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my dearest honey!!! congratulations on reaching 2k followers. that's such a huge achievement, and honestly—so so so well deserved. you have earned all this love and support, every nice comment and every single like. that's youuuu baby! we love and appreciate what you do for this community every single day, so grateful you are here to share your angsty & nasty ideas with us. <33
enough yappin' . lets come to my requests (u can pick the one u like the most!)
rival kingdom's king!rafayel x princess!reader + brat taming
pervy roommate!rafayel x innocent nerd!reader + breeding
best friend!rafayel x camgirl!reader + toy usage
thank you so much for considering, the requests u have done so far are super yummy <33
best friend! rafayel x camgirl! reader + toy usage
a/n. so sorry for the wait! i made raf a bit of a shy nerd to hit two birds with one stone and do @uninterestedseductress ’s request as well! thank you for the nice words, i hope you enjoy this! ❤️
event page | event masterlist
the bedroom was bathed in the warm amber glow of your ring light, casting soft shadows across the rumpled sheets where you knelt. your broken tripod was propped up in the corner, long abandoned, and your new camera… cameraman, rafayel, stood just behind the adjacent door of your bedroom.
camera in hand, his knuckles white around the device as he angled it through the intentional gap.
“you’re sure about this?” he’d asked earlier, his voice strained, eyes refusing to meet yours.
“raffy, please.” you’d begged, and the nickname sealed the deal.
he’d nodded, swallowed hard, and positioned himself exactly where you needed him for your lewd POV video — being caught masturbating.
now you were on your hands and knees, the pink silicone dildo buried deep inside your cunt, your hips rocking back against it with shallow thrusts. your thighs trembled from the effort, slick arousal coating the toy and dripping down your inner thighs in glistening streaks.
“f–fuck.” you moaned, loud enough for the camera to catch, loud enough for rafayel to hear.
your head was down into the sheets, hair spilling around your face like a curtain as you fucked yourself stupid on the toy.
“mhm, yes, right there–”
from behind the door, you heard rafayel’s sharp intake of breath, the barely audible hitch in his throat as the toy went deeper inside you.
he’d seen your content before, you knew. that accidental glimpse of a leaked post months ago, the way his face had gone scarlet and he’d stammered through an apology even though you’d laughed it off and told him it was fine.
you wanted your best friend to see you like this.
but this was different. he was watching live. watching you perform, watching you fall apart, watching the way your greedy cunt swallowed the dildo again and again as you moaned like a whore.
your arm burned with the effort of keeping the angle right, fucking yourself for the camera’s benefit.
but your mind was elsewhere — on the man behind the door, on the way you’d caught him looking at your lips one too many times, on the tentative touches he’d always pull away from too quickly.
you wanted your best friend to give in.
“r–rafayel.” you whimpered suddenly, the name rolling out of your mouth naturally as the tip hit a sensitive spot inside you.
that made your arm falter, fingers trembling on the suction cup and with that...
the dildo slipped from your grip, detaching from your pussy with a wet pop and landing on the sheets with a soft, slick thud. your body felt empty, aching, your hole clenching around nothing as you turned your head towards the door.
with the sweetest pout.
“rafa–yel.” you said again, your voice breaking from the lost pleasure. “please. please come help me.”
a long, agonizing silence. you thought he would refuse the invite; value your friendship more than a romantic relationship.
but then the door creaked fully open, and he stepped into the room.
he looked absolutely wrecked. his purple curls were disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through them. his cheeks were flushed a deep red, and his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as they raked over your naked body. he was wearing loose sweatpants and you could see the obvious tent straining against the fabric, the outline of his hard cock pressing insistently.
your pussy throbbed at the sight.
“i...” he cleared his throat, unable to look at your face, his gaze fixed somewhere on the sheets. “i got it… the video. should i stop recording?”
“no.” you breathed. “keep going. i need you to– i need more footage. but i need your help first.”
the hand between your thighs, soaked in arousal, beckoned him to your bed. only to point down at the toy.
he stepped closer, his movements jerky and uncertain, his boner swinging in his sweatpants tentatively. when he reached the bed, he bent down and retrieved the discarded dildo, holding it awkwardly in his palm like it might bite him.
it was covered in your slick, glistening under the warm lights.
“h–here.” he offered weakly, extending it towards your dangling hand. “go on...”
you shook your head, reaching out to wrap your fingers around his wrist and press the tip of the dildo to your fluttering cunt.
you heard him groan behind you.
“raffy...” you said softly. “i want you to do it. please, help me put it in.”
his breath shuddered out of him. “i don’t... i don’t know if i should–”
“please.”
the plea hung in the air for a second. you watched the war play out across his face — the shy, respectful best friend who’d never pushed, versus the man who’d been dreaming about this exact scenario for months.
his jaw tightened as his decision was made.
“okay.” he whispered. “okay, yeah, i can– i’ll do it.”
he moved around you, still clutching the camera in one hand, still thinking it was just for a video. you repositioned yourself, arching your back and dropping your chest down to the mattress, offering yourself up to him like you always wanted.
the position put your soaked pussy on full display, shining with arousal, your folds swollen from your earlier ministrations.
“fuck.” he cursed under his breath as he took in the view.
he positioned his body behind you, bending slightly to be closer to your entrance. the tip of the silicone dildo pressed against your hole, teasing, and you whimpered, pushing back against it.
“tell me.” he said, adam's apple bobbing with need. “tell me what you need.”
“i need you to fuck me with it.” you gasped. “hard. i need it deep. please, raffy–”
“shh, i’ve got you.”
the toy pushed inside you in one smooth, wet slide, and you cried out, your fingers fisting in the sheets. there was no rhythm — he was shaking, his grip on the toy unsteady; but he was thrusting, driving it into you with increasing urgency. the angle was different from before, better, hitting something deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.
“like that?” he asked, checking on you. “is that– fuck, you’re so wet. i can hear it, i can–”
you were so loud, the obscene squelch of the toy moving in and out of your cunt filling the room. your thighs were trembling, your toes curling against the sheets. you could barely breathe, could barely form words, but you managed to whimper out his name like a mantra.
“yes, yes, raf–”
the camera shook in his grip, barely catching you in the frame now. but you didn’t care — this wasn’t for your fans anyway.
this was for him, for the friend who’d been too timid to make a move, for the man whose cock was straining against his sweatpants and making your mouth water.
“rafayel.” you pushed yourself up on one arm, twisting to look over your shoulder at him. his face was flushed, his eyes wild and fixed on where the toy disappeared inside you. “i ugh– want–”
“what?” he slowed his thrusts, his breath coming in harsh pants as he remembered why he’s doing all this — for your account. “should i change something?”
“y–yes, the dildo– ’want you.” the words tumbled out, raw and desperate, your hand jumping from beneath you to grasp one asscheek and open up.
“not the toy. i want your cock. i’ve wanted it for so long, raf–”
his eyes snapped to yours, wide with lust, his dick throbbing in his pants at your words. “huh?”
“please.” you begged, letting your skin jiggle free and reaching back to grip his thigh, brushing at his tent. “please, i need to feel you. i need your cock inside me.”
a shudder ran through him, and for a moment, you thought he might say no. but then the camera was thrown away at the edge of the bed, his (now) free hand clutching the flesh of your ass.
spreading you once more.
“ra–rafayel?” you moaned into the sheets as he pulled the toy out fully, only to jam it back in with a loud squelch.
“ah, for that…” he muttered between gritted teeth, hand thrusting the dildo deep inside you until the silicone balls slapped your aching clit.
tags: @yuunileb, @txtworlddom, @xyzsbaobei, @loreleis-world, @demonicangelll, @dreamydaredevil, @glitterykingdomangel, @gardenialily, @weirdothatwrites, @cherrytokkiz, @brailsthesmolgurl, @happyshark2222, @velomira, @darkchococwoissant, @remnantsofgildedcages, @starswillseeus, @ninalove323, @lumichella, @amanehyuga, @txtworlddom, @milumier, @someonestopsoren, @lettushi, @jadeloverxd, @hellothisisnanaaa, @ops-esion, @thealunari, @maplewood-valley, @massivebanananut, @livanavier, @rafayearning4eternity, @ellarksworld. if you see this and want to be added to the event taglist, please let me know!
You became his greatest joy, and his greatest weakness
CW: blood, tragedy, death
sukuna art by madaras_wife on insta
Two Faced.
Ryomen Sukuna, from birth cursed with a name damning him from the start.
This was the man you'd come to know. Come to hate…and love.
Hate. Love. Two sides of the same coin. Two edges of the same sword. Two faces occupying the same mask…
What a bitter medicine it was to be cursed to love and hate so deeply. So deeply, and in such equal measures.
The world of curses was a dark place in those days. Much darker and more terrifying than most of this current era could ever know. A time when even the name ‘Ryomen Sukuna’, a name that rattled the bones and froze the blood, still carried less fear than that of any ‘Satoru Gojo’ does now. That's simply how dark those days were.
Into this darkness, this chasm of despair you'd fallen one spring. And for a man to whom life held little beyond blood lust and violence, your entrance into his caused his heart a moment of silence.
Fragile. That seemed the titular word for you. The word to take root in his mind for you from the moment he'd slaughtered the monstrous curse threatening your life - the word that pounded through his mind and blood as he'd scooped up your limp body and carried you back to camp.
After that day you were seldom from his side. From the time he tucked you under his own blankets and witnessed your broken, weakened body in his bed, Sukuna had kept you under his steely gaze at all times.
He'd never understand what had brought you down to his level, nor would he deign to linger on the thought. You were there, and it was as simple as that. More importantly, you were his. The fragile, delicate property of Ryomen Sukuna.
He was always curt with you. Gruff in his mannerisms, from the way he held a spoon to your lips to the way he roughly tugged you into his side come nightfall. You never complained, never argued with his terse commands - not that it'd have made any difference if you had, Sukuna always got his way.
That spring passed quickly, and much like the flowers blooming, the color slowly returned to your cheeks. Weakness was replaced day by day with a growing strength. As you blossomed, Sukuna found more things in your character and mannerisms that did little to slow the disconcerting warmth blooming in his chest at the sight of you.
Fiery. A word he'd never have imagined ascribing to you. After finding you in the courtyard sword hilt in your hand, blade pressed to the throat of the incredibly stupid man who'd attempted accosting you, that all changed.
Sukuna was not quick to forget the heated blood craze in your eyes when they'd locked with his own that day. Now visions of Plum blossoms dipped in blood haunted his dreams-filling his waking and sleeping moments with fleeting stirrings of his stoney heart.
You favored Hydrangeas. This annoying tip bit he'd gathered during one of your daily meals, one of the few times you'd freely offered details about yourself - albeit with a sheepish lowering of your eyes. And it was this annoying fact that had him scouring the gardens searching for the perfect fistful of hydrangeas that accurately represented you… and it was this lowering of his guard that led to an unforeseen attack.
You'd blanched when they brought him back to his chambers. The great Sukuna, felled by a curse. There he lay in the bed you'd shared the past many weeks, healers frantically attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his abdomen… the flow steadily turning obsidian.
Your heart clenched in your chest in time with your hands wringing at your skirts nervously. As the blood grew darker, your own ran cold. If such a man could be felled by a mid level curse, who among the realm of men was safe?
A blood curse. They'd whispered. And rare at that, one not seen in over three generations. He'd stirred to consciousness demanding answers. Even weakened, his voice managed to cause the healers to stumble back and cower.
There was no cure. One poor soul had muttered. He was rewarded by having his head swiftly detached from his body. Still gripping the roots of the man's hair in one hand, Sukuna had slumped over a basin and vomited.
There might be…a cure, my lord. That proved to be the right answer. Through legends and whispers, the oldest of the healers related, he'd heard tell of a similar curse manifesting similar results. Your blood has been cursed, my lord. Left untreated your blood shall slowly turn to pitch and harden in your bowels.
Speak then! What is this cure you speak of? Sukuna bellowed, hurling the remnants of the poor man's colleague at his feet. The man paled, but didn't back down.
It is rumored that the effects of this curse can only be reversed… with the blood of that which you hold dearest.
Sukuna's eyes immediately flew to you. His heart, already stuttering weakly, thumped wildly against his chest with the effort. His skin had already begun to grow waxy and his eyes darker - the curse was acting quickly.
He hadn't time to consider his options. Hadn't time to recall all the ways in which you'd become grafted into his soul. You weren't an idiot, you knew what that look in his eyes meant. You'd seen it enough times as he'd felled men for so little as crossing his pass with that same look in his eyes.
The blood pounded in your ears, the world seemed to narrow to the most finite of sensation. Fingers twisting into the silk of the robe you wore, back hitting the rough wall-Sukuna’s fingers strangling the hilt of a knife, Sukuna’s eyes blackening with determination.
Cold steel met your throat. A whispered plea for mercy. His forehead meets yours. And the last words you heard before slipping into darkness-
I'll repay you in the next life.
It would be on a platform in Shibuya when he'd next be haunted by those words…
Notes: Breast-feeding difficulties, fluff, some angst, babies.
💗first, please excuse my 7 month break, life is bonkers. I’m tackling something a little bit sensitive, I have a friend that just had a baby who is having trouble with breast-feeding, it’s way more common than people think and I think some parents blame themselves even when it’s out of their control. I kept it a bit vague because there’s several factors that go into feeding difficulties, but I’ve never been pregnant so if there’s inaccuracies just know I tried, did research and talked to my friend💗
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Pairing: Nerd!Gojo x fem!reader
CW: SMUTTTTTT SMUT SMUT MDNI, reader is a brat, brat tamer Gojo, some crack, pronebone, rough sex, p in v, choking a bit, spanking, degradation a bit, facial, mentions of Suguru Geto, Weed, possessive/jealous behaviour
"Quit hogging it! Pass."
"Damn, impatient. Here, doll."
You and Suguru were sitting in his car's backseat, your back against the door, legs entangled with his in the middle of the seats, smoke swirling past your face and through the ajar sunroof.
Only recently, you two had started to smoke after classes, nothing deep. Just casual, sharing a rolled blunt while talking about nothing.
Casual, for one, because he was your boyfriend's best friend.
You weren't a troublemaker per se, but you weren't a stuck-up academic weapon either, so you have no clue why you ended up with the top student in his major.
Satoru Gojo, astrophysics and science nerd.
It happened slowly, through little sticky notes and small gifts of candy on your usual desk in the lecture halls, him sitting one chair closer in the library each time you went.
And then one date that made you fall head over heels for this shy weirdo.
And you got to know his closest friend, Suguru Geto, who was more on the alternative artistic side. But he was fun to get stoned with.
You inhaled the smoke, about to pass the rest of the smoked-out blunt back to the long-haired male across from you, when a sudden knocking on the window startled your zen.
The knocking turned into full banging and a familiar, whiny voice.
"Suguru… u..unlock the damn door! What are you two doing in there with her? Smoking?? That's bad for YOU-"
Suguru groaned, pulled the keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the car doors, clearly irritated by the white-haired one catching you both.
The moment he got the door open, you were pulled out, a barrage of smart and large words thrown at Suguru about weed and how it can ruin his health, not to mention how bad it is to give it to you and blablalbabllaaaa.
You could feel Satoru's hands on you tremble, blunt nails dragging your clothes a bit while having you squished close to his chest, his eyes looked like he wanted to burst out crying, clearly shaken up over this even while giving a lecture.
Satoru really only calmed down when you started walking away with him, not even getting to say a goodbye to Suguru, too busy being pulled away by your boyfriend.
"Tooruu…. c'mon, relax. We weren't doing anything…" You sighed, feeling his hand on your waist tighten a bit, leading you through the campus to the dormitories.
"Not doing anything? Why didn't you t..tell me you two were hanging out? I'd come too..!" Satoru grumbled, fumbling with his glasses after stepping inside the building, fidgeting, refusing to look at you.
"You don't even smoke. Are you jealous?"
"Wha..! Me? Feel envious over MY girlfriend sitting in MY best friend's car together and SHARING weed? No." He puffed up his cheeks a bit.
"Relax, babe. "
"I am relaxed. We are g..going to my room to show you how r…relaxed I am."
You sighed, holding his hand while walking up a few flights of stairs, watching Satoru fumble around with his keys before finally getting the door unlocked, ushering you inside right after.
"If I had known you'd freak out over something like that, I wouldn't have gone…" You mumbled, toeing off your shoes.
Satoru seemed to get a bit more on edge from that comment, already battling unfamiliar emotions inside- he hadn't had a girlfriend before you, so feeling possessive or jealous was new.
"Did he ask you to meet him?" The white-haired one's voice came out a bit too rough.
"Yeah, we have met up a few times like that already."
"Oh… so you like Suguru?"
"Maybe." You roll your eyes, getting a bit annoyed now, walking further into the dorm and plopping down on Satoru's bed, staring up at him.
Your attitude didn't go unnoticed.
"Maybe?" Satoru stood up fully straight, the pout on his lips turning more into a frown.
"Yeah, maybe he wouldn't care about me spending some time with friends." You scoff, only adding to the anger bubbling up the white-haired male's throat.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He walked in front of you, subconsciously forcing his knee between yours, having you spread your legs to accommodate him standing between them.
The look in his blue irises behind those clunky glasses wasn't of some pathetic nerd who would let his woman cuck him and force him to watch from the corner. I mean, he totally would do that if you wanted him to- but not the time.
You could tell he was getting pissed now, fingers clenching and unclenching, glaring down at you as if he wanted to bite you.
…Hot.
It wouldn't hurt to egg Satoru on a bit, no?
What was he gonna do?
Nothing. (wrong)
Your lips formed a small smirk, your eyes almost gleaming as you leaned back on the palms of your hands, keeping your legs spread a bit too wide to be innocent.
"Nothing. Just that maybe he'd be a better boyfriend for me." You cooed out, being provocative.
Satoru's eye twitched.
The dorm room went silent for a second, just the two of you breathing.
You wanted to keep pushing, opening your mouth- but a strong hand wrapped around the front of your throat, thumb digging into the side to silence you.
"Shut it." Satoru squeezed out of himself, holding back from growling, the way he had leaned down, forcing you to look up at him, had his white bangs fall into his eyes.
Seeing your usual meek nerd get like this had your panties wet.
He was so mean, so so mean.
Satoru had you roughly shoved back and flipped around, his glasses hanging on for dear life while pulling your pants down just enough, not bothering to properly take anything off- panties pulled to the side and a thumb lodged inside of your pathetic cunt, pushing it up against your walls to stretch you out.
"Why him, huh? You really think Suguru could have you this wet just by a few touches? I don't think so."
All you could do was whimper and try to wiggle away, face mushed into a soft pillow, arching your back after a rough slap was delivered to your thigh for trying to run.
"Stay still, didn't you want this?"
"Suguru wou-" Your attempt at being a brat again had the palm that had spanked you slapped over your mouth, forcing your head to be pulled back and your spine to bend more, having your legs tremble.
"I said, shut it."
An embarrassingly large boner had flopped out of Satoru's boxers after you moaned and whined around his hand for a moment- the angry tip nudging at your slick folds, purposefully not even going near the glistening entrance.
"F..fine… shit… if you want to speak… better beg for it." Satoru leaned over you, chest against your back, chin hooked over your shoulder to listen.
Not like he was going to make this easy.
He did take his hand off of your lips, drool smeared across the palm.
"I'm not begging." You tried to talk back, gasping for air when he dragged his hard cock up and down your pussy.
"Beg for it." Satoru breathed out, his hips grinding down against your ass.
"No- mmphn!"
Thick fingers were shoved into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, middle and ring fingers sliding back and forth on the twitching muscle.
"C'mon, I know you can. Stop being a brat."
This had you thinking for a bit, who knows what he'd do if you didn't comply.
"Pll..hh..hheasshhee.." You managed to speak around the digits, spit already wanting to spill down your chin.
"Please what? I don't understand you, silly girl."
"Plluhleasee fuchhk mhhee.."
How embarrassing, you have never been the one to beg.
"Good girl. But I'm still mad."
You could feel it, the way he let you suck on his fingers while driving a meaty dick inside- not caring for the cries you let out after going too deep.
Your thighs were held together by his, forced to have them smack together after each thrust- eyes rolling back when Satoru started to leave hickeys, biting and nipping the skin of your shoulder and arm, anything his mouth could get to while lying on top of you.
"Never."
thrust
"Forget.''
thrust
"You're m..mine…"
thrust
"Mine…"
The lewd sounds of your sopping cunt and his leaking pre had your head spinning, almost crying from each rough plunge inside.
All you could do was nod in agreement, nails digging into the sheets- bed shaking from the force of Satoru trying to fuck your brain full of him.
He waited for you to cum, having you spasm and tremble a bit, feeling you clench around his aching cock as if you had never had dick this good.
He wasn't done yet.
Glasses askew, he had flipped you over again, quickly pulling out and moving forward- a deliciously dripping cockhead right above your face, two eager hands jerking it.
Satoru made sure to paint your face, letting every last drop get on your skin, smearing and guiding most of the cum to your mouth.
Obviously you kissed the spent tip, swirling your tongue around it for a second.
That had your boyfriend whine, quickly fix his glasses, and look away- as if the tough guy thing had disappeared.
He did feel a bit bad, lying down and cuddling you right after, even licking some of his own seed off of your skin to nuzzle his cheek against yours, acting all cute now while you struggled to catch your breath.
"M s..sorry… I just got nervous ab..bout you being alone with… Sugu.."
"When I get nervous, I imagine everyone around me naked. It helps, Toru."
"WHAT? Y-YOU SHOULDN'T THINK OF ANYONE ELSE NAKED BUT ME!!"
i hope this doesn't come off as rude but i think it's a bit unfair to the members to have a mod that's no longer active here /gen
this genuinely gives the impression that this community is dying. the other mod leaving in haste marked the beginning of the end
Hello! I think you are mistaken. One of us is on vacation right now, but we’re all active. One mod leaving for real life issues should not be a problem since this is a team effort. And she should have that right, as she is a person before a mod. I hope this helps clear things up
Swain was in his office when the shadows behind his desk stirred. It was not dramatic or loud, but it was present enough for the candlelight by the wall to flicker. He did not look up from the report from his desk while the shadow above it deepened and manifested into a tangible shape…
…then, Kiripailin appeared upside down, hair spilling towards the floor, wings wrapped around her body to keep her from knocking into the shelves or accidentally setting the palace aflame. Her eyes gleamed with delight as she hovered in the dark like an awfully clingy nocturnal spirit.
Awfully beloved, too.
“Jericho,” she sang softly, smiling, dangerously effective dimples deep in her cheeks. “Your wife requires attention.”
His hand holding the quill stopped. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, and there she was, hanging in front of him as if this was a perfectly normal and reasonable way for spouses to demand affection. Though his expression remained stern, the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“My wife,” he began, “is the feared and renowned court mage of the Noxian Empire… and yet, she has chosen to enter my office like a bat haunting an old manor.”
“I am a bat,” she said. “I just look human.”
She cleared her throat.
“Attention,” came her reminder.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. Then, he reached up, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles one by one, not once breaking eye contact with her.
“There,” he murmured. “The tribute has been paid.”
Kiripailin pouted immediately.
Dryly, he asked, “Insufficient?”
“Yes. Very.”
A low hum left him. He gently tugged her sleeve, coaxing her down from the shadows until she landed on his lap, legs crossed beneath her gown. His human arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer, grip tightening at the sight of her triumphant smile.
“I am quite busy, dearest,” he said dryly. “But you may sit with me until I am finished with these papers.”
“That works for me,” she giggled, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “The Grand General’s wife only seeks his company because she is tired of decorating one of her pocket dimensions over and over again.”
“Which one?”
“The picnic one.” Her hand came up to tuck his hair behind his ear, claws lightly grazing his skin. “It was a forest clearing the last time we went there, but I thought I’d renovate it a little. I haven’t liked anything I’ve done so far.”
“Hm. Very well,” Swain responded. “After I’m done with these, we shall go for a walk to help you find inspiration.”
Her eyes softened. “We?”
“Yes.” His lips brushed her temple in a passing kiss. “Together.”
II.
Swain heard her before he saw her.
It wasn’t that she was loud or her spellwork was measly. It was perfect and soundless, precise, beautiful in its own way. She navigated through darkness like a thread through fabric, presence hidden, physical and magical. Unfortunately for her, sixteen years of marriage meant he knew every single one of her tricks and tells, especially this specific one:
The way the room would feel suspiciously pleased with itself whenever she was in it.
His hand rested on the map table, iron markers meticulously placed across its expanse as several commanders surrounded him, pretending like they didn’t just witness the Grand General going completely still. The shadow at the eastern window stretched longer, and his eyes drifted towards it.
Predictably, Kiripailin immediately emerged from it—upside down, of course—with a petulant expression, offended and surly.
“How did you hear me coming?! I am a stellar shadow magic user!”
One of the commanders nearly dropped the marker he was holding. Swain did not flinch at her whine volume or the way she appeared like a phantom; he only turned his head towards her, face neutral, never wavering.
“You are,” he said.
Her mismatched coloured eyes narrowed at him. “There’s a ‘but,’ isn’t it?”
“There is.”
“Fine, let’s hear it,” she huffed stubbornly, arms crossing over her chest, though it wasn’t visible with her wings wrapped around her body in a cocoon.
His eyes warmed.
“You are a stellar mage,” he said, “but you are also my wife.”
He stepped away from the table and moved towards her, hands clasped behind his back, footsteps slow and casual. Unaffected.
“When you are about to bother me, the shadows become loud in their own way.”
She stared at him blankly. “That’s not fair.”
“It is not,” he agreed. “It is marriage. I know you.”
Not one for public displays of affection, he simply tapped her forehead with two fingers—the closest thing to a kiss she was getting in front of the other people in the room.
“Now,” Swain added dryly, “return right-side up before my men convince themselves that they have been cursed.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She was not going to think about it.
“No.”
There.
“I’m watching you like this.”
“Kiri.”
She rolled her eyes and properly left the shadows, pulling a chair to sit next to his spot on the map table.
“Fine,” she drawled, “but I am still going to say that your men scare too easily.”
“Well, they weren’t trained to deal with such a catastrophic sorceress.”
“They will be.”
One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Lady Kiripailin, please do not make sure of that.”
“Boooooring!”
III.
This time, Swain was walking alone down the corridors of the palace, boots echoing over the stone. The sky was bright, sun beaming through the windows and making shadows visible between the pillars that adorned the walls. The shadows were thick enough to hide a certain mischievous wife. He knew this, and still, he continued to walk and wait.
It took him five steps before she dropped into view, face appearing directly in front of his.
“Boo!”
He stared at her. She stared back. The silence stretched.
Then, flatly, he said, “How terrifying. My wife has struck fear into me once again. I may never recover.”
She laughed softly and poked his cheek. “You’re no fun. You didn’t even blink.”
“I am the Grand General of Noxus.”
“You’re also my husband,” she huffed.
“That is precisely why I did not blink. I have been trained.”
Her laugh echoed down the corridor. His stern expression softened as he looked at her hanging there, overly pleased with herself, wings wrapped around her frame and hair pointing towards the floor like a long silk curtain.
“Was there something you needed?”
“Not exactly. I just missed you.”
His gaze darkened with amusement. “Did you now?”
“Yes. I’m tired after teaching all morning. You know, Noxian mage apprentices scare easily too. They can’t even handle being in the same room as Basil.”
“Not everyone is particularly fond of serpents, dearest.”
“But Basil is a cute serpent!”
“Is he?” he asked dryly.
She gasped. “Jericho, that is our son we’re talking about.”
Still dryly—
“He’ll live. I, however, may not, if you keep continuing this.”
Her lips curled into a smile. “I’ll wait for your retaliation then, dear husband of mine.”
His mouth twitched.
“Careful. I might enjoy it as much as you do.”
Then, he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Before she could reply, he continued walking and didn’t look back, but his face was threatening to break into a smile too. And she knew that.
IV.
By the fourth time, Jericho Swain was more than ready to deal with his beloved hide-and-seek enthusiast. She was certain that he was not. That was her first mistake.
He was standing near one of the high windows overlooking the courtyard, reviewing a sealed message with one hand behind his back. It was nighttime, but the shadows from the torches attached on the walls were large enough for her to swim through.
It was the perfect time to strike.
She travelled through the darkness, stopping at a shadow beside him. With a grin, she was about to emerge, but then his hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her cleanly out of the shadows. Not harsh, not rough, but with offensively high accuracy. She was trapped against his chest, his arm firm around her waist as he looked down at her, calm and composed and triumphant all at once.
“You grabbed me,” she said, scandalised. “Out of the shadows.”
“I did,” he responded, unashamed. “You made it easy.”
“I was quiet!”
“You were about to laugh.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.” He squeezed her waist warmly. “And now you are captured.”
Her wings fluttered indignantly. “I am one of Noxus’s most terrifying battle mages. I am a master of shadow and space. I am your court mage.”
“Yes.”
“And your wife.”
“That one is the most important,” he replied.
It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to hold back her smile. She laughed softly and wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him with softness in her eyes. He exhaled through his nose and bent down to kiss her, cradling the side of her face with his hand, feeling her smile against his lips.
“There,” he murmured. “Now you have my attention again.”
“Not enough.”
He sighed deeply. “Then I suppose Noxus must wait.”
The water around Kiripailin in the bathtub ripples as she unfurls her wings, running it over them. It’s warm, comfortable, and the tub is large enough for someone with additional limbs, but her flexibility has its limits.
She glances at Aatrox who is standing in the corner, arms crossed over his chest as he watches her, standing still as stone. Surveillance. After being given minimal attention the entire day due to her being engrossed in work, he’s feeling a certain sense of irritation and decided he’d keep her under his watch until he’s satisfied.
Which, judging from the way he’s looking at her, is not any time soon.
Her lips curve into an amused smile. “Dearest,” she calls out softly. “Come help me wash my wings.”
He steps closer, massive frame and horns forcing him to lower his head to be able to pass through. His gaze finds her immediately—seated in the water, wings relaxed, surrounded by floral notes in vulnerability, and it tightens, not in anger, but in possession. In devotion, in the cruelest and most violent way he knows how.
“I come when you call,” he rumbles, kneeling beside the bath, impossibly gentle for the apocalypse.
A clawed hand settles at the edge, tips dipping into the surface as he tilts his head in curiosity, observing her with attention that is almost unsettling. Fortunately for him, she loves him just like that, so she doesn’t say anything.
“You ask me to tend to your wings,” he continues, “as if my hands are not made for destruction. As if they do not kill and maim. As if they know how to be gentle.”
Despite his words, he still picks up the cloth with a carefulness unbefitting of him and begins at the upper curve of her wings where the base meets her back. Water runs down the thin membrane, sliding down in rivulets as his hold gentles and scrubs her clean. The first touch is almost hesitant like he’s in disbelief at how much she trusts him, but then she smiles at him, making whatever semblance of doubt he had disappear with ease.
His claws are sharp, but they do not scratch her skin in the slightest. The knowledge that he’s putting in this much effort over such a mundane task makes her heart flutter and swell with love, and she can’t help the warmth that courses through her veins. A Darkin like him is not made for tenderness; they are made for carnage and bloodshed, for vengeance and oblivion.
And yet, he touches her like she’s fragile. In a way, she is—compared to him, she feels even more minuscule even with her immense power. This touch is coming from a being that is not in his final form; he is smaller, adapted to accommodate her yet tower everyone. But just imagining how much more kind his touch would be in all his glory makes heat blossom across her cheeks, helpless, dreamy.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks the instant her wing twitches under his touch.
She shakes her head gently. “No, no… It just feels good.”
“Good,” Aatrox repeats after a beat, voice low and rough, almost incredulous.
He resumes cleaning her wings, slower, more deliberate this time. The cloth follows the curve of them with care beyond belief, and it amuses her how he treats being gentle as yet another war to wage. The water ripples faintly around her as her shoulders relax under his ministrations, making him let out a deep, pleased and possessive sound.
“You will tell me if it becomes too much.” Not a request. An instruction. “I do not wish to damage what is mine.”
She sighs in contentment, muscles easing even further beneath his touch.
“Strange,” he murmurs. “A creature of immense power, reduced to sighing because the World-Ender washes her wings.”
“Well, the World-Ender is also my husband,” she says easily, “and I trust him with my life.”
His jaw tightens, not with anger, but with an emotion he dare not name because it’s far too large to be contained even in a being like him.
“To trust me is a dangerous choice.” He dips the cloth into the water and follows the arc of her wingbone, bathing her in warmth. “You are either very brave or very foolish… Perhaps both.”
A pause.
“You should not,” he continues. “You know what I am. You know what I have done, and you know what I still intend to do. And still, you sit before me with your back turned and exposed, wings open, smiling like this is just another day in your life.”
“It is.”
“Foolish woman… but you are mine.”
His voice lowers, dangerous and quiet.
“I will be worthy of your trust… even if I must tear the gentleness from this wretched existence and force it into my hands.”
“Maybe less tearing things and more enjoying spending time with me, Aatrox,” she laughs out softly.
He falls quiet for several seconds, eyes narrowed at her like she just spoke in an indecipherable language.
“You ask much of me.” Still, his hands continue their care of her. “First gentleness, now enjoyment… You’re getting greedy, little bat.”
His face remains stern and severe, the physical manifestation of wrath, but his voice softens, dangerously so.
“I am here, am I not?” He almost sounds satisfied. “I am here, kneeling beside the bath, taking care of my wife because she called me dearest, and fully enjoying every second of it. I simply do not have elegant words for it; I was not fated to live this kind of life. To feel this kind of love.”
“I don’t need a pretty poem,” she murmurs. “Just you.”
“Just me,” he echoes.
He takes in a deep breath and sighs, slow, more pleased than he’d like to admit.
“You have the full devotion of a Darkin,” he says, “one who destroys civilisations and soaks the earth in blood. And yet… all you ask is that I remain with you.”
Aatrox rinses away the last of the soap on her wing before setting the cloth aside, placing his large hand on her back, right between her wings and over the scar embedded at its base.
“I will,” he adds with certainty. “I am here, and I will continue to be.”
“You know,” she speaks up. “When you finally destroy the rest of the universe, I’ll have to hide in a pocket dimension. But if your destruction includes sacred grounds and magic sources, then… Well, eventually I’ll be trapped in it and cease to exist, but I’ve made peace with that.”
She smiles softly.
“Being loved by you is more than enough.”
He stills. For a long moment, his face is unreadable, hardened and severe as it naturally is. Unbeknownst to her, an ugly emotion rears itself in his chest, gripping his heart with intensity.
“You speak of your end as if it is acceptable.”
Kiripailin hums. “It is, isn’t it?”
“No,” he replies. “You say being loved by me is more than enough, but what is that love worth if it traps you in a sealed fragment of existence, waiting to fade?”
Her head tilts as she blinks curiously at him, having not expected such a response.
“No,” he growls again. “You will not offer me your absence as if it will bring me peace.”
He reaches for her face, grabbing her jaw in one hand, claws digging into her flesh, not enough to hurt, but firm enough to keep her with him.
“You freed me. You gave me a form. A body. You gave me a home. You gave me your trust, your love, your laughter. And now you would give me permission to lose you?”
“I—”
“I do not want permission. I want you.” He inhales deeply. “If I must hate the universe, let me hate it. If I must rage against gods and the stars and life itself, let me rage. But do not ask me to deem your absence acceptable. You are not part of my destruction. You are the one thing in all of existence that I would turn back for.”
“But you’d remember me,” she says, so gentle it makes his veins roar with anger. “That’s all I can ask for.”
His expression darkens. Not with anger, but horror.
“You think memory is mercy?”
He leans in closer, wounded.
“Memory is not enough. I do not want to remember your voice; I want to hear it. I do not want to remember your smile; I want to see it. And I do not want to remember your body—I want to feel it with my own hands. Your softness. Your warmth. The way you hold me. The way you cradle my face like it is something worth loving.”
His hand drifts down to her neck, resting just above her throat. The hardened armour on his face rests against hers, not pushing or pressuring, just present.
“You are not allowed to ask so little of me,” he growls, “not when I would give you everything I still know how to give.”
She gently cups his face. “I don’t want to hold you back.”
Her hand is small compared to him. So small, so loving. For a moment, he does not seem like the World-Ender or God-Killer at all. For a moment, he is simply an ancient being caught between instinct and longing, torn between the desire for annihilation he has carried for millennia and the soft weight of her palm against his jaw as she asks him not to be shackled by love.
“You think you are a chain,” he says, a hint of incredulousness in his tone. “You think loving you is a restraint. That it traps me, that it’s not something I chose because it’s you.”
Her lips part to speak, but he interrupts her.
“You are not the thing that holds me back. You are what I would stop for.”
“What about your revenge?”
“My revenge,” Aatrox repeats, “has been all I’ve known for millennia. It has existed longer than civilisation has. It gave way to my agony and hatred. It told me that if I could not be free, then nothing else could be. And then you came.”
Her breath hitches.
“You, who call me dearest while in your most vulnerable state. You, who ask me to be gentle with you knowing fully well what I’ve done. You, who speak of ceasing to exist as if your absence would not hollow out whatever remains of me.
If I destroy everything, and you are gone, and all that remains is silence… then what have I avenged? What victory is there in standing alone in the mass grave I made of creation?
My revenge calls to me. It demands destruction. It demands carnage. It demands oblivion. But your voice calls to me, too, and it is the one I answer.”
Her heart aches. Without hesitation, she leans forward and tilts her head to kiss him, gentle and quivering, careful of the sharp and inhuman parts of his face. His hand rises to cradle the back of her head and he melts into her. He is not tender by nature; that is not what his devotion is like, but for her, he tries. For her, it learns the difference between holding and harming.
“You kiss ruin and expect it to love you softly,” he says once she’s pulled away, “and I do. Terribly. Completely. Fully. And I will learn every shape of gentleness you require of me.”
“Oh, my dear husband,” she whispers, kissing him again. “I know. I know what it costs you. And I don’t know if I deserve it. But I love you just as terribly and completely and fully as you are. My husband. My life.”
He nudges the tip of his face against hers, careful of every sharp edge that could hurt her and refuses to.
“My wife,” he rumbles in response. “My heart’s defiance. My reason to stop at the edge of ruin.”
A pause, then soft enough that it makes her heart ache:
“Call me your husband again and I may forget the rest of the universe exists.”
Shoto x Shosho, aka me. Consider it a character study, part of selfship lore, whatever. Warnings: none. WC: 1,031. Tagging: @maplewood-valley
This is the result of my DMs with Sam and my sleep writing and sleep shopping.... I did not remember writing this. Not proofread! Dividers by @uzmacchiato.
Fire has always scared her. It burned her when she was a little girl, too young to understand how volatile and unpredictable it could be. Ironic, it was, given that everyone spoke of her synonymously with fire; much like the flames that hurt her, she was explosive, erratic, uncontrollable. Some days, she still wakes up in cold sweat to nightmares of the flames licking at her skin painfully. There aren’t many things she fears, but fire is one she’s never been able to get over.
Or so that was the case, until recently. Until she met a boy who caught her eyes from the moment she found him in her sights, with mismatched hair and eyes and an indestructible drive to the top.
She never cared about love or anything of the sort, even when her friends were all caught up in boys and crushes and who’s dating who, but meeting Todoroki Shoto has made her reconsider that notion. Though he doesn’t seem very interested in her at all, she feels okay admiring him from a distance (still, she isn’t shy about her infatuation either, and already had proudly announced it soon after it began).
But what she didn’t know up until now, is that this wonderful and mysterious boy in her class carries the very element within him that she so feared. Or rather — she’s never seen him use it in action thus far.
The sports festival brought lots of entertainment for her, as an admirer; right off the bat, Shoto dominated the event with his ice quirk. And although she had heard about his fire quirk prior, none of them knew him to ever use it. Naturally, as teenagers go, rumours spread far and wide when the school year had barely even kicked off. All that she was left with were more questions and a curiosity of who this boy was underneath.
She supposes that she got a sight of that for the first time, today. When she first saw the fire emerge, she found herself in pure shock. No one had expected him to go with his hot side, and boy, did he make a show of it.
But after the shock subsided, she was left with two things: worry, for she hoped he would be okay using it, and awe.
Never did she ever expect to see flames and think of their beauty, for the fear overwhelmed her too much, but that was the only thing she could remember feeling.
It’s just a shame that somewhere along the way, he lost his drive in the final battle against Katsuki. She’s sure he would’ve made it far, perhaps beaten her cousin.
It offends Katsuki when she finds him in the common room afterwards (after forcibly being put to sleep, courtesy of their legendary temperaments) and she spares him little words, other than a mild scolding over ‘pushing Todoroki’ or ‘being an ass’ and other things he doesn’t care about. Soon, she leaves her disgruntled cousin behind and finds herself in the infirmary. The injuries weren’t serious, so Shoto was already awake by the time she got there.
Relieved to see him in good health through the small window in the door to the nurse’s office, she first lets out a sigh of relief and knocks. The nurse is handing him an energy bar as she enters. Her classmate looks bewildered.
“Did you need something, dearie?” Recovery Girl asks when she steps in. She shakes her head and looks Shoto over.
“Just came in to check on the patient.” Feeling exposed, she quickly adds: “Our classmates are concerned about him.” (She doesn’t explain that she’s ‘classmates’.)
Recovery Girl mumbles something about him being right as rain in no time and takes her leave. With just the two of them left in the room, Shoto looks at her with question marks in his beautiful, mismatched eyes.
She fidgets with the end of her uniform. Now that she’s here, she doesn’t remember what she wanted to say.
“Bakugo is going feral,” she says after a while, not knowing what else to tell him. Though, she doubt he cares about this. “You’ll be expected at the ceremony soon.”
“Okay.”
He looks good, for someone who passed out not too long ago. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he seems to be ready to go back. The room smells uncomfortable to her, like antiseptic and a faint trail of the nurse’s lunch.
Shoto gets up and she leads him through the hallway back to the arena. It’s quiet here, but the sound of the noisy crowd and Present Mic’s voice is carried over by the wind from the distance. Before they enter the sports arena, she stops and turns to the boy she spends way too much time thinking about.
“Your fire is breathtaking,” she blurts out with her back turned to him. She turns to face him. Her eyes are wide and full of amazement. Shoto doesn’t know how to feel about that.
“Don’t,” he warns, the acknowledgment of his quirk pressing all the wrong buttons.
“Just being honest,” she shrugs then. “Whatever reason you have to hate it must be a good one, but I think…”
The cheering of the crowd only gets louder in the background. It drowns out the feeling of her own pounding heart. “I think it’s beautiful. I hope you get to see that someday.”
With those words, she enters the tunnel and leaves the boy behind, even when his feet are rooted to the floor. Whether she notes his absence is unclear to him, but she doesn’t look back. If she had, she would have seen the wide eyed, stunned look of a boy who never once expected for his fire to be seen as anything but disgusting. Just like how he sees it.
Little does he know that this is only the first step on a path he’s never threaded before; a path on which he will learn to see the good in what has been tormenting him his entire life.
‘Your fire is breathtaking,’ replays in his mind all the way to the stage that day. Those words would never leave him again.
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⌗ keisuke baji x f! reader ⌗ 6.5k words ⌗ smut, car sex, piv, mention of drug use, no y/n
⌗ chifuyu has some plans for xj land that he needs to secure funding for, and it's his, kazutora's, and baji's job to charm a rich cunt enough to agree to slap their name and money on the project. he hates every minute of being around these stuck up annoying idiots, but he spots a ceo's daughter who hates it just as much.
⌗ dividers by @/cursed-carmine
‹𝟹 more tokyo revengers fics ‹𝟹 read it on ao3
a large, way too decorated fancy hall full of people in suits and dresses—keisuke baji's personal nightmare.
not for the first time tonight, baji wishes he'd been more stubborn, because then he wouldn't have had to be here pretending to care about whatever the fuck these snobs could want to ask of him while he's masquerading as a functional member of the society. the things he does for chifuyu…
he feels a sting on his hand when he tries to loosen his tie, a smack by none other than the very person who made him wear this stupid suit and this stupid tie and this stupid fake smile that makes his stupid cheeks hurt.
"stop fucking with it." chifuyu nearly hisses at him as he nods politely at some old fart walking past them with a glass of something amber in his hand. fuck, he really wants a drink, too.
"i'll strangle you and myself with it if you don't stop pissing me off, fuyu."
he grumbles something and goes off to wrangle kazutora, who's trying to stuff something off of one of the silver plates into the pocket of his suit jacket.
baji goes off to do another round around the room and try not to look like he's trying too hard to insert himself into a conversation or two. it would probably help if he knew any damn thing about the shit these snobs are talking about, but that's usually been chifuyu's point of interest, and he's been really good at securing the funding for the projects that he'd been planning out for xj land, and… well… he's basically been doing everything else while kazutora and he mostly fucked around. he supposes he should cut himself some slack because of all the university work he had to do. a lot of long nights cramming for exams, lab projects he needed to somehow put into words. something like this event would really be a good opportunity for the store if he manages not to fuck it up.
suddenly, the air turns a few degrees hotter. he really hopes he doesn't fuck it up…
he controls himself, refusing to punch something to let out some steam. but he needs something to do with his hands now, something that's not one of those incredibly crumbly little tarts that the staff keep distributing on large shiny platters. he got those crumbs in his shirt when he tried one, and he can still feel them against his chest.
a piss and a drink. that should get it sorted.
the toilets are surprisingly crowded, he expected majority of people to be fawning over some of the donors, debasing themselves and throwing their dignity away for a hand-out, but there's a couple smaller groups of men—about a few years older than him, he assumes—who keep smoking and laughing by the sinks. he pushes down the need to cough as his nose senses the stuffiness of the air in here, but he's mostly invisible to them as he walks past these gatherings to go for a piss.
there's a disgusting noise coming from the stall next to where he's trying to relax his bladder and get this over with before he loses the will to behave. he can hear the toilet seat lowering and rustling of pockets before the man next door leaves, moments before baji does. they nearly collide, and baji wrinkles his nose in disgust when he spots a faint dusting of white under the man's nose. rich cunt probably doesn't even think about how many lives that shit ruins every day, how many people he's seen fuck up their entire futures—
he balls his fits, but doesn't take it further than that. tearing himself away from the stale, smoky air, he can finally breathe once the door to the toilets are closed.
chifuyu better be fucking proud of him…
the moment that his hands touch the cold smooth surface of the bar, he knows he was seconds away from exploding. there's a crowd on the opposite side, ordering a bunch of drinks from the overworked bartender that's clearly hoping to get an extra fat tip if he does everything with a dazzling smile. baji would've spat in their drinks.
"you ordering or just standing here?" he hears a voice so unlike the stuck-up self-important ass-kissers he's been trying to tune out all evening.
he dares not turn his head too fast, out of an irrational fear that this voice will turn out to be a figment of his imagination, but he lets his peripheral vision and the corner of his eye construct an image of the dress you're wearing and the casual way you're leaning your elbow on the bar. you're swirling your drink with a straw, the ice clinking against the glass almost completely drowned out in the noise of the conversations that blur into one another.
"thinking." he simply responds, but the bartenders aren't paying attention to him. there are hands waving to grab their notice, orders being almost shouted at them, glasses pushed towards the edge to get refilled.
"think quickly, handsome, before they run out of the good stuff." this time he looks. maybe he shouldn't have.
immediately he's at a loss, despite thinking he's immune to the charms of those who think themselves better just because they have money to throw around and the power to get away with anything, one look at your grin disarms him of whatever clever comeback he thought he could come up with.
"what's the good stuff then?" he asks, sliding only slightly closer to where your crossed legs dangle off the edge of the high stool.
it doesn't escape him that your eyes trail down his entire height and back up again, your tongue darting slightly to keep the end of your straw against your lips. he feels warm all over, the back of his neck burning, but he refuses to give you the satisfaction of looking away and knowing you've flustered him successfully.
"depends on what you like…" you hum and put your glass down. there's a mint leaf stuck to the wall of it, he catches a faint scent of something light and fresh coming from your drink. "though you look like a beer kind of guy. no offence." you add it with such a cheeky giggle that it's hard not to smirk at least a little.
"none… taken?"
"you don't seem so sure, handsome. come on, drink with me." your insistence is endearing in a way, when he thinks about it. baji's instinct is to frown, scoff, and turn away, because who the fuck do you think you are, telling him what to do, as if you're his better. but the mischievous glint in your eye, the casual swish of your wrist, the way your lips teeth press that short straw flat, the effortless tone in which you're speaking to him… not like you're trying to tame him and prove something, but more like he's someone you've been waiting for. a promise of a better evening, a scent of a dazzling storm on the horizon.
he beckons the bartender, successfully this time, and orders a beer. ignoring your soft laugh at his order, he turns towards you and raises his glass, expecting you to toast with him since you're so fuckin' fancy.
"bad luck to toast with an empty glass." you shake your head.
"but it's not emp—" he shuts his mouth when you take out the straw and down your drink in one swoop, barely making a face. you signal the bartender for another, which is served to you so quickly his mouth is still slightly hanging open. "okay then."
"to the quick and painless end to this boring event." you lift your glass and look him in the eyes, and for a moment there baji can swear the rest of the room around you two blurred. he takes a sip and shifts on his feet, suddenly unsure how to act around you.
he may be a little scared, for all he knows. such an odd feeling spreads through his body and pours into his fingertips, something like electricity, warm and cold at the same time. he still wants to keep a shred of that defiance he's been pushing down around everyone out of fear he'll fuck this up. but your smile is shedding layer after layer of that anger inside him until he's once again feeling like a kid, a little giddy, a little nervous, magnetically attracted to the way you look at him through your lashes.
"the painless part is already a failure." he snorts before taking another sip. where only moments ago he was trying to find a way to down his drink and make the event go by a little easier, now he finds himself wanting to slow down time, if anything just to hear you talk.
"you too, huh?" you chuckle, making him look at the way your lips curl up. he shouldn't be noticing that. "i ran into someone getting down and dirty in the toilets. just wanted to pee in peace, but no, i suppose their happy ending was more important than my bladder."
"rich cunts really don't give a fuck, do they?" baji rolls his eyes.
"no, we really don't." you chuckle into your glass. we? he scoffs and shifts again, feeling the tie around his neck get a little too tight as he swallows. "oh don't look at me like that," you sound amused, like he didn't just indirectly call you a cunt, "it's just an unfortunate consequence of being born into my family."
baji doesn't feel like it's very unfortunate. in fact, he could think of at least ten different things he would be doing if he had been born into any rich family. none of which are complaining about being rich. or even wasting time with guys like himself.
"why are you here then?" he turns somewhat glum, feeling a little cheated, having thought that he found someone that he could commiserate with. but what was he expecting? camaraderie at a gala that's essentially just an opportunity for the already well-off to secure funding for whichever property they want to buy and claim it's for charity, write it off as a business expense or whatever the fuck they do… what a joke.
"being a little more than generous with my dad's money." you say it so casually, like it's no big deal flicking your wrist and spending however many figures you feel like. he's deeply jealous, he can feel that toxic feeling deep in his gut. suddenly, his beer tastes sour. he looks down at the foam like it personally offended him. "you? here for some good cause or just to sneer at everyone around? i have to say… i do enjoy sneering. one of my favourite hobbies."
baji tries not to laugh, not to give you the satisfaction of knowing he's considering you more human than the rest. but the way you talk to him, he wants to believe you're more down to earth, that you're actually genuine, not expecting him to dance like a monkey to make a case for himself. but… his shoulders give him away, and you smile wider as much as he can see from the corner of his eye. you're not letting him get away with it, determined to plunge the both of you into a silence until he answers you. he already hates this.
"uh… yeah." he clears his throat, trying to think of how to best say the basics and hopefully get you to spend some of that daddy's money on xj land. "i uh… work at a pet store. we're planning a few projects to reach out to animal shelters and try to secure funding for them. help with vet bills and stuff." he looks at you again, and you seem to be really listening, nodding along and pushing him to continue. "and a project to collaborate with a guide dog training facility."
he busies himself with drinking his beer, trying to push down the heat that's already rising to his cheeks and hoping that he's not blushing. those were the main talking points that chifuyu had been writing down on countless post-it notes around the store and even in the toilets, making it baji's most common literature to enjoy during breaks.
"that's very sweet." you nod, downing that drink. it turns out to be a mistake, because a couple of young looking, clean-shaven guys in expensive suits have been shifting closer to where baji's standing next to you, almost imperceptibly inserting themselves into the conversation seeing your empty glass as an opening and offering to buy you a refill.
he tries to ignore their blatant disrespect and disregard for his presence, instead just trying to remember if he needed to mention anything else about the planned projects. if chifuyu were here he would've known what to say, how to interrupt, how to make sure he's being heard. but all that intended brain work goes out the window when one of the assholes puts his hand on your leg.
blood rushes into his head. with fists balled up and squeezed tightly, he looks for your face between their bodies, a brief flash what he can only take to be panic glistening in your eyes before you let out an awkward chuckle. he's aware that he has known you for a very short time, but he'll be damned if he lets this behaviour slide.
"i don't think you should touch her like that." he murmurs loudly enough to be heard. they turn slowly, though that offending hand is still resting on your knee.
most of the following few minutes feel like a blur with how hard adrenaline hit him. he's aware now that he said some nasty stuff, used words he was forcing himself to swallow all evening, but they burst out of him at the sight of those disgusting self-important faces that were sneering at him. he felt those looks like a punch in the gut, but now, walking along the paved path away from the venue, he can finally breathe again.
"slow down!" the clicks of your heels on the stone shake him back into the moment, your breathless voice pulling him to a stop. "okay, you don't need to stop completely—" you chuckle, catching your breath.
you don't seem angry that he practically dragged you away from the event, doing his very best to avoid making a scene even though his knuckles were begging to connect with someone's jaw. they're lucky that he had promised to be on his best behaviour.
"sorry," he says through gritted teeth, "they just—"
"thank you, that was very kind." you smoothen the fabric of your dress and, now, standing up, your legs are no longer visible, having disappeared into the safety of the material. he curses himself for noticing, even more for mourning it.
"it's no big deal." he shakes his head, stuffing his hands into the suit jacket pockets.
"well… now that we're free…" you let the word hang in the air, smiling once you see his eyes widen slightly. "oh come on, don't tell me you want to go back."
"my uh… my friends are there." he feels childish just saying that, but the two idiots he came with have always been more or less a safety net. he wonders if any of them noticed his disappearance.
"and i'm right here. and you might need another drink, now that we've dealt with all… that."
he stands in front of the register at the corner shop feeling like an idiot in that stupid suit. he should really be making the moves you've already taken upon yourself, picking out a bottle to share between the two of you and paying for it. he was going to, but you were quicker with the elegant swoop of your hand that pulled a couple of rolled up bills from your bra—he was completely taken aback and fascinated by this. on the way out, you pull your arm through his, walking alongside him like you're old friends, carrying a bottle so precariously between your thumb and index finger, like breaking it wouldn't be much of a waste. baji feels an odd sense of calm now, like whatever had happened was over before the two of you left the corner shop and now the world is different. no rich cunts, no inappropriate touching, no violent thoughts. just a pretty girl, a seemingly out-of-place guy, and a darkening sky.
"so…" you begin once you've found a nearby bench, sitting with your knee folded on the seat so you can turn to face him, "keisuke." you repeat his name after he finally told you.
"something wrong with my name?" he challenges, raising one eyebrow.
"on the contrary. it's pretty. i like how it feels in my mouth." he tries not to think about that, tries not to imagine how it would feel to be in your mouth. damn it, it's like you don't even realise what your words could do to him. or maybe you do and you're just plain evil.
instead of teasing you for it, though, he takes the bottle from you and takes a swig, letting you rest your cheek on your hand as you unabashedly stare at him. if he plans on surviving this—you, so bold and interested; him, so flustered and still feeling the adrenaline from earlier mixing with some sick desire to protect you—he needs at least a little bit of alcohol in him.
"why don't you like being there?" he means, of course, at the gala. you seem to fit in enough, you're confident, you walk like you belong, you've got money to cover any possible mistake you could make. but the bored state he found you in at the bar, it made you look like you saw him as a saviour even before he dragged you away from those handsy bastards. almost like he's what you were waiting for all evening.
"that's not a life i want to be in."
he takes another swig before you take the bottle from him and indulge in it yourself. baji swallows, realising your lips are touching the mouth of the bottle where his lips were as well. he should stop noticing these things. your legs are crossed again, so he's finding it hard not to look down and appreciate the skin showing under that soft looking material.
"so why go? you're an adult, you can say no, can't you?" he doesn't ask why you don't want to be a part of it all. it seems miserable on a deeper level. yeah, having a disgusting amount of money would make life so much easier, but the brief run-in with the man in the toilets made him angrier than he should be. he understands that it corrupts something in a person, it must do, since they parade around in expensive cars, expensive suits, eating expensive food, drinking expensive alcohol, and all that to impress each other in a metaphorical circle jerk all the while people around the country—and world—are suffering and starving. baji takes that bottle again, purposely placing his lips right where yours were, this time thinking about what it would be like to kiss you directly.
you sigh, and a shiver catches his eye as your arms fold over your chest in an attempt to chase away the slight breeze. "i was hoping the evening would go okay… you know, it's not all bad all the time." you move a little closer, probably subconsciously looking for warmth, and baji feels like a furnace under his suit. "last year there was a really nice hospital representative. we got to talking, and i talked my dad into giving them a huge donation. she and i go out for a drink almost every month since."
"okay, but everyone else there looks like they're just pouring money from one bulging pocket to another." he scoffs and starts shrugging his jacket off.
"usually is. they make me sick. i sometimes go partly to remind myself how gross they are, how lucky i am to have a conscience. or something resembling one." you shiver again as he wraps his suit jacket around your shoulders. he can feel the smooth skin on your shoulders as he makes sure the jacket stays on and doesn't slip, but that smooth skin hits him with static, a shock of how good it feels to even touch you this lightly.
baji has spent most of his life—present day included—despising people who have money and don't do anything to help others, he's seen plenty of overcrowded animal shelters and overworked volunteers and veterinarians, too many to think anything more than the very least about the rich cunts who must feel like gods deciding on who's going to get a tiny particle of their wealth so they could feel good about their souls. but seeing you acting so… normal? he could've passed you on the street not knowing that he hates your family on principle. even worse, he wants to touch you again, he wants to taste your lips on his, and somehow it doesn't really matter that you're from completely different worlds because the only thing that concerns him right now is that you're here with him and safe.
how did he let himself get here…
"well… this seems to be a better party than whatever they're doing." he nudges your hand with the bottle and smirks when you wrap your fingers around it, accepting and tipping it back until it's nearly empty, saving him the last mouthful.
"this party could last forever." you wink, pulling his jacket tighter around your shoulders as he finishes the bottle.
"should've got another bottle then." he leans his elbow on the back of the bench, and maybe it's just his boldness getting released with some of the alcohol in his system or your charm rendering him completely useless against it, but he slides a little closer to you.
"no…" you follow his move, leaning in slightly until your knee touches his thigh. "i wanna feel all of this."
as your voice goes lower, his head tilts down. in a way, he knew this was bound to happen, it was clear in the sparkle in your eyes before he even knew how to read it. every action this evening, good or bad, led to him kissing you.
baji's eyes fluttered closed as soon as your lips touched, no matter how much he was trying to keep a sliver of vision to make sure you're actually doing this and not just messing with him. this close, he can smell the perfume you haven't applied since you left your home, making room for the natural scent of your skin to prevail and hypnotise him. he can smell the drink you've shared with him, he can taste it on your tongue as it brushes against his.
once his brain stops short-circuiting, once you pull away and lean in again and kiss his lips with a little more confidence, once you scoot closer to him on the bench, baji cradles the back of your head like he's afraid you'll disappear. he wants to keep kissing you, to drown in your lips, because as his good as his name must have felt in your mouth, he's sure his tongue feels even better.
the next time you pull away, he's still dazed a little, and opening his eyes to see your face flushed because of him makes his heart beat a little faster in his ears.
"hmmm," you rub your lips together, looking up at his parted lips, "can we do that again?"
he doesn't need to be asked twice. this time, he's the first one to take the plunge, to capture your pouted lips into a harder kiss, steamy in the way his skin is burning to be touched, his mouth trying to devour you whole. like the past few hours are the only hours that matter, his mind and body cling to the idea of having you as he pulls hums and moans from your lips.
you're so damn into it, he notices, and instantly regrets being outside in this moment. there's nothing he wants to do more right now than to hear more of the noises you could make for him, feel more of your body than the back of your head, taste more than the saliva in your mouth.
baji feels the uncomfortable tension in his crotch, the stiff fabric of his trousers restricting his erection as your hand reaches out and tucks a strand of his long hair behind his ear.
fuck, the tenderness in your touch will undo him. he shifts his hips on the bench, trying to figure out how not to go insane while his hard-on pushes against the zipper of his trousers. you notice, grinning against his mouth while you nip his bottom lip with your teasing teeth.
"you're so handsome," you repeat what you called him at the start of the evening and his eyes go wide, "been thinking about kissing you since i saw you."
a little bit of heat flows into his cheeks, pinching the very tops of them red while he imagines what must have gone through your head when he slid next to you at the bar and you looked at him with those dazzling eyes and smiled with that straw between your teeth.
"pretty sure i'd have kissed you back then if you tried… you're so damn gorgeous." he breathes, throwing out any sense of self-consciousness at what he's admitting.
"not at the bar." you chuckle and pull back ever so slightly, just so you can see this eyes, the colour of coffee and ten times warmer, his lips, slightly parted as if still anticipating a kiss, a shine of his sharp canines in the warmth of his mouth. "before that. you were so cute… frowning at every person that came near you. real guard dog energy around you."
normally, he would be offended, you were watching him before he was aware, taken in his behaviour and assessed him all while he hadn't even seen you. though, your hand still lingers on the back of his neck, your lips just out of reach until you bring them closer again, kissing him like it will fix every bad minute wasted at that stupid gala. somehow, it does.
he's breathing in your soft moans, tasting more than just the drinks on your tongue; desire, excitement, the energy that he wanted to see on you ever since you eagerly downed that first glass.
"my car." you simply breathe out once you pull away for air.
baji's stunned for a second, panic floods his mouth. you're not trying to leave, are you?
"are you good to dri—"
"not driving." you giggle, and he's slowly catching on as you look deep into his eyes. he gets it. he gets it so much that his cock begs for release behind the zipper of those stupid pants. baji smirks and takes your hand, swooping you off your feet until he's walking back towards the venue with so much more determination than before. you giggle and yelp as he carries you, your feet dangling while you hold onto his neck.
he doesn't even puff up his chest when the valet gives him an odd look and hands you the keys while you're still in his arms ("keisuke will be taking me and my car home, thanks."—he felt a surge of pride when you said his name like that.) like this is a common enough situation that nobody had to be alerted. following your navigation, the point of your finger and your mouth making beeping noises that get faster as he gets you nearer to your car which… well, he didn't expect something so cute.
"she's vicious on the road, trust me." you say through light giggles as he lowers you onto the back seat and crawls in after you.
"oh yeah i bet everyone around you is so afraid." the door barely closes behind him when you grab his tie and pull him on top of you, wrapping your legs around his waist as you kiss him hungrily.
your dress bunches up around your thighs, revealing more of that smooth skin he's been wanting to touch—his hands trail up your thighs until the tips of his fingers reach the waistband of your panties. there's something addicting in the way your hips lift to meet his hard bulge just trying to exist. you're wasting no time, unbuttoning his shirt with such agility that he has to be at least a little bit impressed, all the while feeding your mellow sighs into his mouth as he tries to detach his hands from your soft thighs.
you tug his shirt off, humming in appreciation once he shrugs it down his arms and you touch along his forearms, trailing those clever fingers up his biceps in admiration.
"god if we had more space…" you murmur, kicking your heels off your feet so you can drag one foot down his back.
baji can't help the laugh that escapes him, shaking his head as he hikes your dress up a little higher until he can push your panties to the side and groan at the sight.
"ahhh fuck…" he mutters, with one hand reverently parting your slick folds, with the other unzipping his pants until he can tug them down his thighs along with the boxers just enough to free himself. his cock is painfully hard, twitching under the weight of your gaze as you lift your head just enough to see what's about to fill your needy cunt.
"you can't be real." you chuckle, leaning your head back against the seat barely giving you enough space to lie semi-comfortably. he leans over you, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock and pumping it slowly, the other tracing your slit like he's mapping you out until he's got the shape of your pussy memorised.
"very real." he whispers, parting his lips as his finger dips into your clenching cunt and he feels you tense under him. "that feel real?"
you nod, violently so, angling your hips until his finger curls upwards and you're rewarded with the feeling of his fingertip pressing your spongy, warm, most loving spot. "god… right there."
"there?" he hums, pulling his finger out and sliding it back in, surprised by how easy it is, how wet your pretty cunt got just waiting for him to fuck you. "feel good?"
"mhm…" your hums turn to little gasps, gasps to moans, and soon enough you're rolling your hips up fucking yourself on his agile finger. but it's not enough for baji.
"god that's so hot." he groans, pulling his finger out with a wet pop and a disappointed whine from your lips. "no, no, come on. no whining." he props himself up on one hand, digging into the seat beside your head, as he leans over you and kisses your pout. "i'll make it feel better, look."
his promise is quickly fulfilled as his other hand guides his cock to your opening, warm and slick and ready for something more than just his finger.
you're so pliant and needy under him. your hands grip his shoulder and back, your bare feet pushing into his lower back almost rushing him to fill you. but he needs to take a little bit of time, sinking inch by agonising inch is like a reward for him, feeling your walls accommodate his girth while your eyes roll back. as his balls press against your sopping cunt, he's already feeling accomplished.
"keisuke…" you moan, pecking his lips while he groans against your mouth. "kei… that good?"
he's not sure if you mean the nickname or the way in which your warm cunt takes him, so he just nods, resting his forehead against your shoulder before he can pull back, only slightly.
pushing back inside is a testament to how well-behaved he is being tonight. your car is not spacious enough to have him kneel on the seat comfortably, but he's trying to be as close to you as he can this time, his hips grinding against yours, the fabric of your panties rubbing against his pubic bone when he bottoms out.
"fuck… so… fucking… good." your eyes flutter when he grunts those words with every roll of his hips into you, his thick base is pushing apart your folds, stretching them to enter as your welcoming cunt takes him so perfectly.
whimpering, you're shushed by his lips attacking your mouth when his elbow digs into the seat next to your head. his body heat lingers between your panting bodies as he keeps driving the tip of his cock into your willing, tightening cunt that keeps sucking him in like it wants him to stay. baji's getting drunk off of the moans that fall from your lips onto his tongue, they keep him going, thrusting, speeding up until he's gritting his teeth trying to keep it together while his balls slap against your soaked folds.
and your devilish legs… you keep pulling him towards you because god forbid he pull out of you more than this, barely enough to keep you stuffed full of his cock at all times. you're insatiable and he loves your greed. your fingers tangle in his long hair, tugging on it as your hips lift up to meet his desperate thrusts.
"kei…" you moan, breathless after you bit his lip when your neglected little clit finally started getting some friction from his pubic bone rubbing against it. "hnnn fuck— i… need to—"
you sink your teeth into his bicep, turning your head to the side. his first instinct is to hiss, but the pain keeps him going, the pressure of your pearly whites in his muscle only has him snap his hips into your cunt harder, willing to push you over the edge that you warned him about.
"keep going, pretty girl." he rasps out, groaning into the side of your head while your mouth leaves wet patches on his arm. the hand in his hair tightens, and so do your soft walls, sucking in his relentless cock while he tries to at least let you ride out your orgasm before he bursts and leaks inside you.
with a loud cry you shudder and he feels your cunt pulsing around him, releasing your pleasure in waves while he glides in and out of you carrying you both over the threshold, because he can hardly keep going when you get so damn warm and wet and fucking tight, so his cock spills into you while he groans into your hair.
barely slowing down, he's pulled into you by your legs locked behind his back, your bare thighs squeeze his sides, and the most saccharine moans that he's ever heard in his damn life shimmer in the stuffy air in your small car.
finally… he slows down to a stop and your weeping cunt stops so viciously contracting around him. your breaths slow down, your chest stilling as he leans some of his weight against you, the fabric of your dress cold against his hot chest. you cradle him against yourself, like he did with the back of your head when you merely made out earlier on the bench. baji hears your heart beat loudly against his ear, and can't help but smile a little, because the gala is ongoing out there, but he's abandoned his mission in order to feel how well you could take his cock, how you could moan his name, how you could come undone under his warm body on the backseat of your own car.
"kei?" you ask, folding up a tissue after you've cleaned up the cum leaking from your sensitive and used cunt.
"mmh?" he's just finished buttoning up his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. it feels almost casual, like he didn't just empty his balls inside you while your sugary voice whined for him. putting on clothes after sex should feel more uncomfortable than this, but he can't help stealing glances at you as you pull your panties back and grin back at him.
"this project of yours, how much do you need for it?"
expecting his brain to think about anything other than how pretty you look in the afterglow of him fucking you is borderline cruel. your hair is still a little messy, so he reaches out to fix a few strand in place while he thinks about how to walk the line between wanting to make good for his job and not wanting you to think that he fucked you for money.
"don't worry about m—"
"no, don't do that." you shake your head, shifting on the squeaky leather seat until you're almost sitting on his lap. he doesn't think he has another round in him just yet. maybe another drink or at least something to eat first… "i was gonna do it before everything anyway… as soon as you mentioned it by the bar."
your hands cup his face and he, a sucker for it, leans into your touch like an overgrown cat. if he could, he's pretty sure he'd start purring.
"are you su—"
your finger across his lips stops that thought. you're cute, looking all stern. or at least attempting to do so. "don't piss me off." you straddle him now, preventing any potential escape. "i told you i wanted to spend an ungodly amount of money on good things. let me do that. come on, think of the animals."
he grins behind your finger and shakes it away before his hands trail up your back and pull you closer into a slow, languid kiss. it feels like more than after-sex kiss, more than a thank you kiss, more than an i-just-met-you-today-and-yet-i'm-addicted-to-you kiss. he has to give it to you, you're persuasive, because after all it's not about him or even chifuyu or xj land. it's about whom they can help with this project, and this money.
"okay." he takes your hands in his and kisses your knuckles, savouring your soft skin against his lips. "fine. god, so pushy." your forehead meets his in a gentle bonk.
"i promise…" you begin, your shoulders slightly shaking with laughter, "i didn't agree to it just because of your dick… but damn."
baji rolls his eyes, realising it's very easy to forget that you're on a completely different social level than him, especially when you're sitting on his lap like this, talking about his dick after you came on it. "don't push me, pretty, or i'll give it to you again right now."
"oh no no no…" you chuckle. "the next time i will need a little more space… got a feeling you could manhandle me really well."
a conspiratorial smile lifts his lips, and in turn yours as well.
"oh i'll show you just how well." he grabs your hips and pulls you closer until you're pressed up against his chest completely.
baji's so gone, lost in the kiss that cracks the air in this stuffy car. it smells of sex, of your perfume, of your body. how quickly he got addicted to all of those.
⋆˙⟡ burekforsatoru || do not modify, repost, or feed to AI. likes and reblogs appreciated, nice comments make your skin clear.
the top of jujutsu society and #1 loverboy has pages full of doodles and collages dedicated to his partners, but this one is one of his favorites ✨
i am so beyond pleased with how this piece by @tiramistupid turned out!!! it's so adorable it still has me giggling and kicking my feet. bloomy never misses and i am so so so happy to now have another lovely satomochi moment captured in her style 🥹💜
your moth-man lover enjoys close proximity to you in more ways than one.
wc; 873
warnings; mdni/18+; sexually explicit details, graphic descriptions of bodily fluids, detail + prose heavy in some spots
divider; @/kodaswrld
sequel to SOFTNESS
if you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging this and sharing your thoughts with me!!
The lighthouse beacon called him home to you every night.
You knew his arrival by the distant flutter of his wings, a sound resembling fabric caught on a strong breeze, and his feet making contact with the iron grates that made up the wraparound walkway of the gallery deck. Two clawed toes stuck through the hexagonal gaps, always making his landings uncomfortable as he struggled to free himself, step above the holes to make his way through the trapdoor that you left open for him.
He knew where to go and how to navigate to the lower floors to find you. Sometimes he interrupted you while you studied old blueprints of the lighthouse, hoping to unravel some sacred engineering knowledge that you weren't already aware of, or he'd watch you broom the floor from a safe distance after far too many times feeling the coarse bristles against his setae.
Then, there were some nights when he found you asleep on the job, cocooned messily in your thick comforters on the mattresses you kept stacked on the floor. They were shoved oddly to a corner near, just in view of a window longer than it was wide. Not big enough for a body to fit through, but for a slant of dusty moonlight to filter through the murky window and lay a long stripe across your bed.
He liked to be in that light when he was with you, sprawled across the sheets, relishing their strange softness and the fabric gliding across his setae. What he enjoyed even more was to be immersed in all of the comforts of your body: the feeling of your skin, your lips pressed lovingly against his, your limbs an endless entanglement. Nights where he wanted that closeness always quickly evolved into your body being hastily stripped of clothing (it had taken him a while to learn how to), with your hands pushing firmly into his soft back as he fucked you.
You remembered being startled by the sight of his cock the first time as it unsheathed: long, curved, and pale with a modest girth that you didn't expect would get you anywhere. His dark pink tip wept terribly with a milky, viscous fluid crawling down the length of it. He had been anticipating this for a while, perhaps from the very beginning, and had been exhibiting more self-restraint than most humans you knew.
When you spread your legs for him, he made a pleased sound, a cross between chittering and a masculine hum. With a great sense of urgency, he climbed on top of you and nestled his cock inside of you. You watched him seat himself as far as he could go, even as he manipulated your legs and tried to push your thighs wider like that would grant him deeper access. But, he seemed to understand that he would get no further when you laid a hand against one of his defined pectorals and adjusted your hips to accommodate how far he reached inside of you and where the curve of his cock hit your walls.
The first thrusts he had taken were experimental, gauging. His large black eyes were focused on you, observing your expressions and the way your body writhed under him, as if he was fascinated to see it. He rested his weight on his arms, lowering himself far enough to kiss your lips, long tongue pushing through your teeth into your mouth, where he mingled your tastes and pulled a moan from your throat.
His gentleness fell away all at once after that. Every thrust became harder, faster, wilder in a way you never experienced before. He wasn't fucking you as a man, but as something far more bestial and ancient and not wholly knowable. Your fingernails clung to his shoulders, into his soft scales as he thrashed you deep into the mattress, hips knocking yours, cock numbing your insides as his narrow tip scraped your ridged walls.
You felt his ragged breaths against your neck, his lips always somewhere on your body, sampling the salt of your sweat and the lotion you had used when you'd last bathed. Then, through his orgasm, a groan resonated deep in his chest and rose into the back of his throat, where it carried on his breath and fanned out across your skin on stuttering breaths.
His release was explosive; hot, gushing stuff that saturated your insides and left you with a sensation of fullness, like his cock was the only thing keeping it all from spilling out. Once the tension in his shoulders softened under your fingertips and he'd gone flaccid, he removed himself from your body. His spend oozed steadily from your hole while you lie there motionless and unsatisfied, thinking of how long it would take to finish yourself off.
But, after that thought, he had recovered and backed down your body until his head was tucked between your legs, fuzzy antennae brushing your thighs as he opened his mouth and engulfed you.
𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐂𝐇 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒───BOO (へ^^)へ hi fellas, esp the horror junkies ! i present to u—2026 horror ych commissions featuring BACKROOMS, HOKUM, LEVITICUS, and OBSESSION !
0/5 SLOTS TAKEN. i'm only opening 5 slots (idk if a lot of people will be interested; i'll add more if needed !).
PAYMENT. for paypal users, proceed to my vgen. for non-paypal users, fill this form and payment will be done through shoppeepay qr code.
GENERAL GUIDELINES.
any two characters (any two *lgbtq+ characters for leviticus ych) are allowed as long as it's not an adult and child duo.
lgbtq+ pairings are allowed for backrooms, hokum, and obsession but only lgbtq+ pairings are allowed for leviticus.
roles are interchangeable—meaning blue does not automatically mean male character or that pink is only for a female character.
the background and lighting will be retained in each output (more on this discussed below).
free option(s): you may opt to include the movie title in and details, handrawn with the same style/font ! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) or you can change the movie title (e.g. the ship name).
default specs: 1250x1563px in PNG format.
❝𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐌. 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐌𝐄. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄.❞───𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐒 ych for only $10 USD !
the yellow lighting will be retained. do not be surprised if the output appears yellowish.
you have the option to modify the mural behind the characters or retain the original pirate clark mural. if you plan to alter the mural, i will simplify it. no detailed/complex ideas.
s/o to my dearest @ekteneia-chan for allowing me to use izatina as sample !
❝𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐀 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑.❞───𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐔𝐌 ych for only $12 USD !
the dark lighting will be retained. do not be surprised if the lighting is too dark.
since only the upper part of the character's head will be used for the witch sketch, i highly recommend providing specific details that are unique to the character or accessories they are known to wear.
s/o to my bestie @thelibrarianangsti for allowing me to use mitsi as sample !
❝𝐖𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑, 𝐍𝐀𝐈𝐌. 𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐖𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄.❞───𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐔𝐒 ych for only $20 USD !
once again, only MLM or WLW for this YCH.
by default, i will turn the eyes of the character in naim's place white and place visible cuts on his arms. please let me know if you want them removed.
heated rivalry's hollanov is used in this sample.
❝𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐄.❞───𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 ych for only $15 USD !
the super dimmed lighting for nikki will be retained. do not be surprised if the character in nikki's place is barely visible.
my selfship with haruchiyo sanzu is used in this sample.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Synopsis: Choso has loved your voice for years.
He has your records, your rare pressings, the songs your label buried, and enough sense to stay away from Naoya Zenin’s girl.
Naoya Zenin had made you famous, then made you his.
At thirteen, you were a girl with a demo. Years later, you are a star with a sold-out tour, a controlled image, a secret fiancé, and a career tied so tightly to the Zenin name that even your pain has to wait until after soundcheck.
Then one hotel party breaks the lie open.
He should have stayed away. The Itadori and Zenin families have hated each other for years, and you were Naoya’s singer, Naoya’s investment, Naoya’s...
But then he heard you scream.
Content Tags: MDNI, explicit sexual content, protective Choso, softly toxic!Naoya, abusive relationship, emotional hurt/comfort, slow recovery, some dub-con (not all), grooming, exploitation of a minor by an entertainment company, producer/idol power imbalance, sexual coercion, rough sex used harmfully, attempted gang sexual assault (don't worry, daddy's there to save you), drugging/manipulated misrepresented medication, alcohol abuse, pill abuse, mixing pills and alcohol, addiction/substance dependency, withdrawal symptoms, panic attacks, PTSD symptoms, nightmares, dissociation, stalking, forced confinement (not like that), industry & contract abuse, dating bans, medical abuse, forged medical notes, public humiliation, betrayal, arranged engagement, physical violence, mentions of blood, threats, legal scandal, recovery after abuse, consensual sex after trauma, consent checking, praise kink, abs riding, oral, fingering, penetrative sex, condom, aftercare. WC: 17.2K Oneshot.
A/N: I wrote this in 35 hours during a hypomanic episode after watching this. Based on this request.
Moodboard | Song Naoya would listen to | Song Choso would listen to
(Notice how one is being sung to you & the other one is being sung to the homies about "a bitch.")
Playlist 1 | Playlist 2
Naoya had you pinned under him.
You had said you missed him when he pulled you back into bed. You had even laughed at first, because he used to kiss your shoulder and call you spoiled when you wanted five more minutes. He used to take his time.
But now his hand was closed around your wrists, holding them firmly above your head. His hips hit so hard that your breath kept breaking.
You tried to relax, telling yourself he had meetings, label calls, his father in his ear, and artists fighting over release dates.
Stress made people rough. Maybe it made him forget himself.
“Nh-Naoya,” you cried out, and it came out too small and shaky.
He ignored you and kept going, one hand moving to pinch your clit.
You gasped as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a grunt, his face buried in your hair.
He kissed your cheek after, warm and slow, as if that fixed the parts of your body that hurt. You lay there with your knees bent, thighs aching when you tried to move.
“You have soundcheck at four,” he said, straightening up and pulling out.
You winced from the suddenly hurried loss. “I know.”
He proceeded to reach for a towel to wipe himself down. “You can still walk, can’t you?”
You tried to laugh because he smiled when he said it. Your legs felt weak under the sheet. “Barely.”
He chucked the towel to rub your hip, right over the sore spot. “You’re tense. That’s all. You work yourself up, then your body follows. I told you to sleep earlier.”
You nodded because it made sense when he said it. It had to. He loved you. He found you when you were singing covers at local, unknown school theaters while he himself was being groomed into the company through family power.
Your mind slipped into the memory.
You had first seen him at the back of his school auditorium, in a place you had been invited to sing at but could never afford to study in. He and his boys in the last row had come in late, all expensive shoes and loose ties, acting as if the whole cultural program had been arranged for their boredom.
Naoya was sixteen and half-hidden under an oversized black hoodie, shoulders too broad for someone still in school, and an expensive pair of glasses low on his nose. He looked dragged there against his will. Gojo had one leg stretched into the aisle. Geto kept leaning over to say things that made Gojo cover his mouth. Kenjaku sat beside them, heir to the Kamo clan, smiling in that strange, watchful way.
They had been laughing before you stepped up to the mic.
Then you sang.
You were thirteen, still in a dress your grandfather had ironed twice that morning, hands sweating around the mic stand. Your voice shook at the first line. By the second, it steadied. By the bridge, the last row had gone quiet.
Naoya was staring.
You had seen it by accident when you looked up from the floor. His face had gone a hued pink under the auditorium lights. He turned away when Gojo caught him, cupped his hand around Naoya's ear, and whispered badly, “Ask her for her autograph.” Geto pretended to cough your name into his fist. Kenjaku only smiled wider.
Gojo and Geto had never seen Naoya as a friend but someone to gaslight into stupidity.
After your set, you were trying to fold the paper with your lyrics back into your bag when Naoya came over.
Up close, he was taller than any boy you had ever spoken to, and that alone made you nervous. Then you saw his sharp eyes, his ear piercings, the dark blonde hair falling over his glasses, and your brain lost the small amount of sense it had. You lowered your head and stared at the zipper of his hoodie because looking at his face directly felt rude.
“You sang the bridge wrong,” he said.
Your stomach dropped. Heat crawled up your cheeks.
You knew it had been stupid to come here. Your grandfather had pushed you, had said people with money needed to hear your talent, but now this boy from the back row was standing in front of you, and all you could think was that you had embarrassed yourself in a room full of people.
Then Naoya held out a carton of warm milk tea from the vending machine.
“The original key is bad for you,” he said, looking away before you could. “Your voice sounds better when you don’t chase it.”
You took it with both hands. “Thank you?”
His hands were bigger than yours, knuckles a little rough, fingers fidgeting around the can before he let go. By the veins on his exposed skin, you realized he had been hiding more than height under the loose hoodie. He was probably muscular too.
“I can get people to listen. If you want,” he added, then seemed to hate how that sounded. “At my family’s record company. They listen when I bring them something good.”
You blinked up at him.
His ears went redder. “You’re good.”
Behind him, Gojo made a dying sound. “Did you just try to sign her before asking her out?”
Naoya turned enough to hiss, “Shut up.”
Geto laughed into his sleeve. Kenjaku said, “He means cake. He’s trying to ask you for cake.”
“I am not,” Naoya snapped.
You looked down at the milk tea rim and hid a small smile around it.
Naoya saw it, and his face softened.
“There’s a place near the station,” he said, quieter now. “They have cake. You can bring your guardian. Or don’t. I mean, you should. Since you’re—” He stopped, jaw tightening as Gojo wheezed behind him. “Forget them. I just want to hear you sing something in your own key.”
You nodded because a handsome boy with pretty eyes had bought you milk tea and said your voice was good, and at that age, that felt close enough to being chosen.
Then the memory was gone.
Today his driver took you to the venue, and you arrived to your team waiting in your dressing room with garment bags open.
Momo saw the way you held the chair before sitting. Her brush paused near your face. Nobara stopped sorting lip colors.
“Long day?” Nobara asked.
“Just tired.”
Momo lowered her voice. “Do you need the medic?”
You shook your head fast. “I’m fine.”
Nobody pushed. They knew whose name sat above the studio doors. The Zenin family owned contracts, tour insurance, security, and lawyers who sent letters before anyone finished speaking. To the public, he was your producer, but to everyone backstage, he was the man you belonged to. And with the dating ban among other dark sides of J-Pop, they couldn’t really acknowledge your relationship with Naoya without getting permanently banned themselves.
So they worked around the pain. Nobara skillfully covered the marks near your collar with heavy concealer. Mewa chose the right hair extensions so your face would have color. Momo helped you into the dress because bending hurt. You thanked them each time because this was humiliating for someone as well known as you.
Onstage, your legs burned unbearably by the second song. By the fourth, your smile started to ache. But you hit every note because missing one would become a humiliating clip by morning. You waved, blew kisses, hit your marks when the dancers did, and laughed into the mic when the crowd sang the bridge back.
Naoya arrived near the final song. You saw him from the stage wing—black suit, neatly styled blonde hair, holding a phone in his hand.
He had missed the set and the soundcheck. Still, when you came offstage, he stepped in front of your manager and pulled you against his side.
“There’s my girl,” he said in a honeyed tone.
Cameras flashed from the small press group near the barricade. His arm tightened around your waist. You tried to stand straight.
“She killed it,” a reporter said from behind a camera.
Naoya smiled wider. “She was raw when I found her. Could barely handle a room of fifty people. Look at her now.”
Everyone laughed because it sounded sweet. Your mouth smiled by itself.
Another reporter asked how you kept getting better with each tour.
Naoya answered before you could. “Discipline. The right team. The right guidance. Talent needs someone who knows when to push.”
You nodded again. Your legs felt numb from the pain under the dress.
Backstage, the room was filled with staff, flowers, phones, fruit trays, and voices asking for five minutes. Your ears started ringing. Everything suddenly became too much—people standing near the couch, near the door, near your bags. Your breath slipped out of rhythm.
You sat down before you fell from the oncoming panic attack.
"Hey." Naoya crouched in front of you, his face softening, hand covering yours in your lap. Around you, the staff stopped to check.
“Breathe with me, hm,” your fiancé whispered.
You did as told because he sounded gentle.
“In. Out. That’s it. Good girl.”
Your chest hurt and eyes stung. You hated that you needed him to talk you through this.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You worked hard.”
Nobara stood by the mirror, watching. Momo held a bottle of water but didn’t step closer.
Naoya brushed hair from your cheek. “You’re okay.”
His phone buzzed.
He checked the screen, and his jaw set for half a second before he put the device away.
“What happened?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He sighed and looked toward the door. “A few of my friends are throwing a party and were wondering if you’d be available for that. They are big names, but since you’re exhausted, I’ll tell them you can’t.”
You tried to sit straighter. “I can go.”
He studied you. “You sure?”
“It’s fine. I want to help.”
His thumb stroked your knuckles. “That’s my girl.”
The party was in a hotel suite with private elevators and guards by the hall. Music played low. Mei Mei talked near the bar with two brand heads. Many celebrities and J-pop idols were there. Geto stood with Gojo by a couch. Nanami spoke to your tour manager. Iori kissed your cheek and said you looked beautiful.
You said thank you and smiled even when your face hurt.
Naoya kept his hand at your back as he moved you from group to group. “You remember her single launch,” he told a sponsor. “That strategy changed everything.”
You held your glass with both hands and waited for him to finish.
Sometime later, he took you to the side and gave you the anxiety pill with water from his own glass.
You took it because your hands had started to shake again. The room had too much noise with too many people wanting a picture with you and you answering questions you did not care about.
“Just one,” his voice was calm. “It will settle you.”
“What is it?”
“The same thing Dr. Nobuaki gave you before Osaka.” He touched your chin and tilted your face up. “You trust me, don’t you?”
You swallowed it with water from his glass.
He watched your throat move, then slipped the remaining pills into the hidden pocket sewn into the side of your dress, the one your stylists used for lip balm and earpieces.
“In case you need another later,” he said. “Don’t go digging through your bag in front of people.”
Within a few minutes, your chest loosened. Your mouth felt warm, the pain in your legs and jaw became a distant thing, and the hard knot behind your ribs softened enough for you to breathe. You leaned against him near the bar and started running your mouth telling a brand manager you hated the last perfume campaign they put you in because the dress made you look racist.
Naoya laughed fast and covered it with his hand on your lower back. “She’s joking.”
You smiled at him. “I wasn’t.”
His fingers pinched into your waist. “Sweetheart.”
The word meant stop.
And you did.
Then a few minutes later he excused the two of you and walked you down a short hall to a smaller room with a big bed, a couch, a low table, a locked cabinet, and city views behind opaque glass. He guided you inside and shut the door. “Stay here. I have to speak to some people.”
“About what?”
“Work.”
“Can I come?”
“You need to sit.”
His voice softened when your face changed. “I’ll be right back.”
You locked it after he left.
For a while, you sat on the couch with your phone in your lap. The room moved a little when you turned your head. The medicine made your body slow, but your mind kept picking at old memories.
Naoya at twenty, sitting beside you on the rehearsal room floor with his long legs stretched out and a convenience store bag between you. The studio clock had already crossed two in the morning. Your vocal coach had gone home. His father’s people had stopped calling after the fifth time he rejected the track list they wanted for you.
Neither of you had eaten since the day before.
He split instant noodles with you using the lid as a second bowl, then scolded you for burning your tongue even though he had burned his first. You laughed, and he had to cover your mouth because the night guard was sleeping outside. Naoya looked at you then, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes, and said, “I’ll take you to dinner anywhere after you sell out Tokyo Dome.”
You believed him because he said it before anyone else dared to.
Naoya sent flowers to your first real hotel room, not the cheap business hotel near the station but a suite with a bathtub too large for one person and a view you kept taking pictures of because you had never slept that high above the city before. White roses, your favorite snacks, a note written in his stiff handwriting: Don’t cry before the show. Your face swells.
You had cried.
After your first bad review, he found you sitting behind the recording booth with your knees to your chest, the magazine crumpled in your hand. He took it from you, read two lines, and threw it into the trash.
“They hate you because they can already see where you’re going,” he had said, holding your face between his hands. His thumbs were warm under your eyes. “People don’t review nobodies this hard.”
You had wanted to ask if he meant it.
He kissed your forehead before you could.
He used to call at three in the morning from company cars, hotel lobbies, family dinners he had escaped, just to ask if your throat hurt, if you had eaten, if the song still felt wrong in the second verse. Sometimes he said nothing for whole minutes. You would hear traffic on his end, his breathing, the click of his lighter before he remembered you hated the smell and put it away.
He used to wait outside the recording booth with a bottle of water already opened because your hands were too shaky from the tour stress to open the seal yourself.
He used to look at you as if the world had put something rare in front of him and he was the only person alive who knew how to keep it from breaking.
You got up to walk around and clear your head, then picked up a wine bottle from the minibar shelf. You poured a little into a glass. Then a little more. The small burn made your throat hurt, but it gave you something else to feel other than the crippling burnout.
You drank until the room felt less congested, even though you were alone.
You bent to unclasp your heels and got one foot free.
The door clicked. A keycard chirped against the panel.
You looked up, thinking Naoya was probably back.
Then remembered you had locked it.
Three men came in—one wore a loose suit and smiled at your legs before your face. Another shut the door behind him. The third said your name as if he had paid for it.
“Here you are,” he said. “Zenin said you were resting.”
You stood too fast and suddenly got hit with a dizzying spell. “My producer will be back.”
“That’s why we came now.”
Your stomach dropped. “Get out.”
The man near the door laughed. “We were told you were ready to meet.”
“I said no such thing. I don’t even know you.” Your voice cracked. “I’m calling Zenin-san.”
One of them took a step closer. “He knows.”
You grabbed your phone, but your fingers missed the screen. The room blurred around you, making you back away until your hip hit the table.
“You don’t know who you’re talking to. Zenin Naoya is my fiancé.”
“Then be nice for him.”
You screamed.
The first hand caught your arm. You pulled back and hit his chest with your glass. It slipped and broke near your feet. Someone cursed and made for your waist. You screamed again, louder, until your throat hurt.
The door hit the wall.
You flinched so hard your knees bent.
A man stood in the broken doorway. You saw black hair and a dark shirt. You couldn’t focus on his face as your vision got further blurred. One of the men let go of you.
“What the hell are you doing?” someone snapped.
The man from the hall answered with his fist.
You swear you heard bones cracking.
You stumbled past him even as the room turned into a cacophony of grunts and bodies hitting furniture.
You did not look back, just ran with one shoe on, one shoe gone, and hands dragging along the hallway walls to stay upright.
Naoya.
You needed to find Naoya.
They lied. They had to be lying.
Naoya got angry. Naoya pushed. Said cruel things when stressed.
But he would not hand you over to strangers.
He had put a ring on your finger, had chosen you. He had said ‘wife’ when you both talked about your future.
You made your way to the lift, and with worse vision, you smashed buttons that you could feel through your fingertips. Then ripped the remaining heel from your feet and threw it to the side.
The lift took you away from the floor you had been on.
You tried to keep your breathing down, trying to call Naoya, but his phone kept coming up out of reach.
The lift arrived at a floor that vaguely resembled a twenty-six on the big display when you stumbled out.
Your chest eased as soon as you heard his voice.
It came from the penthouse office near the end of the hall. The door was half cracked.
You reached for the handle, almost tripping on the carpet.
Kenjaku’s voice came first. “So when are you marrying the girlfriend?”
Naoya laughed.
Your hand froze.
“I’m not marrying her.”
The floor seemed to pull out from under your feet if you hadn't been holding the doorframe.
Kenjaku made an inquisitive sound. “That serious?”
“My father already found someone. Simple, traditional, good family. That kind of woman knows what the Zenin name means.”
“And your singer?”
“She’s useful.” Naoya sounded tired now, bored with the subject. “She isn’t worthy of the clan. If I marry her, they’ll cut me off. No inheritance, not even equity. They’ll hand more control to Megumi just to punish me.”
“I thought you guys were serious.”
No sound came from Naoya for a moment.
Then he laughed and said, “I love money more.”
Suddenly the door wasn't enough to keep you upright.
You waited for Naoya to laugh again, for him to say he was messing with Kenjaku. You waited for him to say he had been joking.
He did not.
The ringing in your ears got louder—his voice kept getting louder inside your skull. Your chest hurt and your face felt wet. You touched your cheek and looked at your fingers.
Tears.
You stepped back.
One step. Then another.
Your body moved before you decided anything. Your thoughts came late and broken—Naoya funding your demo, telling you what to wear, saying other people would use you, saying he was the only person who understood what you could become.
He had chosen your songs. Your stage name. Your trainer. Your doctors. Your interviews. Your friends.
He said he cared.
Had made every rule sound like love.
You walked down the hall in bare feet. Your shoulder brushed the wall, but your body felt none of it. You heard someone call your name from far away, but you kept moving because there was nowhere safe in the world for you anymore.
You picked up a bottle from a passing waiter.
Your pills were still in your dress pocket.
You felt at them in your palm for a long second. Your fingers shook, but you kept hearing your name again. It felt closer this time. A man’s voice like he was inside your skull, but it was drowned out by Naoya’s, “I love money more.”
You swallowed the pills with alcohol just to kill the voices.
Once you were downstairs at the party again, drunk, the bottle hit the carpet. You sat on the floor beside a couch and pulled your knees to your chest. Your tears kept coming, but your face did not move right. You cried without sound, and then even that stopped feeling real.
Someone came to you.
You tried to lift your head, but your neck felt weak.
“Hey, look at me.”
You stared at the man whose face you couldn't see.
He said your name again.
You wanted to ask if Naoya sent him, if the men were gone, or why your fiancé said he loved money more than you.
Your mouth opened, but words were too cheap to express the pain in your chest.
The next morning came in pieces.
A hotel bathroom—Momo wiping your face with a wet towel as Nobara cursed under her breath. Someone saying you needed sleep while another voice saying the label wanted a statement.
Naoya did not call.
You checked your phone until your eyes burned—no missed calls, texts, apologies, or drivers waiting downstairs, not even a voice note telling you to stop being annoying.
By noon, every entertainment page was running the same news.
Naoya Zenin stood beside a woman in a pale dress who had silky hair, a pretty old money smile, and family money. The caption said his family was pleased to announce his engagement.
Your ring was still on your finger.
You took it off in the bathroom and dropped it into the toilet. It hit the porcelain, and the sound made you gag.
People looked at you differently after that.
At meetings, men lowered their voices when you entered, and women from PR smiled in pity. Your manager asked if you wanted to take “personal time,” but only after reminding you how expensive it was to move tour dates.
You said you could work.
You stopped addressing Naoya’s name. You stopped checking news about him and stopped sleeping unless you had something to numb it all in your system first.
A week later, you walked into a recording session drunk enough that your words slurred. The new producer, Megumi, looked at your assistant. Your assistant looked at the floor.
“You good?” Megumi asked from the soundboard.
“I’m here, aren’t I?"
“That wasn’t the question.”
You laughed because it felt easier than telling him how his cousin uncle had torn your chest open and now you couldn’t sit alone with your thoughts because you couldn’t trust anyone anymore. "Ease up, CIA-san.”
Megumi’s jaw clenched, nobody laughed with you.
You sang the first take with your mouth dry and your head loose. Your voice cracked bad, and you had to laugh and ask to go again. The engineer hesitated before pressing record.
After that, it got normal.
You drank before fittings because standing still made you think. You took pills before interviews because not smiling in a haze made your chest tighten. Then you started mixing things because one thing by itself stopped working.
No one stopped you.
They just spectated.
Your makeup artists covered the dark lines under your eyes with concealer. Your manager kept mint gum in her bag. Drivers learned which back doors to use when you could not walk straight through a lobby.
Naoya smiled in public with his new fiancée.
Everyone clapped for him, for the picture of Japan’s most eligible bachelor finally settling down with his Cinderella.
You watched a video from a green room TV screen before a live show. He touched her waist the way he used to touch yours when cameras felt suffocating to you. He looked proud.
Someone beside you said, “I’m sorry.”
You turned your head slowly. “For what?”
They looked scared then.
You went onstage ten minutes later. You performed like a highly paid monkey with a smile.
That was enough for everyone.
A couple months later at a party you grabbed air, missing the car door.
Your heel slipped on the curb outside the hotel, and concrete rushed up.
A hand caught your waist before your knees hit the ground.
You heard someone curse near your ear. The grip was firm so he could hold you upright, but your body had already given up.
“Get her inside,” a man's voice said.
You tried to ask for your driver, but your tongue felt heavy and slurred.
Then the last thing you saw was a black shirt and taped fingers near your face.
The next morning you woke in a bed that was too large.
For a few seconds, you stared at the ceiling and waited for the room to magically be yours. It was not.
The sheets smelled nice, and you realized with dawning horror that your dress was gone.
You scrambled to check your underwear. It was gone too.
You lay under the blanket in an oversized black shirt that reached your thighs and nothing else.
You sat up too fast and almost threw up.
Yet your first thought was alcohol.
And the second was your phone.
You pushed the blanket back and looked around. There was water on the nightstand, some painkillers, and a folded towel. You ignored all of it and checked the drawers with hands that shook.
The door opened.
An androgynous person in a white kimono stepped in with a tray. They paused when they saw you half out of bed. “Good morning, ma’am.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“They were sent to cleaning. You were sick on them last night.”
Your face burned.
They set the tray down on a small table. “Female staff changed you after Mr. Itadori brought you in. Your belongings are in the dressing room, and your phone is charging.”
“Mr. Itadori?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You knew the name after a few seconds—some J-rock band with all brothers that sold out stadiums with Sukuna and Yuji screaming into mics while their third brother sat behind them and looked half angry at the cymbals.
You had seen them around at shows, award nights, and afterparties. Had their dark-haired brother been the man in the doorway that night too? Maybe... The one with long hair. Your head hurt when you tried to remember it. “I need a drink,” you muttered, wincing.
The butler looked at the tray. “There is coffee.”
“I said a drink.”
“Breakfast first, ma’am.”
Your stomach growled at the mention of food.
So you ate at a long table in a robe one of the women brought you. You tried to eat in small bites, but hunger made you unmannered about it. Another woman smiled and refilled your tea without making a face.
The elevator opened after you finished half the plate.
Choso—you vaguely recalled—walked in from the lower floor in gym clothes, hair damp, and a towel over one shoulder. He looked at you, then at the empty bowl near your hand.
“You can keep the food down.”
He sounded surprised, which immediately made you irritable.
“That your greeting?”
“Yes.”
You crossed your legs under the robe. “I need my phone, my clothes, and a car. Also, whoever runs your household needs to learn boundaries.”
He pulled out the chair across from you and sat. “You were about to pass out on concrete outside a hotel at three in the morning.”
“I wear high heels. It happens.”
“You were drunk enough to choke on your own vomit.”
Your heart sank a little when he said it with that tone, but you smiled the way you did when interviewers asked about Naoya. “Are you this respectful with every woman you meet?”
His face barely moved. “Fix your shit.”
The words hit wrong in your chest. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You keep going this way, you die and become Japan's next Marilyn. Then people post clips for a week, and your label sells whatever songs you left behind until the end of time while someone else wears your costumes on a tribute stage.”
Your chair scraped back. “You don’t know me.”
“I know your team treats you like a liability. Know your hands are shaking from alcohol withdrawal. I also know Zenin’s people stopped paying attention because you aren't as profitable to him anymore.”
The breakfast tried to crawl out of your throat.
You stood up. “Where’s the door?”
He pointed toward the hall.
You went that way with your chin up. The hall turned into another hall. One door opened into a library. One into a linen room. Another needed a code. You found stairs that led to a gym, then a theater, then a locked service entrance.
You came back ten minutes later, sweating and furious.
Choso had a cup of coffee in front of him.
“I need to leave. Where's your goddam front door?”
“You stay here.”
You stared at him because there was no way you’d heard him correctly.
He stood with his coffee. “You need rehab, a doctor, and definitely real security. I’ll be gone for a few hours. My sister has female staff that will get you whatever you need. Except alcohol and an exit.”
“I’ll call my manager.”
“Your manager let you walk into parties wasted with a stalker following you.”
Your skin went cold.
He picked up his towel with his other hand. “One of my security staff noticed a man taking photos outside three different consecutive venues. Same van. Same fake badge. Last night he almost got inside your car.”
You gripped the back of the chair, color drawn away from your face.
“I handled it.” Choso’s voice softened a note. “You keep moving around drunk, and your skin ends up hanging in someone’s shed.”
You could hear your own heartbeat.
He looked tired then. Still angry, but tired under it. “Stay here and think about what you are going to do.”
After he left, a female staff member came back with tea and a change of clothes folded over one arm.
“You should eat more,” she said. “Please do not pay mind to him. His anger is fleeting.”
You sat because your knees felt weak, your hands starting to tremble with bloodcurdling fear. You tried to hide it but failed. “Is he usually that rude?”
She smiled a little. “He gets harsh when he is scared something bad’s going to happen.”
“I’ve never talked to him before.”
“He knows your music.” She placed the clothes beside you. “He joined his brothers’ band because of you.”
You looked up.
She lowered her voice. “The Zenin and Itadori families have problems going back more than a few generations of lineage. He never talked to you for that reason. Also because you were with Mr. Zenin.”
You looked at the hallway where Choso had gone.
The tea warmed your hands, but the rest of you felt unbearably cold in the unfamiliar house.
You spent the next hour looking for a way out and found nothing.
The penthouse had too many halls, and many of the doors needed codes. The elevator opened only when the androgynous butler pressed their thumb to the panel. You checked a service closet, a laundry room, two guest baths, and one door that led to a stairwell with another locked door at the bottom.
The female attendant—Aya—followed with tea in one hand and your phone in the other.
“You know I can call the police,” you muttered passive-aggressively, stomping away.
“You can.” She handed you the phone. “Do you want to?”
You stared at the screen.
No missed calls from Naoya.
You’d practically been kidnapped since last night, and he didn't care.
You shoved the phone into the robe pocket before your tears could fall. Not being able to numb anything out was messing with your emotions. You’d read somewhere that it happened after a while of substance abuse. “I want the exit.”
Aya pointed left. “That way.”
You went left and ended up in a record room.
It took a second for your eyes to settle in the dark. Wall shelves ran from floor to ceiling, filled with vinyl records that stood in clean rows behind glass. You saw Itadoris’ band first, then old punk records, some metal, old J-rock, city pop, and then your name.
Your first album in its first pressing—the one with the wrong color sleeve that had sold out in six minutes.
Next to it was your second album on clear vinyl. The overseas tour edition. A signed radio copy you did not remember signing. A test pressing your own label had told you was lost.
You stepped closer. “Wha-?”
Aya came in behind you. “He collects records.”
“Mine?”
“A lot of people collect yours.”
“Not this one.” You pointed at the test pressing. “Even I don’t have this one.”
Aya smiled at it. “He outbid a collector for it. Ryomen-sama yelled for three days.”
You checked the shelves and then his adjacent room for creepy memorabilia—photos, notes, lipstick-stained cups, anything weird. Practically upturned his whole room while Aya stood there smiling.
But there was nothing except records, sleeve covers, old ticket stubs from public concerts, and framed awards from Choso’s band.
You found no shrine, stolen clothes, printed screenshots, or even a concert costume.
Still, your face got hot.
“He is a fan,” Aya said.
“Fans don’t lock you in.”
She touched the glass case and looked at your records. “He has poor manners when frightened. The whole family does. Yuji-kun’s the only normal one, and even he once threw a chair through a vending machine because Megumi-san yelled at him for no reason. That reminds me, we had informed Megumi San about you being here.”
Your lips twitched unintentionally—you'd heard about those two but never had confirmation before.
Aya raised an eyebrow. “You look happy.”
Another security staff member came in with folded towels. Aya introduced her as Riko, and she had the fast mouth of someone who knew every secret in the building.
“Choso-san broke a door,” Riko said with a chest-puffed-up motion mimicking Choso while placing the towel like a bridge on the bed. “Like actual hard wood, not the cheap stuff. Clean in half.”
Aya clicked her tongue. “Don’t gossip.”
“He broke it?” you asked.
Riko nodded. “Ran from the garage because one of the security people called him. Didn’t even wear shoes. Security said they called lawyers because he looked ready to kill.”
Your heart gave a confusing reaction. You didn't understand men. Didn’t understand why one man could be so cruel, lying to you for years, and another you hadn’t even spoken to would show up disheveled and then lock you here.
The women kept talking about drivers, Sukuna firing a chef for serving cold eggs, and their sister stealing Yuji’s favorite guitar and pretending she had bought it first.
By late afternoon, you stopped checking every doorway.
You ate toast in the kitchen while Riko complained about rich people thinking coffee cups walked themselves to sinks. Aya cut fruits and told you which balcony had the best view of the red roses below.
You didn’t talk much. But you were relaxed because no one asked you about Naoya or gave you pitying smiles.
Choso came back after dinner had already been set at the table—soup, grilled fish, rice, and a small plate of pickled vegetables. You had planned to refuse all of it until your stomach embarrassed you again.
So you were already sitting down when he walked in, stopping near the chair across from you. He had changed into dark pants and a plain shirt that fell loose around his collarbone, and you quickly looked away before his eyes landed on you.
“You can leave,” he started.
You looked back up.
“I was wrong to stop you that way.” He pulled the chair out but did not sit yet. “I saw that glint in your eyes and reacted badly.”
“What glint?”
“My brother gets it during episodes.” His jaw moved once. “Sukuna. When he starts hunting for alcohol, when he needs to outrun his own thoughts. Doctors called it mania after he broke his hand punching a studio wall.”
You stayed still.
“Not saying you have it. But—" He ran a mildly frustrated hand through his hair as if searching for a way to put his words, then took a deep breath and sat down. “I just want to say that I’m sorry. You are an adult, and I'm no one to make those decisions for you."
You pushed rice around with your chopsticks. You should have snapped at him. You wanted to.
Instead, you took a bite because your hands needed something to do that wasn’t going to make things more awkward.
“I can arrange a car,” he said after a long moment of watching you eat. “Or drive you. Your choice.”
You swallowed. “You live here with your whole family?”
“We all have different floors.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is.”
You almost smiled. “Who’s the worst?”
“Sukuna.”
Your lips relaxed without realizing. “Easy answer.”
“Uro is close.”
“Yuji?”
“Yuji apologizes to doors after bumping into them.”
“You look like you do the same.” You chuckled at your own joke softly.
Choso watched you with a small smile and didn't deny it, then looked down at his plate as if he had been caught.
Dinner went longer than it needed to. You asked about his band. He told you Sukuna and Yuji sang because neither of them could shut up long enough to play drums. You told him your old producer—Naoya—said rock made women sound vulgar.
Choso’s eyes lifted. “He’s stupid.”
You stared at him. He didn’t take it back.
After dinner, you asked, “Can you play something for me?”
His hand paused near his glass. “Now?”
“You have a music room, right?”
He took a sip of water, then stood and made his way to the room with you on his heels.
The music room sat one floor down. You heard a guitar before the door opened. Yuji sat on a stool with an electric guitar, fingers moving fast. He looked up, saw you, and almost dropped the pick.
“Oh my god.”
You smiled. “Hi.”
“I have your posters.”
“I have been told.”
Yuji covered his face. “That sounded creepy. I meant in a normal fan way.”
You smiled because he was sweating through the sentence despite having a record for the highest-selling shows in Japan. “Thank you.”
He packed up too fast, winked at Choso, and left before Choso could say anything. Choso glared at the closed door.
Then he sat at the drums.
The first hit went through your ribs.
You stood near the wall and forgot to hold yourself together. His arms moved with control, but the sound had bite—heavy kick, fast snare, and cymbals that made the space feel alive. It was rough in a way your label had spent years sanding out of you.
When he stopped, your throat hurt.
“That,” you cheered mildly. “That was beautiful Choso-san and what I wanted to do before Naoya found me.”
Choso rested the sticks on his thigh. “I heard about the engagement.”
The smile vanished from your face so quickly.
He looked guilty. Then you told him before he could apologize because your story needed witnesses too. You told him about the locked room he’d found you in that day, the office door, and the sentence Naoya had said about money.
Choso didn't interrupt you, offered water when you got teary-eyed, and listened to everything. It felt good to finally talk to someone about it. It helped sink in your body that it hadn’t all been in your head.
Choso’s fingers closed around a drumstick and opened his mouth after a long while of silence. “Did he reach out to you? Apologize?”
You tried to remember. “I don’t think he reached out.”
“You should drop his label.”
“I can’t. I was thirteen when my grandfather, my legal guardian then, signed me with them. He thought it was a chance for my dream to become a reality because he believed in my voice.
But it was all a trap. They own my catalog, stage name, schedule, image rights, and every contract after that that was and will be built since the first one.
Now I don’t even have my grandfather alive to go back to. It’s not for life on paper, but it might as well be.”
“You can. It will be ugly, but you can get out. Their contracts are known for traps—grooming, debt clauses, doctor control, dating bans, image rules. They bury artists who argue. And a senior of mine, who went to school with Naoya, is already working on an expos.”
“They are too powerful and well-connected.”
“I know.” He looked at the record shelves through the glass wall. “You deserve better than how they handle your discography.”
Your chest tightened for a different reason. “I do want to be independent. Don’t want to have to look at Naoya again.”
“I can help… If you are comfortable with that.”
You nodded before fear talked you out of it. “I’m scared to be alone since the party. My thoughts get dark. And hotels make them worse.
Then added under your breath, “Can I stay here for a few days? I’ll compensate you.”
You braced for polite rejection because that would have made sense. He didn't really know you. So in your head you were already deciding which hotel was least likely to trigger your C-PTSD to stay at.
But then he looked red. “Oh god, no need for that. And yes, you can stay.”
“In a room with a door I can open?” You asked with a pleading smile.
And Choso realized he had to keep his face neutral because you had such a sweet puppy face when you wanted something. Having never seen it before, he was caught off guard.
He relaxed his face into a small smile, and you noticed the tattoo across his nose crinkle with it. “Yes. You can stay in my sister’s wing.”
He walked you to the wing on the east side. Uro lived across the hall.
She had pink hair like Yuji's, but unlike Yuji, she had pink eyes too. She was wearing shorts, a tube top, red lipstick, and an expression that made it abundantly clear that she was Sukuna’s twin.
“She cries?” Uro asked Choso. “I don’t like women who cry. We should be out making men cry. I make my brothers cry daily.”
“Stop embarrassing me." Choso huffed an awkward laugh, slapping her arm inconspicuously. "And no. She sleeps like a log.”
Uro looked you over. “Fine. But if you cry, do it into a towel. These floors echo, and I’m not the emotional support sister.”
Choso sighed.
You held your borrowed clothes against your chest and nodded at her like that was a perfectly normal house rule.
She moved to let you pass.
You arranged your clothes in the attached but nearly empty guest walk-in closet and heard the two siblings bickering outside and saw Choso was getting teased by his older sister. His face was smiling unguarded, his pale cheeks red around his nose tattoo.
Choso was beautiful, you thought.
That night, you slept uncomfortably because the nightmares were persistent, but you’d tire yourself out, so it helped not wake you up too often.
By the second morning, Uro walked into your room without knocking, tossed three dresses on the bed, and said, “Wear the black one. The blue makes you look employed by a bank. Also, blue is bitch-ass Naoya’s color.”
“Can you please knock?” You mildly said it, annoyed but unable to show it out of respect because she had opened her home to you.
“Our older brother says knocking is for weak mortals.” She tsked, “I came here because Choso asked me to check if you were dead.”
You sat up against the pillows. “You could have at least not yelled.”
“I could have done many things.”
You wore the black dress that day.
You called your old therapist that afternoon, but you hung up when she started asking you suspicious questions.
So you found a doctor who worked with artists and touring crews in another country and seemed least likely to know you or tattle to Zenin Records. Then you took the therapy session over video call from the guest room with a blanket over your knees and your phone on speaker because holding it made your hand sweat.
The first session was hard—you cried, got angry, lied once or twice, then admitted you lied. After, Uro walked in with instant noodles and acted as if your swollen face wasn't in the room with them.
“Did it feel good?” she asked awkwardly despite clearly not being good with emotions.
You nodded, dabbing your tears away with the tissues.
“Now eat and praise my cooking.”
A wobbly laugh escaped you, not sure if it was because she genuinely expected praise for instant noodles or the fact that she was trying to sit near a crying person willingly.
Over the next few days, your schedule became calming in the way that helped. Since you were fresh out of a traumatic period that lasted months and could afford it, you had daily therapy in the late morning. Then you drank tea with Aya in the kitchen. After that, Uro dragged you into her office when she worked on her brother’s indie label files and let you sit on the couch while she cursed at paperwork.
Choso had rehearsals, meetings, shoots, calls, gym, and whatever family business everyone stopped talking about when you entered the room.
Still, he found time to eat at least one meal with you daily—breakfast, if he had morning time, or dinner, if he came back late. Sometimes he showed up with wet hair and drum tape still around his fingers, sat across from you, and ate rice in six bites.
“You chew?” you asked once.
“When needed.”
“You could choke.”
“You watch me eat a lot.”
You looked down at your bowl before your lips twitched. “You eat aggressively.”
“You stare aggressively.”
"Ugh," Uro groaned from the counter. “Get a room after she signs a waiver.”
Your ears burned. Choso kept eating, but the corner of his mouth moved.
One afternoon, he took you to the movies.
Uro treated it as a military operation. She stood in the middle of your room with three wigs, two pairs of sunglasses, and a tote bag full of clothes she claimed were “civilian-core.” Choso waited near the door with his arms folded, already wearing a dark baseball cap, sunglasses, and a mask.
“You look suspicious,” Uro told him, then put a wig on your head, stepped back, and smiled with too much pride. “Rich wine auntie at golf.”
You stared at yourself in the mirror. The color was wrong, the cut was worse, and somehow it worked.
She pushed sunglasses into your hand. “Don’t walk like yourself. You have that idol posture. Relax your shoulders. Make your face less approachable.”
Choso took you to a theater inside a shopping complex with too many escalators and a bakery near the entrance. You hadn’t been somewhere so ordinary in years. The air smelled of butter, coffee, perfume testers, and damp umbrellas drying near the doors. People walked past without looking twice. Choso kept half a step behind you in the crowd until you slowed.
“You can walk beside me,” you told him.
He looked down at you through the sunglasses. “I didn’t want to crowd you.”
“You look like you are stalking me.”
“Sorry.” He moved beside you.
At the ticket machine, he bent slightly because the screen sat too low for him. You watched him frown at the seat chart. “They only have seats left in the back row.”
“It’s fine.” You reassured him with a small smile, then asked. “And the movie?”
“Yuji said this one has a dog. He cried during the trailer, so it’s probably good.”
You chuckled a little, and Choso’s shoulders eased. He bought the tickets with cash. Then popcorn and a drink because he asked what you wanted and waited while you changed your mind twice. He carried everything himself, even when you reached for the tray. “I can hold popcorn.”
“I know.”
“Then give it.”
“You’ll spill it when someone recognizes you.”
“You think I’m that fragile?”
“I think this bucket is.”
You made a small sound of offense, and he finally handed it over. His fingers brushed yours at the cardboard rim. The contact lasted less than a second, but your body still registered it before your head could make sense of why.
Inside the theater, the back row was mostly empty. Choso stepped aside so you could take the inner seat, then paused. “This okay?”
You nodded.
The seats were made for normal people, which meant his knees had nowhere reasonable to go. He tried to fold himself into the chair and failed with dignity for about thirty seconds.
“You look comfortable,” you whispered, eyeing his too long legs.
“I’m fine.”
“Are your legs losing circulation?”
“My legs understand sacrifice.”
The trailers started. A phone screen lit up three rows below. Someone opened candy with the subtlety of a construction crew. You tried to focus on the screen, but for the first few minutes your body stayed busy counting heads, doors, dark corners, and the distance to the aisle.
Choso didn’t comment. He placed the popcorn bucket between you and leaned back, giving you room without making a performance of it. When a loud trailer hit too suddenly, your fingers tightened around the armrest. A second later, he nudged the drink closer to your side.
You took it. He kept looking at the screen.
By the time the movie started, your breathing had settled. The dog appeared fifteen minutes in. You ate popcorn slowly at first, then faster once the salt got addictive. Choso barely touched it. He watched the movie with such severe focus that you believed he cared deeply about the dog’s journey through rural train stations. Halfway through, your hand brushed his inside the bucket.
You pulled back. He continued to stare at the screen. “You can take the popcorn. I’ll survive.”
“You sure? You seem fragile.”
“I break doors often.”
The corner of your mouth twitched.
He glanced over, caught it, and had the nerve to look pleased.
You reached for the popcorn again. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie like this with other people around."
“What, Blondie never climbed down from his high horse to take you?” he asked, popping one kernel into his mouth.
You shook your head. “There were premieres. Screenings. Rooms full of people checking who I sat with.”
Choso’s brows scrunched. “That sounds miserable.”
“It was normal.”
He looked at you then. The screen threw moving color across his face, and his voice came lower. “It shouldn’t have been.”
You looked back at the movie before your throat could tighten. The dog had found a child by then.
Choso’s hand came back into the bucket after yours. His knuckles touched your fingers.
This time, he left it there. He didn’t close his hand or hook his fingers around yours. He gave you the contact and left the rest of the decision sitting in the dark between your seats.
You waited through one breath. Then another. Then you let your fingers rest against his.
His thumb moved once, barely there, against the side of your hand.
The dog made it home near the end, of course. Yuji had been right to cry. You blamed the wig for itching near your lashes when your eyes stung.
Choso handed you a napkin without looking over.
“You’re crying too,” you whispered.
He then realized he was and quickly covered his face with the mask, his ears red, making you huff out a small chuckle.
After the credits, neither of you got up right away. People left around you, talking too loudly, stepping over bags, and arguing about dinner. Choso waited until the crowd thinned, then stood and offered his hand, then almost pulled back.
You took it before he could.
His palm was warm, rough near the base of his fingers. He held yours loosely all the way down the steps, then let go in the lobby where people could see better.
Outside, the bakery had started marking down pastries for the evening.
You stopped in front of the glass.
Choso followed your eyes. “You want one?”
“You ask that as if I’m capable of saying no to discounted cake.”
He bought a few slices for you and his siblings and a paper bag of melon pan because the cashier recommended it. You ate yours in the car with the wig slightly crooked and cream on your thumb. He pretended he had missed it until you caught him staring. “What?”
“You have cream.”
You wiped the wrong side of your mouth.
His hand lifted, then stopped halfway. “Can I?”
You nodded.
He used a napkin carefully at the corner of your lip.
The car narrowed down to him concentrating on your mouth and his breath low near you.
“We can do a movie night whenever we’re free,” he said, folding the napkin once before setting it aside. “Or go out again. Your choice.”
You looked down at the cake box in your lap, smiling before you could bury it. “Only if Yuji keeps choosing movies by dog content.”
“I’ll tell him his system works.”
Outside, the city moved past the tinted window. Inside, Choso sat beside you with his knees angled badly again, guarding the pastry bag as if someone might steal it.
Your fingers found his on the seat between you.
After that, your mind changed its habits.
It still went to Naoya in odd moments. When your phone buzzed, when someone talked about your label, when a man laughed behind a closed door.
Memories weren't going to be easy to get rid of, and your therapist had taught you how to deviate from them instead of thinking they’d stop outright because that'd be unrealistic.
And the therapist's suggested techniques helped because slowly the thoughts arrived weaker each time and found less place to stick to.
You felt guilty about that.
Forgetting your first love. The person you thought you’d marry. Spend the rest of your days with.
But Naoya had left you to be humiliated in public. He had smiled with another woman while telling your team to hide bottles and pills. He’d used more than a decade of your hard work, your face, and your hunger to be loved.
Still, some part of you kept looking for the man who had once brought you soup during flu week and napped on the studio floor beside you.
Naoya had been sweet in the beginning.
That part scared you because Choso was sweet too.
What if you were being manipulated again? Would you even recover this time?
But where Naoya used to perform PR voices in public, Choso was blunt and barely answered people he didn't care about, and when he tried to be polite, it looked painful.
He forgot soft words sometimes. Then he came back, tried again, fixed what he had done wrong, and did not repeat his mess-ups. He noticed when you skipped meals, asked before touching your arm.
Naoya’s family had looked at you and seen a problem. Choso’s family met you during the worst week of your life, then saved you a seat at dinner and teased their brother about you like you were already a part of it.
Even if it broke, you thought, it would break clean.
They had helped you. Choso had helped you. So even if nothing came of it, and you packed your things next week and left before your heart got worse, you would still be in a better place than you had been after Naoya. You had therapy now and people who noticed when you stopped eating. You had resources to manage your episodes, exits, and choices.
It honestly scared you.
You started writing at night.
At first, you wrote lines on stationery from Choso’s desk. Then in your notes app. Then in the music room, at the piano, with Choso sitting by the drums and saying nothing unless you asked.
The songs came out different than your usual ones—less polished, more direct. You wrote about locked doors, stage lights, borrowed shirts, hands that caught you before concrete, and a man who treated breakfast as a promise to get you through the night.
And due to your hypomanic episode, by the end of the third week, you had an album.
At Sunday dinner, Yuji begged to hear one song. Uro told him to stop begging because it made the family look poor. Sukuna, whom you’d met for the first time, sat at the head of the table, covered in a lot more tattoos than Choso, looking annoyed, and half turned away from everyone, but even he looked at you when you opened your laptop.
Your hands shook when the track started.
Your voice filled the dining room, bare at first, then heavy with acoustic guitar Yuji added alongside your piano. The chorus had grit, and the bridge nearly broke. It sounded older than your radio songs, but it also sounded more like you.
When it ended, nobody spoke for a second.
Yuji wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “That was sick.”
Uro pointed her chopsticks at him. “Stop ugly crying, Lychee-dori.”
Sukuna leaned back. “Your label rejected music like this?”
You nodded, a little hesitant. Sukuna was a man of a truck stature—you were bound to be nervous. “Naoya said it would hurt my market.”
“He was protecting his cut.” Sukuna picked up his water glass and sipped. “I know a lawyer. Mean woman. Expensive. She’s gotten artists out of worse contracts before breakfast.”
You stared at him with many emotions climbing up your throat.
Setting the water glass down, he stretched his neck. “Meet her. Or keep feeding the Zenins’ money. Your choice.”
“Nii-san,” Choso stared at his brother, worried about Sukuna’s tone.
“What? You wanted help. I’m helping.”
You chuckled, and this time it came out without effort. You thanked Sukuna after that.
Dinner ran late. Yuji talked about guitar parts. Uro argued with Sukuna over Itadori's latest album release control. Choso refilled your water before your glass emptied. You ate until you were full and stayed at the table after the plates were cleared because leaving while everyone was still there talking over celebratory ice creams felt wrong.
Later, he walked with you on the rooftop.
The air was the cool midnight breeze of summer. You wore his jacket because he had put it over your shoulders.
“I… I think I have feelings for you,” you said before you lost nerve for the nth time.
He stopped beside the railing, turning to you.
“I’m scared, Choso. I don’t trust my own judgment well anymore.” You fidgeted with your hands in the jacket pockets, looking below the railing at passing cars. “Naoya was good to me in the beginning too. Or I thought he was. I can’t tell which parts were real.”
Choso nodded. “Then take your time.”
Your throat clenched. “You’re okay with waiting?”
“I waited before you knew my name.”
You lifted your eyes to his warm brown ones.
His face stayed calm, but his ears went red.
You smiled, eyes shifting to the column of his neck because you couldn't keep eye contact right now. “That was smooth.”
“I panicked.”
“Say more things when you panic.”
He looked away. “Go inside before I embarrass myself.”
You smiled and nodded, turning to leave.
You were a few steps ahead when Choso called your name.
You stopped and looked back. He stood with his jaw set and eyes on the ground before they lifted to you.
“Can I kiss you? Only if you want," he asked in a low voice, seemingly nervous. “You can say no. I won’t mind.”
Your breath hitched.
His hair moved in the wind, black strands loose around his face. The tattoo across his nose pulled your eyes there again, then his mouth, then the open collar of his black shirt where his throat moved when he swallowed. He looked tense, as if asking had taken more nerve than breaking that door.
You swallowed and nodded.
He came closer with care. His hand touched your waist through the jacket, light so that you could step away if you changed your mind. His other hand reached your chin, and your pulse skipped when he tilted your face up.
You closed your eyes.
He waited.
He admired your features, the slight change in your breathing when his arms brought you closer.
It didn’t seem right.
You waited with your heart thudding against your smaller ribcage.
Then his lips touched your forehead.
Your eyes opened. A tear slipped down before you could have hidden it.
He pulled back immediately. “Did I—”
You grabbed him around the waist and buried your face against his warm chest. His shirt smelled clean and expensive, with cedar, soap, and a little sweat from the long day. His arms came fully around you after a second, firm but easy to leave, a hand moving up to your hair.
You cried harder because he had asked, then waited, then kissed your forehead after you told him you were scared when people in your life had constantly manipulated and lied around you, destroying your personal boundaries and sense of self.
He walked you to your room after and sat near you until you fell asleep.
A few days later, people started taking photos.
You and Choso at a late-night ramen place with caps pulled low. You and Choso leaving a theater through the back exit. You and Choso in his car while Uro yelled at a valet for scratching her door.
You moved back to your house when your therapist said it would help to reclaim your own space. Choso drove you home the first night and checked every window and alarm and even ordered groceries and stocked them before leaving.
The first night was hard because every surface reminded you of Naoya.
So you practiced the techniques your therapist had taught you, and when they didn't help fully, you put on the TV on a soft-spoken kid’s cartoon channel in a language you didn't understand with good volume to fill the silence, which helped you fall asleep with fewer nightmares.
After that, you spent weekends at Choso’s penthouse, and he came over for dinner every week whenever his schedule was open.
You kissed him properly two weeks after the rooftop.
It happened in the music room after he played drums for a track you were building. You walked over, took his face in your hands, and kissed him before fear could make a speech. He froze for half a second, then kissed you back with both hands on your waist and his thumbs still.
His lips tasted like hojicha vanilla, kuromitsu, and dark cherry from the monaka he’d brought you earlier. Sweet first, then warm and boozy at the back of your tongue, with that deep cherry taste still under it.
You moved your fingers into his hair and pulled him closer. He was sitting, so his face tilted up toward yours, his jaw brushing the neckline of your shirt from the angle. The sound he made was low and rough, something you had not heard from him before.
Then his hands tightened, and he pulled you down into his lap.
You broke the kiss just enough to breathe.
His eyes stayed on your face. “Okay?”
You nodded.
His thumb moved once at your waist. “Use words.”
“Yes,” you said, a little breathless. “It’s okay.”
Only then did he kiss you again.
You brought it up one night while you were sitting on his lap on your couch, and when his mouth had moved to your jaw, he stopped with his forehead near your shoulder. “Why do you ask me for consent so formally, Choso?”
“I was scared that night,” he answered breathlessly.
You opened your eyes. “Which night?”
“At the hotel.” His voice stayed low. “I wasn’t supposed to be there. I don’t go to those parties unless I have to. I was looking for Yuji because he’d called me to pick him up and then fallen asleep. I kept trying his cell, but it was so loud I couldn't hear him, so I went upstairs hoping for better service.”
Your fingers slowed in his hair.
“Then I heard you scream." His eyes lowered to the coffee table as if looking through the memory. “I knew it was you.”
“You recognized my voice?”
He looked embarrassed then, almost angry with himself for saying it. “I listen to your records.”
You waited.
“A lot. Most days while commuting. I’d recognize your voice anywhere,” he added. “That was all. I hadn’t been trying to know you. I didn’t think I had the right.” His jaw worked once. “Zenin looked good for you from far away. I thought you were loved. Thought staying away was better.”
Your chest hurt.
“Then I heard your bloodcurdling scream. And I didn’t think. I just knew I couldn’t let them hurt you.”
You touched the tattoo across his nose with your thumb.
He went still under your hand, warm licorice eyes meeting yours.
“You didn’t let me down.” You smiled, your thumb tapping his nose.
His mouth pressed into a line, his nose scrunching up with the frown. “I almost did.”
“No.” You leaned in until your forehead touched his. “You came.”
After that, for months, you both fooled around in pieces, away from prying eyes—his hand under your shirt on the couch, your mouth at his throat in the elevator, his voice rough in your ear when you teased him too long.
He still asked.
Sometimes you laughed and told him to stop being so formal. He said he would rather sound stupid than scare you.
You understood him.
Then the rumors started getting out of hand during the court filings.
Then Naoya came back from wherever he’d been overseas.
You heard it first from Uro, who video called you with sunglasses on her head and said, “Bitch-ass Zenin has landed. His family probably threatened him to clean up his mess.”
“I don’t think he’ll come to see me.” You knew what she meant without asking. “He hasn't contacted me, remember?"
“Still, it’d be foolish not to be careful.”
The next morning, you sat in a makeup chair before a music video shoot. Momo worked around your eyes while Nobara argued with Wardrobe near the door.
The door opened hard.
Naoya walked in a navy suit as if he still owned you.
Momo’s brush stopped.
“Sweetheart,” he grinned.
You looked at him through the mirror. “Please leave, Zenin-san.”
He smiled at the staff. “Give us a minute.”
Nobody moved.
His smile thinned. “I said, 'A minute.'"
Nobara folded her arms. “We are running late for the shoot.”
Naoya came closer nevertheless. His hand landed on your shoulder, and familiar hands now felt strange and cold. Your stomach turned, and your body was tired of being scared, being at others' mercy to live or die.
You owned nothing because of this man—even the house you went back to wasn't yours. He could kick you out to the curb whenever he pleased, record or not.
Naoya had been nothing but a leech, sucking you dry, hollowing you out every day since you were thirteen.
So this time it chose differently without thinking.
You stood up so fast you knocked the chair back.
“Don’t touch me.”
His face softened. “I understand that you’re upset but this isn't a way to talk—"
“You understand?”
“I should have called.”
You laughed once. It sounded ugly. “You groomed me my whole life for your business plan. For your family to take you seriously. You even pretended to care for me and fed me drugs from your uncle and called them meds.”
His eyes widened, his smug smile slipping.
“I had them checked.” After years of repressing yourself, bending to his every whim, every wish, and every rule, you were yelling now, unable to control it. “They weren’t what you said they were.”
His glare hardened. “Careful.”
“You left me in that room.”
“I did what?”
You scoffed and reached for your phone, pressing the emergency button, which would send your location. “Just stop talking and leave.”
Naoya grabbed your arms. His grip was hard. “Who told you that?”
Momo and Nobara grabbed his shoulders, trying to pry him off you, yelling his name and calling for security.
You tried harder to pull free, but the fear started crawling up your throat when his grip tightened.
“You left me there,” you said. “At the hotel. You said people wanted to meet me, then locked me in a room, and they came in.”
Your throat was a traitorous thing. It hiccuped even when you screamed, “You basically sold me off, Naoya.”
Your tears started falling freely, uncaring of your heart. “All I did was love you, Naoya, and you just… sold me off.”
His face went pale under the studio lights. “I didn’t send anyone.”
“Let me go!”
“I swear I didn’t.” His fingernails dug into your skin. “Who touched you?”
The door hit the wall.
Choso crossed the room before anyone could register. His hand closed around Naoya’s throat and drove him back against the vanity, breaking the glass. Nobara grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind her.
Naoya choked out something you could not hear.
Choso leaned in, voice low. “Use your hands on her again and I’ll break them first.”
Gojo, who'd arrived behind Choso, stood in the doorway with his phone to his ear, looking less amused than you had ever seen him.
“Yeah,” he said into the call. “Run it. All of it.”
Security came in. Nobara kept you behind her while Momo wrapped a jacket around your shoulders. Choso only let go when Gojo touched his arm.
Then Choso turned, lifted one arm toward you, and you walked straight into it.
You buried your face in his chest and sobbed while he held you. His body stayed between you and Naoya, who was being dragged out by security but still looking at you with an unreadable expression.
Choso didn’t look away until the man was out of sight.
The first article went live within an hour. The documents followed throughout the day.
Sukuna’s lawyer, along with Gojo’s news media network, released everything, he had been working on because he felt responsible for putting you in danger by encouraging Naoya that day when you had been nothing but nice to him every time you'd met—the contracts, the pills, the dating clauses, the forged medical notes, and even payments tied to hotel rooms, investors, party lists, and Zenin security logs.
Your hands shook as you read. Gojo stood near Choso and spoke in a low voice, explaining that they had already been building the case. This only gave them the timing they needed. It also helped move Megumi’s inheritance claim faster.
Naoya had lied about almost everything.
Maybe he had lied about that room too.
Choso stayed with you that night.
Then the next one.
Then three more.
You stopped working, and for once in your life, nobody made you feel guilty about it. Choso rubbed ointment into the bruises on your arms with his jaw tight and his hands careful. He said little, but every time your breath caught, he stopped.
“Too much?”
“No.”
He stayed near you when the nightmares started coming back. You’d wake up sweating, reaching for a door that was not there, and Choso came in from the guest room across the hall every time you called.
Then one night you asked him to sleep in the same bed, he did, and you still woke up shaking.
On the fifth morning, he stood by your bed with messy hair and tired eyes.
“Move in with me.”
You stared at him.
“Your house has too many memories. You can’t sleep there.”
You wanted to argue but you knew he was right. Naoya was in every room of your house. His clothes were gone, but his memories weren’t something you could pack into neat little boxes and hide in an attic.
So you moved in.
Choso gave you space without making it feel like distance. He arranged for a mental recovery rehab-like environment with meals on time, therapy, music, warm baths, clean sheets, and evenings with Uro and Yuji.
Locked doors you could open from the inside.
Slowly, your body stopped waiting for another jump scare, stopped waiting to be punished.
A month later, Choso took you abroad, where nobody cared who you were unless they cared about Japanese music. Some people still recognized you, but they were mostly respectful and far in between, and if someone seemed suspicious, Choso’s cold glare and his security detail were enough to deter them. You got to walk through record stores, ate late, slept in a hotel room with one keycard each.
One night, you kissed him first.
You wanted him. That part was easy.
Then, halfway through, fear came up so fast your body stiffened under him.
Choso stopped at once. “Look at me.”
You did.
“I’m here,” he said, voice rough, but his hands stayed soft. “We’ll stop.”
You cried yourself to sleep into his chest that night, feeling like the label had taken more than your voice.
Two days later, you had a nice uplifting day and thought of riding the high and trying again.
Earlier, you’d put on a nice dark set in the hotel room bathroom after dinner. Choso had taken off his rings before washing his hands. You noticed the plain care of it, the way he dried between his fingers with a towel before coming back to you.
You sat on the edge of the bed in one of his shirts. He stood in front of you, close enough for your knees to touch his thighs.
“You sure?” he asked.
You reached for his belt instead of answering.
His hand caught yours, firm for one second, then loose. “Words.”
Your face heated, and you looked to his chest. “I want you.”
He swallowed thickly. “Good.”
Choso bent and kissed you, slow at first, until your hands stopped shaking against his waist. He tasted faintly of mint and tea. His raven hair brushed your cheek when he lowered himself over you, and the mattress dipped under his weight. He was careful with where he put his knees, careful with his elbows near your ribs, careful in a way that made the rest of him feel more dangerous because you knew he was choosing restraint every second.
You pulled him closer by the back of his neck.
His mouth moved from yours to the corner of your jaw, then down your throat. He paused there when your body tensed.
His head resting on yours, “Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“That sounded weak.”
You huffed a weak laugh. “You’re annoying.”
“Still want me to stop?”
You looked at his face above yours. His eyes had gone darker shades of brown, his hair falling loose around his jaw, his mouth swollen from kissing you.
You knew he wanted you, knew it by the bulge in his pants lightly hovered above your navel and the way his fingers pressed into the sheets instead of grabbing you.
Your body knew that kind of want could turn ugly, but your head knew Choso had stopped already and would do it again. The two facts sat badly together inside you.
“Go slower,” you said.
He nodded. “I can do that.”
He kissed your forehead before he touched you again. Then he moved down your body with a kind of focus that made your breath catch. His hands stayed open on your skin, palms warm, thumbs moving only when you leaned into it. Never digging in.
When he undressed you, he did it piece by piece and checked your face often. The air felt cool against your chest. When his mouth took your nipple in, pinching the other, your back arched.
Your eyes rolled back, his eyes watching your face when your breathing hitched and you moaned his name softly.
His name sounded like nectar from your lips, soft and sweet enough to make his grip tighten on the sheet near your hip.
He briefly unlatched to speak and switch nipples. “Say it again.”
You did, softer this time, fingers in his hair, bringing him flushed against you.
He made a rough sound against your skin and pulled back to look at you. “You don’t know what that does to me.”
“Then show me.”
For a second, something in his face changed. He looked almost pained by the effort it took to stay careful.
Then he kissed you again, deeper now, his body pressing yours into the mattress without trapping you there. His hands squeezing your boobs and pinching your nipples. You felt the hard length of him against your thigh and reached to touch him through the clothes.
His breath broke against your mouth. “Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes lifted to your lips again. “You are.”
"Thought you were strong enough to break doors.”
His smile curved into a smirk. “Brat.”
The word made heat pool low in your stomach. You flushed before you could hide it, and he saw.
His mouth came back to yours with more heat, his hand sliding under your knee to bring your leg around him. He held you there, chest rising hard, dark eyes fixed on your face.
“You keep making that sound.”
Your face went hot. “What sound?”
His thumb pressed into the outside of your thigh, slow to make you feel the strength in his hand. Years of drums had made his palms rough in places, his grip firm even when the rest of him looked close to breaking.
“That one,” he said when your breath hitched. “I heard you sing for years. I didn’t know you sounded like this.”
You tried to look away.
Choso caught your chin, careful but firm. “Don’t hide from me.”
The words went straight to your core. The tattoo across his nose moved when his mouth brushed yours again, and you held onto his shoulders because there was too much of him above you, his neck warm under your lips, his stomach tense where your hand had slipped beneath his shirt.
“You keep touching me there,” he whispered next to your ear.
“You have a terrible habit of working out your abs.”
His mouth twitched. “That’s my fault?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at you for a long second, then sat back against the pillows and pulled his shirt over his head.
You stared, startled.
His shoulders were broad from years behind a kit, arms cut from motion instead of just gym vanity, stomach muscles so tight that your fingers curled into the sheet.
You reached out, then pulled your hand back when embarrassment caught up.
Choso took your wrist and placed your palm against his skin.
“Take what you want.”
You climbed over with shaky pride and kissed the side of his neck, biting until his head tipped back. His hand settled at your hip, guiding without forcing.
He carefully manhandled you into sitting on his stomach while he lay down below you.
When you dragged your pussy against his abs experimentally and gasped, he went firm under you for one beat, then his fingers dug into your waist.
“You like that?”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You tried to move away. He held you there, not enough to trap you, just enough to make your body admit what your mouth refused.
“Be nice.”
You made that ruinous puppy face at him again, seemingly unaware of your ways, like the first day he’d brought you home. The difference was this time you were on top of him and said, "Please, Choso.”
And who was he to deny you. "Go on.”
Your breath broke its rhythm on the next roll of your hips.
His eyes darkened. “Keep going.”
You ground your clit against the hard ridges of him in a messy roll.
Your hips started picking up speed with each drag as he watched you, his hands moving now and then to squeeze your waist or breasts or flick your nipples or clit.
Every time he flicked it, a jolt went through your body, making your head tip back in ecstasy. Slowly gaining confidence, your hips dragged against him more lewdly, and your breathless whines started slipping out more freely.
Your orgasm kept building, but every time you reached the edge, you lost it.
Choso noticed the furrow between your brows and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Legs,” you whined. “Hurt.”
The next second, his hands were on your hips, dragging you against him. His pace was exactly what you needed, grinding you harder against his abs until your body twitched violently and you came all over his stomach, covering his abs in your juices.
When you collapsed on top of him, boneless from exhaustion, he knew he could later come from that alone, but he honestly didn’t want to.
“You okay, baby?” he asked instead.
You hummed and hid your face in his neck. He’d never used a nickname before. It made your heart flutter, along with your pussy, which was still pulsing from the orgasm right on top of his painfully hard cock.
By the time he laid you back down, your thighs were shaking and his control looked worse. He kissed your mouth, your throat, and the place below your ear that made your whole body arch into his. His hand moved between you.
A finger slid in with the same focus he had at the drums, patient rhythm first, then pressure when your hips started answering him.
You caught his wrist, panic rising out of habit.
He stopped moving at once. “Too much?”
You shook your head, but he waited.
“I’m scared,” you said, hating how weak it sounded.
Choso bent and kissed your forehead. “Then we’ll slow down.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“I know.”
His voice had gone rough, but his hand stayed still until your grip eased. When his fingers curled inside you again, he watched your face instead of his own hunger. He watched you closely, learning you by responses and not demands—like what made your knees pull in, made your back arch, made your voice louder in the room.
The first time you came on his single finger, he covered your mouth with his and swallowed the sound like it had to be housed inside him.
The second time, on two fingers, he cursed into your shoulder and bit down on the skin, his hips slowly grinding against your leg.
The third time, on four fingers, he looked almost angry from wanting you so badly and still refusing to rush.
“Choso, I nh—" You lost your thought in the haze and had to pause and try again. “I—uh—want more.”
He laughed breathlessly. “Yeah? Go ahead. Use your words.”
“You—hah—inside.”
His mouth dragged along your jaw, his hair brushed your cheek. He was warm everywhere, skin flushed under your hands, his sticky stomach tightening when you touched him lower.
When he reached toward the nightstand, he paused and looked back at you.
“Condom,” he said.
The word grounded you more than any promise could have. Naoya had treated your body like another part of his contract. Choso tore the packet open with his teeth, then stopped himself, exhaled hard, and used his hands properly because even now, half-feral and breathing hard, he would not get careless with you.
You reached for him.
He came over you slowly, one forearm braced near your head, the other hand holding your thigh at his waist.
His mouth came back to yours with more heat, his hand sliding under your knee to bring your leg around him.
“Look at me.”
You did.
When he entered you, he moved with care that made your eyes sting. But he was still big and girthy, and the pressure made your fingers dig into his back. He stopped before you had to ask.
“Breathe.”
“I am trying.”
“You’re arguing, baby.”
A soft laugh slipped out of you, teary but true nonetheless. His mouth softened against your cheek.
It still scared you halfway through. The pressure, the weight, the closeness. Your nails dug into his shoulder, and your breath caught in your chest.
Choso halted at once.
He did not pull away fast enough to startle you. He held himself still, muscles tight under your hands, forehead lowered near yours.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Look at me.”
You opened your eyes.
“There.” His voice had gone rougher, but it stayed steady. “I’ve got you. We can stop.”
You swallowed. “I don’t want to stop.”
“Then we’ll wait.”
You wanted to cry from that because it felt like you didn't deserve him. Your face scrunched up, letting a few tears slip.
He stayed there inside you, unmoving, one hand braced beside your head and the other rubbing slow circles at your hip. He kept his body over yours without using it against you. His breath warmed your cheek. The room smelled of mint, sex, his skin, and the room-freshening perfume the hotel used.
After a while, your body came back to you.
You touched his face. “Okay.”
He studied you for another second before moving again. Slower and deeper only when you pulled him down and asked. The fear loosened by degrees, replaced by heat, then the pleasure of him filling you up, then the strange relief of wanting him and being allowed to want him without a hidden clause around it.
"You're so warm inside, baby.”
He groaned against your lips, trying to keep himself under and not embarrassingly come from just this—the first time he was going to have sex with his favorite idol. Then because all his blood had rushed down south and his brain cells were now on vacation, “Have I ever told you how sexy you are?”
Your cheeks got hotter when he stared directly into your eyes, saying those words.
“Stop talking.”
Choso laughed. It was a breathy sound that you instantly fell in love with.
Once he was fully in, filling you with a welcome stretch, he didn't pick up the pace immediately.
Instead, he kissed you deeply, his tongue moving with yours, his hips fighting to start grinding in.
When you told him to move, he did, slow enough that your body had time to accept him instead of bracing against him. His forearm stayed planted beside your head, his other hand firm at your hip, thumb rubbing there as he eased into a rhythm that made your breath come apart in small pieces.
Soon he grew bolder, pulling back just enough to push in deeper. A loud moan climbed up your throat, and when you tried to smother it with your palm, he caught your hand and kissed it instead.
Choso watched your face the whole time.
That made it worse—harder to hide from him.
Every time your brows pulled together, he slowed. Every time your hips chased his, he gave you a little more, deeper until your fingers locked behind his neck and pulled him down because you needed his weight, his mouth, the heat of his chest against yours.
His hair fell around you, brushing your cheek when he kissed you. The tattoo across his nose creased when he grunted, and his dark brown eyes kept dropping to your mouth whenever you tried to swallow a sound.
“Don’t do that,” he muttered.
You blinked up at him, dizzy.
“Sing for me.”
Your face burned, but he rolled his hips again before you could form a sentence, and it came out as a moan, and he praised it by shifting closer. You could feel his cock hit the right spots that had your back arching and vision going blurry. All that was audible were the sounds you were making, hip slapping, and your pussy squelching around his cock.
His arm shook near your head because everything about you was like a siren’s call to him. You were writhing under him, calling his name, dragging him under. He'd never even dared to dream of this. His fingers tightened on your body, then loosened right away. He reminded himself that wanting you did not mean to forget himself.
“Fuck,” he said against your mouth. “Your voice.”
You kissed him because you did not know what to do with the way he said it, low and almost hurt.
He let you have the kiss for a few seconds, then broke it only to press his mouth to your cheek, your jaw, and the corner of your lips—his hips never relenting, but increasing the pace had your brain going fuzzy.
“My girl,” he groaned against your hair. “My baby. You have no idea what you do to me.”
Your nails dragged into his back, making him shudder. The movement sent shivers through his back into his hips. The pace slipped rougher for a moment, and pleasure sparked up your spine so fast your legs tightened around him.
“There?” he asked, his breath uneven.
You nodded, then remembered to say it. “Yes, baby. There.”
He made a sound so loud that it vibrated through your chest.
His mouth found yours again when you got louder, swallowing the cry without smothering it. He kept the angle because you had asked for it. He kept himself under control even while his abdomen hardened against your stomach, his shoulders tense under your palms, his voice breaking into rough praise each time you took him deeper.
“Good,” he breathed. “So good for me. I used to hear you sing and think that was enough.” An animalistic grunt as he dragged you impossibly closer to him. “I was so fucking stupid.”
You laughed, breathless, and he kissed the sound out of you with a groan.
“Do that again.”
“Laugh?”
“Exist.”
His face went hot the second he said it, but he didn’t take it back. “Just stay with me.”
Your legs tightened around him, and he moved a hand between you, circling your clit quickly in time with his thrusts.
“Fuck, cum on my cock, baby, please. I’ll do anything. Please just—"
The pathetic pleading at the end caught you off guard because you had never heard anything like that from him before. It did something to you. Your whole body arched within seconds, your vision going hazy as you caught his lower lip between your teeth and bit down.
It caught him off guard too.
Choso came with you, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled in with a rough sound against your mouth.
He lost some of his control near the end. His jaw clenched, his hand slid under your back, and his voice dropped into something strained when he said your name. Even then, he listened. When you told him to stay there, he stayed there.
When your legs shook, he held you through it. He kept one hand under your head so it would not hit the headboard as you both continued lazily kissing.
After he carefully pulled out, he cleaned you with a warm towel. He moved slowly around your thighs, your stomach, the places where your skin still felt sensitive, checking your face before every pass. When you reached for him out of habit, he caught your wrist and kissed your palm. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got it.”
He brought you water after, then another glass when you finished the first one faster than you meant to. Your mouth tasted of him, mint, and the expensive hotel sheets. He opened the window a little for air, pulled the blanket higher over your hip, then climbed back into bed with damp hair falling loose around his face.
You curled against him, tired, and his hand settled between your shoulder blades, broad and warm, rubbing in slow passes until your breathing matched his and you fell asleep with his heartbeat steady under your cheek.
The next morning, sunlight slipped through the curtains in pale strips. You woke with your leg thrown over his thigh and a sore ache sitting deep in your hips. Choso was already awake, watching a cooking show at low volume, one hand resting on your calf. “You alive?”
You pressed your face into his chest. “Barely.”
His mouth moved against your hair. “Good sign.”
You kicked him weakly, which made your thigh cramp. Choso sat up at once, caught your ankle, and worked his thumb into the muscle until the pain loosened. Then he kept going, massaging your calves, your knees, the backs of your thighs while you lay there useless and smug under the blanket.
“You did this,” you muttered.
His whole face went red fast.
Later, he carried you, first to the bathroom, then back to bed when you complained about walking. You spent the rest of the morning half-dressed under the sheets, sharing fruit from room service, arguing over the TV, and laughing at things that would have sounded stupid to anyone else.
For the first time in months, happiness came without begging for it. It sat in the messy blankets, in his hand around your ankle, in your voice when you called his name, and he looked up as if he still felt lucky to hear it.
---
Elsewhere, Naoya found the men in a private room under one of the old clubs.
For a moment, before the door opened, he thought of her at thirteen.
She had been scared of him then. He knew that now. At the time, he had mistaken it for shyness, manners, or whatever girls with cheap school bags did when boys from better families spoke to them.
He had made it worse because he had no idea how to be gentle without sounding bored first.
One day he would tell her she sang beautifully, then spend three hours correcting her breath control until her eyes went wet. Another day he would buy her cake and leave it on the bench beside her without saying it was for her, then get irritated when she asked if she was allowed to eat it. He remembered her small hands around the fork, her cautious glance up at him, as if he might take it back.
He had hated that look.
Then he had kept earning it.
At sixteen, Naoya had thought protection meant standing between her and the world while deciding which parts of the world she got to see. He had thought her voice needed sharpening, her clothes needed fixing, her manners needed training, and her fear needed patience only he could provide.
Years later, when his family told him he couldn’t marry her after he had already given her the ring, Naoya remembered her laughing with a paper cup of convenience-store coffee in both hands.
That should be the worst thing because of all the things his head could hold onto, it keeps his regrets. No stage lights, contract room, or first-week sales report under his father’s approving hand. Just some ugly little coffee cup from a shop near the station, the kind with a plastic lid that never fit right..
She had stolen his hoodie because she said the studio AC made her bones hurt. Naoya told her she had no bones, just complaints. She kicked his ankle under the table and missed because her legs were too short to reach.
He laughed so hard he almost choked on yakisoba bread.
She looked offended for maybe five seconds, then started laughing too, mouth covered with his sleeve because she had crumbs on her lips and thought he’d point them out.
Naoya did point them out.
She called him mean.
He told her she was lucky he was honest.
She said, “You’re lucky I’m talented.”
Naoya thought he should have kissed her then. He should have taken her to dinner somewhere proper, in public, instead of hotels and apartments. Somewhere his family wouldn’t go. Somewhere with a menu he couldn’t turn into a lesson.
Instead, he bought her pudding from the combini because she wanted to try the new one with the rabbit on the lid, and they sat on a curb behind the rehearsal building with his driver parked two streets away, pretending he couldn’t see them.
Naoya’s phone rang nine times that night after he’d stormed out of the house earlier. Father. An uncle. Father again. He turned it face down on the pavement.
She noticed because she noticed everything that affected Naoya. “Won’t you get in trouble?”
“I’m already in trouble.”
“For what?”
“For existing.”
She stayed silent for a moment. Then she pushed the unopened pudding toward him carefully. “You should eat.”
“What?”
“You get dramatic when you’re hungry.”
Naoya looked at her for a long second, his head full of label nonsense, inheritance shares, the way men in his family spoke about women as if they were furniture with wombs, the way they spoke about him as if he had been built wrong and could still be corrected with enough pressure.
Then she peeled the lid off the pudding for him because his hands were shaking.
Naoya forgot them after that.
For a few hours, he forgot his father. Forgot the company. Forgot the Zenin name sitting on his neck. She hummed some stupid chorus under her breath and fed him one bite from the plastic spoon, then took the rest for herself because she was a greedy little thing when she stopped being shy.
He kept watching her mouth move around the spoon.
She caught him and stared back as if he had given her proof of something certain about her.
He had been happy then, or at least content, away from the house. In the street, at the curb, he had forgotten the Zenin name for whole nights because she laughed at his insults when she finally learned where the softness hid.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“You sing better when you’re angry.”
“That is the worst compliment.”
“It’s still a compliment.”
She smiled down at the pudding cup.
Naoya remembered thinking, with the full stupidity of a young man who had been praised for cruelty and mistook possession for devotion, that this was fine. This was his. This little pocket behind the building, her shoulder pressed against his, the cheap pudding, the hoodie hanging past her wrists, the phone face down and useless.
He thought he could keep this while taking everything else.
A trophy wife with the correct family. The seat at the table. The shares. The old men shutting up when he entered a room. Her in a hotel room afterward, angry for a few days, then soft again when he called.
He thought she would curse him, cry, throw the ring at his head, then come back when she remembered who knew her throat before every tour and which key made her voice open.
That was how ugly he had let himself become.
He wanted her kept where he could reach her.
Then he grew older and started calling it strategy.
The men inside the club looked worse than they had on the security footage. Choso had done most of the damage that night, but Naoya finished what was left.
He grabbed the first one by the collar and slammed him into the table.
“Why did you say I sent you?”
The man cried through blood and spit. “We didn’t know she’d believe it.”
Naoya’s hand tightened.
That was the ugliest part.
She had believed it because he had trained her to.
“That wasn’t the question.”
He hit him again.
The second man tried crawling away. Naoya kicked a chair into his path and stepped over him. His hand still hurt from the studio, from Choso’s grip on his throat, from the way everyone had looked at him as if he had become some cheap monster.
He had been many expensive monsters.
He had used her. Managed her. Lied to her. Fed her whatever kept her useful, calm, soft enough to steer. He had planned to marry another woman and keep her close afterward, because some stupid part of him had thought she would rage, cry, stop answering for a month, then come back when she remembered who knew her best.
He had taken her for granted so completely that he had mistaken her survival for loyalty.
But he had not sent those men.
“Who paid you?”
The men answered with more incessant sobbing.
His phone rang.
His fiancée’s name flashed across the screen.
Naoya answered and put it to his ear, breathing hard.
“Where are you?” she snapped. “My father is asking questions. The press is outside my house. Fix this.”
Naoya looked at the man on the floor.
A laugh came out of him, dry and wrong.
“Naoya.”
“Shut up.”
Silence.
“What did you just say?”
“I said shut up. I never cared about you. I don’t care about your father. I don’t care about the wedding. I’m being accused of something I didn’t do because your family wanted tax evasion and mine wanted a bride who knew when to lower her eyes.”
Her voice went thin. “I’ll destroy you, you son of a bitch.”
“Try.”
“You think I won’t?”
“I don’t care anymore.”
He hung up.
The man on the floor sobbed harder.
Naoya crouched beside him and smiled without feeling it.
“Now,” he said, “give me the name.”
A/N:
I’ve never really written Naoya as even remotely tolerable before (bc he & I are natural born enemies/I will traumatize himz), but this version is giving me complicated feelings. I might want to play with a softer, less canon-compliant Naoya at some point, though I don’t have a proper idea for him yet. Also, I loved writing Choso here. Absolute best baby girl.
Also, not me writing "Sukuna's truck stature."
Do let me know if you'd let Naoya explain himself?
Masterlist
Hope you enjoyed @alebrasil0101! And thank you to my bbg @blackrimmedrose for beta reading parts of this and for her encouragement.
You've been married to him for years. What you find in the shed makes you question everything.
Pairing: Husband!Sukuna x fem!reader
CW: character death, murder / homicide, gore (dismemberment, mutilation, blood, injuries), body horror, psychological manipulation / gaslighting, toxic relationship / unhealthy relationship dynamics, captivity / imprisonment / isolation, Implied cannibalism, mutual obsession
For my event INTERLACED
Ten years.
A whole decade.
Wasted.
You wear your wedding gift from him, always neatly tied or braided into your hair.
Ivory white and clean as a whistle. You kept it spotless.
A lace bow, with the most delicate trim and floral motifs.
Every day.
You loved Sukuna so much it hurt your heart at times, unable to properly show how much poured from your fingertips after touching his skin. Just a hug or a small kiss would have you flooded with love. All for him.
He was the same, you never knew any hardships when he was around, there to be a strong arm, a word that made you laugh, brightening your day. Never upset you, sure, he might be a bit rough around the edges, but you weren't perfect, either.
The purest kind of love and adoration, care.
Mutual obsession.
So when did it start going wrong?
Truthfully, you hadn't even noticed it. Nothing was amiss. Your mind about him is as spotless as your bow, your husband could do no wrong.
Nothing was wrong in your marriage, nothing had changed in your relationship.
But your surroundings were shifting.
Missing knives, but they were replaced with new, better ones a day or two after you began asking where they had gone. A safe tucked away in the closet, no clue what was inside.
"For our safety, sweetheart, you know how wild animals are."
Having to do more loads of laundry than usual. But Sukuna himself would do it, not letting you glance at his dirty clothes thrown into a pile in the middle of the hamper, reassuring you to leave it to him.
"Go rest, my flower. I'll handle it."
No questions about this odd tint of red around his fingernails that never went away.
Why was the shed locked shut?
The shed.
Just a regular tool shed, your husband kept his power tools and lawnmower there, nothing unusual for the house.
So why was it bolted shut day after day unless Sukuna strolled inside of it?
"Just working on some things in there, don't worry your pretty little head about it, alright, my doll?"
"You should be worrying more about watering the flowers instead of some junk in a rotting shed, my love."
Sweet words, easing your curious heart. He was a good man.
But you couldn't help yourself, could you?
Off at work, at least that's what your husband told you he was up to, not around to fill your ears with light whispers and reassurance of your growing paranoia.
It was starting to get cloudy outside, a storm rolling in from past the canopy of nearby trees. Your first sign not to step outside.
The second one was the lock on the wooden door.
You had the key, right?
Of course you did.
While searching for your slippers in the morning, you had peeked under the bed.
Taped on the underside of your husband's side was… something.
Now it was in your hands, your anxious, shaky hands.
Don't be nervous now, all you have to do is turn the lock.
Click.
You didn't reach for the handle yet, taking a shaky breath and shutting your eyes.
Sukuna wouldn't be mad, right?
No, no, he wouldn't.
The only way he spoke to you was through patience and gentle guidance. He'd just chuckle and show you what's inside himself, yes.
Manipulation and lies, sugarcoated to sound as tender as your flesh.
You didn't know, using that same feeling of safety to calm your nerves, peering at the door once again, your hand on the handle already, key in the lock.
Nothing to be uneasy about, it's just a shed with gardening tools and maybe some car parts. Stop feeling like you might get your neck snapped just by having a little look.
The door creaked open, louder than you would have liked. The treeline went silent after the uncomfortable noise. A third warning.
What you saw wasn't all that odd… the lawnmower in the corner, a grass trimmer, and a few shovels in a dark corner.
You stepped inside, leaving the door ajar.
The lamp in the middle of the shabby thing flicked awake after tugging on the string dangling down.
There was this faint smell of dread hiding behind the organization.
Your eyes flicked around, landing on the workbench at the far side. Your feet carrying you there before your brain.
A small jar of pulled teeth fell into your gaze.
Teeth?
The more you looked around, the items didn't seem so innocent anymore.
Thick rope and a few rusty saws tucked under the table.
Not rust.
Maybe the worst thing was a splotch of thick blood on the edge of a bucket filled with that same stench of impending doom.
It wasn't blood… just paint.
Your fingers reached out, you had to prove to yourself that it was nothing.
But the deep crimson stained your hand, the smell of iron hit your nose, and you couldn't keep the fantasy stable anymore.
Thunderclouds had hidden the sky completely outside, making the space darker than before.
The loud thuds of heavy raindrops hitting the tin roof of the shed rang through your ears, overwhelming your senses, hands trembling while looking at the glossy blood seeping into your nail beds.
You should not have left the door open.
"My flower, what are you doing in here?"
Sukuna had returned.
You snapped out of your trance, blinking and looking in his direction, hand reaching up to your head in search of the comfort of your lace bow, fiddling with it while watching your husband approach.
Rough hands cradled your face, gently checking if you had hurt yourself. Red irises did a horrible job of hiding his displeasure with you.
"You didn't harm yourself, did you? Oh my sweet girl… come here."
A hug, face smushed into the comfort of his chest. A steady heartbeat against your ear.
So he wasn't mad… good.
Your trembling hands clung to his back.
You couldn't see the way Sukuna's jaw clenched, nails itching to claw into your sides and squeeze you tight enough to have you pop.
"You shouldn't be in here. How about we go back inside and have dinner, hm?"
No questions about the key or your findings.
False safety.
Sukuna had taken you back in the house, sat you down, and helped heat up some food. It was silent while you ate, your fork barely able to cut through a soft vegetable, as the thought of the odd findings popped back into your mind.
"Sweetheart, why is your bow filthy? Messy girl."
Your fingers had stained a corner of it with the Incarnadine shade.
Scrubbing. Scratching, desperately washing both your hands and the lace, couldn't get rid of it.
You cried in his arms that night, gathered up in his chest, head lying against his.
Sukuna caressed your back, caressed your hair, and shushed you to sleep.
It was just a bow.
The truth was cracking from the seams everywhere you looked now. The house was lacking color, the dullness and real darkness creeping in from unlit corners. The ingredients in the pantry and the shelves in the fridge seemed to be rotten, tasteless.
Sukuna's face looked different, touching it made your skin tingle- as if it refused to connect with his.
Maybe it was because the romanticized image of him was losing its shape.
And maybe the fact that he refused to let you go outside.
No more garden work, too harsh for your puzzled mind.
The sun was too hot, even on a cloudy day.
You needed to relax, even after sleeping all day.
It was getting unbearable.
The front door was locked, the back door too. Sukuna was working in the study.
Trapped in your own safe haven, you needed to do something, so why not go down to the basement?
Your husband never said anything about the cold concrete box below the floorboards, knowing you were too scared to go there.
With nothing better to do, his logic was being proved false with every step you took down the squeaky stairs.
You found the light switch, getting a yellow, old hue illuminating the space.
Oh yeah, the freezers were down here.
Two, to be exact. Sukuna liked smoking meat and fish on sunny days, so you knew he used them to keep them frozen.
A little peek wouldn't do you any harm.
So what if your last gander took away your freedom to leave these walls? This was different.
As if.
The sound of the creaking steps had alerted him, no matter how slow you had gone.
Your tainted hands lifted the large hinged lid of the chest.
Just some plastic bags of red meat, parts of a pig, and venison. A large salmon head stared up at you from the side.
The eyes of the dead fish were gouged out.
The lid went back down, now wanting to see if the same contents were in the second one.
You should have stopped with the first one.
At first the same plastic bags stared up at you, what looked like minced meat and animal body parts.
Not that human hand though.
Sawed off from the bicep, a fleshy limb wrapped in the same plastic bag, but oozing crimson from the palm made eye contact with you.
The color drained from your face, doubling over and pulling the dismembered part out, your own arms shaking while looking at the frozen appendage.
Bile churned around in your stomach, a sour, watery taste taking over your mouth.
The stairs were still squeaky, making sound as heavy footsteps rushed down.
"Flower, what are you up to now?"
Once Sukuna's head went low enough from the upper floor, seeing the sight of you holding something you never were supposed to see.
Your hands dropped the bag immediately, clattering to the basement floor, a part of the bag opening, the smell of decayed flesh hit your nose once again.
"My angel, are you trying to get yourself in trouble again. It hurts me to keep you locked away, but if you keep fooling around, i might just keep you in one room and tend to you."
His voice was gruff, trying to sound smooth and caring, but it was clearly impossible to do so.
He tried to reach out to you, blunt nails touching your hair, easing you to step into his embrace. Just like any other time to have you calm down and trap you in his arms till he felt you'd deserve freedom.
His palm crushed your skull into his chest, Sukuna acting like he wanted to infuse you inside of his ribcage.
"Silly thing, must you keep poking your nose in my things?" He cooed into your hair, but you swore you could feel his canines trying to bite into the top of your head.
"We will go upstairs, watch a movie, and forget all about this-"
"No!"
You never spoke against him, so the sudden outburst had Sukuna's grip faltering, you shoved yourself off of him, looking more panicked than ever, not letting him worm his way into your logical thinking.
"Come back, you little…!"
You stumbled back, tripping over the same arm, trying to grab onto the freezer but it did nothing, crashing backwards with a thud.
Thankfully it only gave you a faint dizziness, scrambling up right after.
A tattooed arm wrapped around you, holding you tighter than before. He wouldn't let go now.
"You hit your head, my dear. It's bleeding. Maybe you shook your little brain back into place. I told you, we are forgetting about this and watching a fucking movie."
He dragged you back up the stair by your middle, not caring about you tripping over your own feet, not caring that you were looking at the melting limb on the ground and the image of pooling blood and peeling skin underneath a plastic sheen was the last thing engraved in your mind before the lights got switched off.
He sat you down, giving you a stern glare before disappearing into the bathroom to grab a first aid kit for your bleeding scalp.
The gash was above your bow, it still neatly wrapped into your hair, the thick red seeped into the middle of the ivory lace. Stained worse than before, just a few spots keeping the previous ivory color safe.
His fingers were gentle, parting your hair and cleaning the wound with stinging spirit. Your eyes blankly watched the subtitles flow as some old western movie played on the television.
You didn't dare look up, not wanting to see the cold glaze in his irises, knowing Sukuna wanted nothing but to take away your air and put you to sleep.
You weren't the one slumbering.
The only way you could end this nightmare was to snuff out the source.
It was past midnight, a large, full moon shining trough the tightly shut windows. Your bow hanging on by a few messy locks of hair, a bandaged wrapped around your skull with a red splotch on the back.
A knife, your favourite one to cut up fruit. The one with a pretty handle, engraved with both you and your sleeping husbands initials.
You stood over him, eyes almost bleary while watching Sukuna's peaceful expression. Like the day he asked for your hand, for the day he said he wanted to be yours. The day you bought a house together in the middle of nowhere.
If only you were strong enough, your breathing had turned shaky and bordering on gasping as your hand shook, unable to even process what you were about to do.
The last thing to give away your actions was a droplet, a salty and large teardrop rolling down your cheek and right on to Sukuna's lips.
His eyes shot open as if his senses were on high alert, an arm already reaching out to grab at you.
You didn't know what else to do besides listen to your mind- stumbling back and running as fast as you could.
Almost falling out of the bedroom after shoving the door open.
Sukuna didn't yell for you to get back. He was already chasing after you.
You couldn't hear a single thing, heart too loud in your ears- wanting to leap out of your mouth.
Glass shattered, sharp pain in your palms and legs while climbing trough the kitchen window.
Damp grass padding against your bare soles as you ran for the treeline, unable to breathe.
You don't know how far you ran.
Didn't know how long.
He caught up, he always did.
Why would such a silly girl like you think he had just let you go?
"My petal, where have you gone now? I can hear you."
It felt like he was right behind the tree you had hid, blunt nails digging into the handle of the knife you thankfully hadn't dropped.
You shut your eyes, holding your breath. But that was no use.
"My angel, come out."
Heavy footsteps approached, with no care stepping right past the thick bark of the tree.
A stab to the chest, your hands weak from fear but driven enough to push the blade right to his beating heart, ripping trough muscle.
Too shocked by your own action, the pain from the same type of sharpness slicing trough the side of your throat.
Maybe it was a bit romantic, the last time spent together, in each others arms, spluttering and struggling to breathe, buried in moss with a pale moon not even giving you the ability to see one another bleed out.
Sukuna had never kissed the top of your head as tenderly as right before his last breath.
"I love you."
Not like you could reply, blood filling your lungs and vocal chords sliced.
Already fading out together with the last beat of his heart.
The bow, the lacy thing no longer white, barely even recognizable by how much blood had been spilt.
Yoon's notes: hi guys sorry for the lame ass horror fic
