a white button up shirt and pinstripe wide leg trousers, an outfit combination that he ogles at before he goes down to business.

“You wouldn’t.” He glares at you. He gestures for you to let him take your backpack, and despite what you said, you let him. “Also, what the fuck is in this thing? You’ll break your back if you keep using this.” He swings your backpack on one shoulder.

You laugh. “My laptop, its charger, a couple of notebooks, books, pens, then the outputs of my students.”

“Aren’t they supposed to submit virtually? What happened to Google Classroom?”

“I still use it, but sometimes I like to have their work printed out so I can write the comments better. How do you know Google Classroom?”

“I have a squadronmate whose kid uses it for class.”

“Ah.” You nod in understanding.

You two continue walking forward.

This has been your program for the past few days. Jungkook goes to the university you work at, he’ll wait outside, you’ll threaten him with something ridiculous, he’ll take your bag, he’ll offer to take you to dinner, you’ll decline, and then he’ll drive you home anyways. Before that routine ends, he’ll lean on your door frame and give you his best puppy eyes, asking you to marry him for the sake of your welfare, and you’ll scowl at him, insisting that you don’t need his help to survive.

“Dinner?” he asks, right on schedule.

You glance at him. “No. I want to go home and sleep for 12 hours.”

“Busy day?”

“Yep.”

“You know, if you marry me, you won’t have to work two jobs and overexert yourself.”

He doesn’t need to turn to you to know that you’re giving him a dirty look. “I won’t marry you, Jungkook.”

“Why not?”

“Because marriage doesn’t work that way.”

“It does. Billionaires do it all the time. The mafia does it too. It’s always been some kind of transaction.”

“Well, if I marry you, what do you get?”

“The assurance you’re taken care of.”

“That’s cheesy.”

You share a laugh and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’ll be fine as long as you are.”

He waits for you to quip back a reply, flickering his eyes to you when it takes longer than usual. Instead of the sneer he’s expecting, you appear to be flustered, an expression that is very recognizable for him who’s known you since forever—an expression that makes it too obvious for Jungkook that the crush you had on him that he thought has been long gone was still there. He’s been seeing it a lot lately, particularly when he’s uttering lines that sound flirtatious on purpose; he’s positive that you’ll threaten to kill him when you discover that he basks on the fact that he can still make you all flustered and cute, which encourages him to do and say anything that would elicit a reaction from you. Was it unethical to seduce you into marrying him? He might have to rethink that part too.

Reaching the parking lot, he unlocks the doors to his vehicle and places your bag inside the backseat. He watches you walk around the car, about to go to the passenger’s side, but then you wobble a bit and his attempt to get inside is instantly forgotten.

“Hey,” he strides to where you are, gazing at you as you now hold onto the hood, “you alright?”

You raise your chin up. “Kook, can you get my bag?”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s swinging the door again and getting your bag from the other end of the backseat while you get on the passenger’s seat, keeping the door wide and placing your legs outside, your feet planted on the concrete.

“What do you need?” he asks, crouching in front of you and zipping the bag open.

“Glucometer.”

He halts. “What does that look like?”

“It’s in the yellow bag. There.” You point at it right when he rummages through a certain part.

He brings it out and you take it from his grasp. Your movements are sluggish but he can discern that you’re doing your best not to be too slow; he’d present to help but he knows that he might prolong what you’re doing due to his cluelessness, so he just observes, noting how you’re pricking your finger with a device and then pressing it lightly to the glucometer which shows that your blood sugar is low.

“Apple juice,” you mutter to him and he finds it faster than the last one.

You grab the juice pouch from his grasp, prying the straw attached on the back, pushing its end for it to pop out of its plastic cover—then your hand shakes, preventing you from continuing and punching in the straw properly.

“Let me do it,” he says.

You don’t fight him, you just slump against the seat as Jungkook picks up from where you left, and the moment he does the job and guides the straw to your awaiting lips, a long exhale through your nose escapes you.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers. He didn’t notice that he was holding his breath the entire duration of the scene.

Another sigh. “Better.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

You seem to hesitate. “Not a lot. Just when life gets a bit too hectic.”

“____—”

“Just take me home.” You don’t give him the chance to lecture you. “Please, Jungkook.”

Defeated, he nods. “Alright.”

“Thank you.”

He helps you position yourself properly on the passenger’s seat. “But we’re talking about this at your place.”

Before you can protest, he closes the door.

****

Lee Hyunwoo was the name of the guy that you brought home for Christmas Eve eight years ago. It was the first time that you did, and Jungkook hated how Hyunwoo was considerably handsome, intelligent, and kind—the exact kind of person he always imagined you deserved.

In the short time Hyunwoo spent with theirs and your family that night, everybody loved him and was already inviting him to the next gathering, all the while Jungkook avoided him at every cost, puzzled by this strong dislike he was feeling for your guest. He was annoyed at the manner in which Hyunwoo had an arm around your waist the entire evening, how you grinned up to him, eyes sparkling and all that shit. Hell, you used to look at him like that.

“Honey, can you get the mango float we have in our freezer?” Jungkook heard your mother tell you, and without thinking, he stood up from his chair and made a beeline to where you were, telling you he’d accompany you to your house.

“That’s fine,” you told him. “It’s literally next door.”

“Yeah, but it might be heavy.”

“It’s not.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

You rolled your eyes and agreed then, excusing yourself from Hyunwoo who was in an engaged conversation with Seowon. The pair were geeking out because of their mutual love for the MCU and the next film slated to be released the following year.

Upon arriving at your home, you dashed to the kitchen with Jungkook trudging behind you. He wasn’t sure what his next course of action should be now; all he wanted was some alone time with you, away from the presence of that college boyfriend of yours, but now that he had that, he couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to say or do. He wasn’t even sure why he was feeling a bit jealous—was it because of that saying? Wherein people are bound to want what they can’t have? Or was it that you only appreciate what you had when you’ve already lost it?

“How long have you and Hyunwoo been dating?” he asked, leaning against the counter as you pulled your freezer open.

“Four months, I think.”

“Four months? And you already brought him home?”

You snorted at his tone. “His family is in another country so I thought it’d be nice to invite him.”

“You must really like him then.”

“Yeah, but I’m not in love with him or anything.” You placed the mango float on the space beside Jungkook on the counter. “He’s nice, and he likes me too.”

“Does he treat you well?”

You flashed your eyes at him, amusement dancing in them. “What’s with that question?”

“What’s with it?”

“Nothing, it’s just that…” you trailed, a smirk etched on your face. “Wait a minute, are you… you can’t possibly—” Jungkook was widening his eyes, ready to deny your accusation once you questioned whether he was jealous of Hyunwoo or not— “are you pulling an overprotective brother skit on me, Kook?”

Fuck, thank God, he thought.

“I prefer ‘overprotective friend skit’,” he said.

“That doesn’t have a nice ring to it.”

“But I’m not your brother.”

“You don’t have to be, I’m just saying that you and Seowon have been acting similar since Hyunwoo and I arrived.”

“Nonsense. Seowon likes him.”

“Oh, so you don’t?”

He pressed his lips into a tight line.

“Did you just admit that you don’t like Hyunwoo?” you asked, chuckling. He was grateful that you didn’t seem to be offended by it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”

“Instead you implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You kinda did.”

He heard you laugh and he couldn’t help but allow himself to laugh as well.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe I’m just not used to you dating anyone. You are chronically single.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong.” You snorted and picked up from the mango float, marching back to his house and gesturing for him to follow you.

He did, no words spoken between the both of you once more. Though when you were entering their place again, with Jungkook holding the door open for you, he mentioned something he never reckoned he’d have the guts to mention out loud.

“When you open my gift,” he began, “don’t do it in front of Hyunwoo, okay?”

“Why not?” You weren’t paying attention to where you were going, intrigued by his warning.

“He might not like it. You’ll see.”

That night, at the comfort of your bedroom, Hyunwoo nowhere near but instead sleeping at the coach downstairs in your living room, you opened Jungkook’s gift and saw that it was a necklace with your birth flower as its pendant.

You smiled, rolling your eyes to yourself, and slept with that giddy look never leaving your face.

****

“Not so fast,” Jungkook grunts.

Did he think that you were going to be less difficult since he was helpful earlier? Yeah, he did. He likes to think that if it wasn’t for him, you would have taken longer in feeding yourself with apple juice, so he at least wanted a thank you in the form of your willingness to have an adult conversation with him tonight. However, that clearly isn’t the case because when he walked you up to your apartment like he always did, you’re attempting to lock him out, shutting the door as fast as you can once you’re inside, thus trying to prevent him from initiating that talk he wanted the two of you to have.

“Seriously?” He successfully pries the door open and you scowl at him.

“Jungkook—”

“No, you don’t get to reason your way out of this. I’m done hearing you out. It’s your turn to listen to me.” He steps inside your apartment.

You groan, striding to the sofa and throwing your bag there. “You can’t force me to marry you.”

“Is marrying me so fucking bad that you can’t get over it for health insurance benefits that can really help you?” He demands, infuriated. 

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“You can get arrested!” you exclaim. “And so can I! Does that not freak you out?”

“We’ll only get arrested if we get caught.”

“I’m not willing to take the risk.”

“I’m not willing to see you die.”

You scoff out a laugh. “Who the fuck said anything about dying? I’m not dying.”

“You almost passed out on me. You almost—”

“It’s an error on my part, I admit.” You sigh. “When I get busy and preoccupied, sometimes I forget to check my sugar levels regularly throughout the day. I’m sorry.”

“And you expect to be convinced that you have everything handled?”

“God, I’m not a child. Stop treating me like I can’t do shit for myself.”

“Please, ___,” he approaches you with the most pleading expression he can muster, and he watches as your hard expression crumbles, “just accept my help. It’s really not a big deal—you won’t even see me often, so keeping up with the whole marriage ploy wouldn’t be difficult. We’ll divorce in two years, we can pretend we never got married after that.”

“You just don’t get it, don’t you?”

“What do I not get? If you think I don’t understand something, then explain it to me—”

“I can’t marry you,” you say. You do so like it’s final, like there’s no point in arguing with you because he can never change your stand on this. As he’s pleading with his eyes to urge you to agree, you’re communicating with your eyes in a similar way that’s wishing he would just drop this. “It’s wrong.”

His eyebrows furrow. “This isn’t the time to go on your high horse and decide what’s wrong and what’s not. It’s a fraudulent marriage—of course, it’ll be wrong to some degree.”

“No, I mean…” You turn away from him, rubbing your face in exhaustion. “It’d be wrong of me to marry you. I’m taking advantage of you if I do, and I don’t like that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, frustration worsening at the childlike excuse. Surely, you weren’t that naive, were you? “You’re not. I’m not doing this against my own will. Besides, we get extra pay just for being married. If it makes you feel better, I won’t split it with you.”

“That won’t make me feel better.”

“Then what will?”

You flop down on the coach and lean back, closing your eyes. He knows he’s being a pain in the ass but he can’t just stand here and do nothing. He thinks he’s already come too far in convincing you, he isn’t going to back out now. Every single day spent together, he can feel you warming up to the idea of marrying him for health insurance. Your connection and entirety of your relationship has been off the charts recently that it’ll be harder for him not to be assured that before he leaves for his job, you’ll be taken care off.

Jungkook goes to the spot beside you, sitting down. Your knees bump together, he keeps on gazing at you, waiting for you to focus on him; a minute passes and his gaze moves to your hand that’s laying on the small space between you.

Without overthinking, he stretches out and clasps it, allowing his fingers to play with yours that finally captures your attention. The moment he glances up, he sees that you’re staring at him and he doesn’t let go, he even smiles, a quiet promise that he’s always willing to listen to whatever you want to tell him.

You hesitantly smile back. “You know,” your eyes train back to your intertwined fingers, Jungkook reveling in the warmth of your skin, gaining more confidence in acting out his feelings, “there was a time wherein I would have said yes immediately if you asked me to marry you.”

He smirks, can’t deny how hearing that inflates his ego a bit although this route in the conversation isn’t where he expected to go. “What changed?”

“For one, I grew up.”

“Ouch.”

You laugh. Then you stay quiet for a while before speaking. “Can I confess something?”

That piques his interest. “Anything.”

“But you have to promise not to make fun of me.”

“That’s impossible.” He teases. “What is it?”

You stall, readjusting your position so that you can directly face him. Jungkook doesn’t let go of your hand, he keeps it in his grasp, his thumb rubbing along the expanse of your knuckles.

“I like you, Jungkook. I really really do,” you finally say and he blinks, startled.

It shouldn’t surprise him, considering that it’s been long established that he knew of your crush already, though he doesn’t seem to have anticipated for you to boldly admit it when all these years, it’s only been some kind of unspoken understanding that neither of you downright acknowledged.

You continue speaking. “In fact, I like you so much that maybe it developed into love at some point—I’m not sure. I’m at this stage of no longer being afraid of what I feel, I think? Most of the time, I just let it occur like it’s something so natural. Like it’s a feeling that I can never get away from? Like whatever I do, there’s no way to shake you.” You chuckle half-heartedly. “Though never in a million years would I have thought that I’d confess all of this. What for anyway? I don’t want you to be burdened with what my teenage heart couldn’t rub out.”

His mind is racing; hundred thoughts, hundred scenarios, hundred experiences he’s spent with you since the day you met. Jungkook never realized how much he needed you to say that you liked him—that maybe you even loved him—until he heard it from your very mouth that you did, causing every inhibition and doubt he had to vanish. Now, he only wants to engulf you in an embrace and shout Yes, I feel the same way! Sorry for being a fucking corward and not doing this first!

He would have done all of that in a flash if it didn’t appear that you still had something to say. Based on your rather constipated posture and the hand he’s holding that’s becoming clammy, he discerns that you’re just in the first part of what you wanted to admit.

“Actually, that’s also why I can’t let myself marry you,” you say. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know… it feels really icky somehow. I feel like I’m holding you hostage, or that I’m tricking you because of an ulterior motive, or that I’m defying the laws of the universe by having the chance to marry you. I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to marry you if it means I’ll only get to do so because you think you’re doing me a huge favor. I don’t want to be your charity case, Kook—I deserve to be more than that, you know? I’m not traditional or whatever but if it’s not for love, I’m not keen on getting married.” You abruptly pull away from his clutch, embarrassment washing on your features by what you stated. “Plus, two years might not be that long but what happens when you meet someone and you like her? How can you explain that you’re only married to me because I need it for my medication? It’ll just be unnecessarily messy. I don’t want to hold you back from those kinds of things. I don’t want to be a hindrance.”

That’s his cue. That’s when he knows he’s supposed to kiss you and take your breath away, to admit that he’s certain that he has loved you since that one time when he was in the Naval Academy and although the training was hard as fuck, the thought of you gave him strength and he didn’t want to see anyone as much as he wanted to see you after—that when you and Seowon visited him, that familiar urge to have you alone was all he felt the entire time, solidifying the idea that perhaps he didn’t just see you as a friend.

“You’re unbelievably dense, ___,” he murmurs, smirking at the play of events, and you glance at him, expression showing disbelief that he’s somehow treating this matter lightly.

“What?”

“Do you honestly think I go around and offer marriage to every woman out there who can benefit from being a military spouse? Do you think I’m that generous? I’m not. I wouldn’t ask anyone to marry me for the same reason if they weren’t important to me—or if I didn’t like them. I’m not that much of a saint,” he adds. “I mean, I’m taking a two-week break to convince you to marry me. I’m spending time with you every single day. I’m driving for almost an hour and a half, enduring the traffic to get from my apartment to the university you work in to do that—and you think this is because I want to be charitable?”

Silence. Your forehead wrinkles. He thinks you’re still not getting the point.

“I’m in love with you, ____,” Jungkook says.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re opening your mouth, then closing it, then opening it again, then pressing it into a thin line. He thinks you look cute, being taken aback like this, and he’s wishing that he’s done this sooner so that the last five days of him chasing you around like a lost puppy was spent with talking more about what’s possibly waiting for yours and his relationship next.

“Are you serious?” you ask after what seems like forever. “Or are you just saying that because you’re that desperate to have me on board with the whole fraudulent marriage thing?”

“God—” He’s inching closer to you now, laughing, watching your lips twitch at his reaction— “I’m convinced that you were born into this earth to drive me fucking crazy.”

And just like that, he no longer restrains himself from kissing you.

It takes you a few good seconds before you will yourself to move. You can’t seem to process the reality of Jungkook admitting that he was in love with you and then taking the liberty to plant his lips on yours. You’re not complaining, of course, but you are a bit overwhelmed that it literally makes you freeze, unaware of what you’re supposed to do now that your fantasies are coming into life.

However, once you feel him angle his head to the side, doing so to deepen the kiss, your reflexes kick in and you’re kissing him back, encircling your arms around his neck and leaning towards him, Jungkook sighing in what appears to be relief. He grips your hips to support you as you try to straddle him, but your movements are so clumsy that you end up sprawling against his chest instead, perched on a leg of his that provides pleasure on the spot you need him the most. He chuckles at your lack of gracefulness, gliding his lips to your cheek and down to your jaw, nipping.

“This okay?” he whispers with a palm drifting to your bottom.

You nod and Jungkook’s mouth is back on yours in an instant. He squeezes your ass, takes his time in fondling with it, cheekily slapping whenever you get brave yourself and push your tongue past his lips, before he skims his hand lower to your thigh and signals for you to mount him. Upon being properly sat on his lap, you get an immediate feel of his hard length through his jeans, prompting your imagination to run wild and induce the filthiest things he can do to you if neither of you stops.

“Holy shit,” he curses, your kisses roaming to the base of his throat where you lap and suck.

It becomes a dirty pattern for a while. The both of you will take a brief pause from making out to remove a piece of clothing or kiss every other exposed skin there is: the cheek, the jaw, the neck, the collarbones, the shoulders. Then one of you hauls the other back for another passionate kiss, hands skating everywhere on your bodies, sounds of arousal echoing inside the room; you’re starting to get lightheaded but you’re positive it’s not because of your sugar levels running low.

“I hate that it took us so long to get to this point,” he mutters.

You grin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the man—I should have confessed long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. ‘Was afraid to lose you, I guess.” He draws his head back and admires your blissed out expression. “But then when Seowon told me you had diabetes, I panicked and thought that I might lose you either way.”

You go back to making out, Jungkook guiding your hips in grinding on his clothed length. It’s addictive—the intimate feel of him, how he’s not shy in making sure you know how much he’s craving to be as close to you as you are to him. You think you can spend the whole night just doing this and be okay with it.

“Fuck, Kook,” you groan against his mouth, a hand descending to his stomach and to his manhood, “you’re so… so fuckin’ hard.”

You’re palming him now, tracing the erection evident under his boxers.

He lets out a grunt. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

“Do you… do you want me—” You’re breathless, not able to continue whatever it is that you want to say.

He understands you just fine though. “No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t do anything.”

You’re not sure what Jungkook means by that. How are you supposed to do nothing when you want to do everything to him? You soon comprehend what he means when he guides you to lay down on the sofa, when his lips skim lower and lower, passing your breasts, giving them the attention they deserve, until he goes lower than that and discards your underwear, kissing you in between your legs.

It’s like he’s releasing all the pent up emotions he’s been keeping all these years. His tongue and fingers are relentless, his voice is telling you that he’s eager to coax an orgasm out of you, and as he lifts himself up to return to his previous position, face hovering yours, you’re positive that he’ll get everything he wants because without a doubt you’ll give him everything he wants from you too. Hell, if he uses this opportunity to ask you to marry him again, you might answer yes straight away, no longer bearing in mind the worries you expressed to him earlier.

Although did that even matter anymore? Jungkook said he loved you. He said you drove him crazy. You never thought you’d come to see the day he’d utter those words but here you are. The man of your dreams is kissing you, pleasing you, and looking damn enthusiastic as he does all of that.

“Last chance to stop me,” Jungkook teases. His eyes are glassy and you can feel his cock nudging on your thigh.

You giggle, bringing his head closer to press another long kiss on those pink and plump lips of his. “Please never stop.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Please do.”

After this night, you’re certain that you’ll never allow yourself to be with another man aside from Jungkook. At the back of your head, you always thought that you were his, regardless if that wasn’t true or that there was no real relationship to prove that—however, at this moment, as he thrusts in and out languidly, you unquestionably know that you are. You belong to him now and he belongs to you; he lets you know through his love-filled gaze, his passionate kisses, and the manner wherein he moans your name.

“I love you,” he says, like he’s still in deep longing for your touch and affection.

You hum, tangling your fingers through the strands of his hair. “I love you, Kook.” You stare at his eyes. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”

A boyish grin erupts on his features.

Time passes by quickly. In a few more of his kisses, of the intoxicating slam of his hips, of his seductive whimpers, you’re coming beneath him, Jungkook pulling out and jerking his length until he too comes, his seed landing on the base of your tummy. You have the nerve to giggle at that, grinning at him with low-lidded eyes, and Jungkook hastily wipes his cum off your skin, attacking you with another passionate kiss that leaves you breathless.

“There’s no way you’re not marrying me after this,” he murmurs.

You teasingly graze your teeth on his bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”

He groans. “Don’t think about it. Just say yes.”

“At least let me sleep on it, Kook.”

“Fuck—fine.” He grabs your sides and pulls you flush against his body. “Guess I’ll have to keep on convincing you until you agree.”

****

“God, why is this so difficult?” Jungkook whines, keeping you in his embrace, head tucked between your cheek and shoulder.

The air is very humid and Jungkook’s in his naval aviator uniform, which doesn’t look cool in a sense that air is properly flowing through the material. He doesn’t care though, doesn’t care that it’s sticking to his skin as he refuses to let you go, not even when you complain playfully.

“Kook, I’m fucking sweaty.”

“I don’t care.”

You laugh. 

He’s leaving to return to his duty and you’re here with him outside the base before he enters, being with him until the last possible minute because that’s how much of a good wife you are.

Yes, you and Jungkook did get married. Three days ago in fact, at the city hall’s courtroom. Neither of you invited your parents; they didn’t know about the occasion and you refused to tell them, afraid that they may be critical about yours and his choices when they discover the true reason why you’re rushing to be wed. The only people that remained to be aware of it was Seowon and his girlfriend, Winnie, who served as the witnesses, which was fine by you. In your understanding, this was just for the papers and your health, and not the real deal yet to be celebrated lavishly.

“I’ll propose to you again after a couple of years,” Jungkook promised after the ceremony. “Let’s renew our vows and I’ll give you an amazing wedding.”

You would have told him that there was no need, but who were you kidding? You did want a proper wedding with Jungkook. The previous week didn’t even feel like you were newlyweds. Yes, the both of you compacted all of the dates you could have if one of you weren’t such a chicken in five days, and yes, though the honeymoon stage was experienced and practiced—it was only because you were a new couple who after years of hiding their feelings for one another, was now finally free to express it as much as they desired.

“Call me everyday?” you ask when he finally pulls back, Jungkook pecking your lips one more time.

“Definitely.” He smiles. “Visit me whenever possible?”

“Of course.” You kiss him too.

His smile transforms into a grin. “Take care of yourself, alright? Keep me updated all the time. No sugarcoating allowed.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Rolling his eyes, he gives you another kiss and engulfs you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground that causes you to giggle.

“Okay, pack it up, love birds!” Seowon shouts.

The two of you turn to your brother who’s leaning on his car, the vehicle that was used to transport the three of you today. You’re still in the middle of moving your belongings at Jungkook’s place and Seowon was kind enough to volunteer helping, always dubious that you could do stuff on your own. Despite your reluctance, you let him assist you, mostly because you’re trying to make a conscious effort in not upsetting him again.

Let’s just say that when the judge hailed you husband and wife at the civil wedding, Seowon wasn’t thrilled to see that the kiss shared between you and Jungkook wasn’t as fake as the supposed sham marriage, leading him to the conclusion that in the middle of Jungkook’s ruse of convincing you to be his wife, something must have happened that led to your approval and that rather 18+ rated kiss. Mostly though, he’s just offended that neither of you thought of telling him that you were an official couple before the wedding.

Jungkook unwillingly places you down.

“I think I need to go,” you say.

He nods with a sigh. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” You affectionately caress his cheek, bringing his face down for the very very very last kiss. 

He leans into it. “Fuck, I don’t want to leave.”

“Seriously—hurry up!” Seowon shouts and you pull back.

“I will kill him,” you tell Jungkook.

“He’s your brother,” he says. “And now, my brother-in-law, so I can’t let you do that.”

“That might be your very first red flag, Jungkook, insinuating that you’re choosing my brother over me.” You cross your arms. “Tell me, if the both of us were drowning, would you save me or Seowon?”

“You,” he answers without missing a beat.

You narrow your eyes. “Is that the truth?”

“Of course. Seowon would probably undrown himself anyway and you’re shit at swimming. It’s an easy choice.”

You punch him hard on the shoulder and he feigns hurt, snickering. “For the record, I don’t think anyone can ‘undrown’ themselves—but fine, you pass the test.”

Jungkook faces Seowon’s direction and does a final salute, your brother returning it swiftly, and just like that, you and him share your last farewells. You watch as he goes through the entrance of the base and sends you a wave of goodbye; you weakly copy the gesture and stand there for a few seconds, just watching him fade from your view the further he trudges inside. You don’t think saying goodbye to him ever felt this heavy, and you blame it on the fact that after all this is the first time you’re saying goodbye to him with the assurance that he loves you too—and that alone weighs millions.

You spin on your heel and go to Seowon who’s already in the driver’s seat. As soon as you get in and wear your seat belt, he’s giving you a dirty look.

“What?” you ask.

“Please never do that in front of me again.”

His statement makes you smirk. “Why? Didn’t you want this?”

“Want what?”

“Me and Jungkook to be together.”

“When on earth did I say that?”

“You previously admitted that you were lowkey playing cupid by suggesting that Jungkook marry me for health insurance.”

A short pause. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you two reenact a porno every fucking time.”

“We’re not—”

“You are. Don’t deny it.” He grumbles. “God, every time I see you two, it’s like I’m Ross from that one Friends episode where he accidentally sees Monica and Chandler doing it from the window of his apartment.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” You laugh. “In my defense, you haven’t seen me and Jungkook actually do the deed so—”

“Wait, so the two of you have?”

Your expression drops. His tone is approaching older brother protectiveness territory and you’re quick to attempt diffusing the situation. “I will not dive into that. All I’m going to say is that I’m a grown adult and so is Jungkook.”

He grimaces before starting the engine. “Yeah, never dive into that. I don’t need to hear the details.”

You share a laugh and then silence fills the car.

You press your lips together, looking at him while he backs out from the parking spot. “Hey, thanks, by the way. For driving today, and for offering to help me later, and maybe for also never minding your own business.”

You recall how Seowon was the one who couldn’t stop worrying about you and finding a solution when you told your family that you had type 1 diabetes. Your parents were concerned, they pestered you for months to force you to accept financial assistance from them, but they gave up soon after. Seowon though? He never did. He persisted through every outburst you had; he tolerated your bitchiness and your dirty looks all the time. Out of everyone in your life, you always felt like regardless of how stubborn and prideful you could be, Seowon was worse—in the best way possible.

A crooked smile illuminates his face. “You’re my kid sister. It’s my job to never let you experience peace in your whole life.”

You scoff. “Well, you’re damn great at what you do.”

When you reach Jungkook’s apartment, unloading the boxes and arranging your stuff to its designated places, your heart swells in happiness as the reality sinks in that your life is heading in the right direction after months of feeling hopeless. It drives you to be more thankful to the little things, to the people who were always by your side, to your previous circumstance that although wasn’t ideal was still manageable. A lot don’t get to have that kind of privilege and you promise yourself that you’ll make an effort to find more things to be grateful about from this day forward.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Seowon approaches in the middle of you arranging your books on Jungkook’s near to empty shelf, “Winnie wanted to give you this. She would have handed it over herself but she’s going to be busy for the next few days.”

You take the frame from his hand and see that it’s the picture Winnie took of you and Jungkook after the ceremony. It’s in the restaurant that you ate at to celebrate the civil wedding. Jungkook was grinning at you with an arm around on the backrest of your chair, you were leaning towards him, smiling at the camera—and the absolute selling point of why this was the best picture ever taken was because of how cake icing was scattered on your faces, places on spots in an artistic manner like it was planted there on purpose for the picture and not because the both of you were being silly that instance.

You think it showcases your relationship with Jungkook marvelously. It’s playful, it’s sweet, and most of all, it demonstrates how you two are clearly great friends.

“This is so beautiful, Seowon,” you say.

You immediately send Winnie a heartfelt thank you message for the gift and continue to take a photo of the frame, sending it to Jungkook as well.

Once you hit send, you type out a message to accompany it.

You: look how cute we look 🥹

You’re certain it’ll take hours before he replies so you keep your phone again, going back to staring at the picture which is now placed on one of the shelves. It’s the sole picture frame you have with Jungkook. In fact, it’s the only picture that Jungkook has in his apartment, and you like to think that this might be the mark of the new beginning you’ll have with him. Even though your relationship wouldn’t be traditionally explored given his occupation and how he’s most likely going to be away a lot, you don’t mind.

If there’s one thing you really believe in, it’s that waiting for Jungkook—whether consciously or unconsciously—always brings out the best outcomes.

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