vigilante lover

He was kinda cute, you'd seen him doing a little dance where the chefs took their smoking breaks and had been smitten with his earnestness. He always made you laugh with a silly fact when the shifts were slow and for some reason he always asked where you parked and walked you out there when your shift was over.

"Lot of dangerous people about." He'd said once, as if that explained it all.

He'd even chased off some creeps one night, his confidence in squaring up to them surprising you. But he took it all in his stride, as if he wanted to fight them.

You supposed there probably was a good reason he walked you to your car, it wasn't exactly safe at night in Evergreen.

Taylor had warned you about the Vigilante, some guy in a costume giving the police the run around, but as you always kept to yourself, nothing illegal, nothing even half as weird as most of the patrons, you figured you didn't really have much to worry about.

Until that night.

You'd told Adrian not to wait for you that evening. That your car was broken down and a friend was going to collect you, and he nodded sagely, agreeing that it was nice to have friends, and had left you to your work, pottering about somewhere in the back saying he had plans with friends too.

While you waited for your friend you decided to hang out with the chef, eat some left over fries and help with the bins.

That's when you saw something. Behind the dumpster out back.

He walked out from behind the bin, saw you, and took two steps back. You were sure you heard a muffled "fuck" that sounded an awful lot like Adrian.

"Is that you, Ade? Don't fuck around and frighten me!"

You peered round the corner again and…nope, that wasn't Adrian. It was the Vigilante.

Dropping the bag of garbage you tried to run back to the open kitchen door,stumbling over the litter on the ground and the ashtray left on the step.

"Adrian, help!" You shouted into the empty kitchen.

"Hey!" Vigilante followed, jumping through the trash bag and lunging for you.

"Adrian!"

There was a hand on your elbow, your arm, dragging you back and before you could scream a gloved hand pressed over your mouth.

"Be quiet."

He dragged you back against his chest, holding your arms behind you. You tried to kick with your legs but he tucked his ankles against yours until you were off balance, leaning back into him rather than falling over.

His suit was hard behind you, the straps and buckles digging into your back through the thin polyester of your Fennel Fields uniform. The knot on your apron dug into your spine but there was also the hard line of a holster and — oh fuck oh fuck — was that a knife?

"Just stay quiet okay?"

You thrashed again, so scared your vision was going blurry, your knees were weak and you passed out in his arms.

Waking up feels weird, you're not out for long but suddenly you're in the back of a car, street lights flashing as you speed down the road. Fear grips you so tightly it's a wonder you haven't thrown your fries up all over the backseat, but between passing out and squeezing your eyes shut in fear you don't have time to pay attention to your body.

After only a short drive Vigilante pulls up quietly and opens the backdoor, looking down at you through his red visor, the world upside down.

"Can you be quiet?"

You open your mouth to scream and find your Fennel Fields hat pushed between your lips.

"Shhh." He holds a gloved finger up to the mask.

You're too scared to shout again, where the fuck has he taken you?

You can't help but think of the useless safety pamphlets your family gave you, the rape alarm hanging uselessly off your keys in your locker as he manoeuvres you from the car and tosses you over his shoulder.

There's nothing but gravel and dry grass beneath his feet, nothing to tell you where you're going until he unlatches a basement door and then you know you're screwed.

Fucking hell. This was the second location. Tears welled in your eyes and you sobbed loudly. What did it matter if you were quiet or not.

"Hey, stop crying." He jostled you on his shoulder, his tone more gentle than you expected, and you hit his back with your fists, spitting out your makeshift gag.

"I don't fucking care, you're gonna kill me anyway, Jesus fucking Christ, why didn't anyone come — I shouted, I shouted and no one came — no one — he didn't come — why didn't Adrian come." You sobbed again, kicking your feet too until his arm came down around your calves, holding them tight.

Vigilante went still in the middle of the basement, probably looking for whatever he was going to kill you with. Probably enjoying choosing.

"I don't want to die." You wailed, hitting him again.

"Fucking quit it." He dropped you down onto a bare mattress in the corner of the dingy basement, following you down and kneeling over you while he fiddled with a handful of zip ties.

"No! No!" You wriggled your wrists but he held them firm in one hand, wrapping the ties around you and then a thick pipe, holding your arms above your head.

"It's better if you stay still or the plastic will hurt your wrist."

Vigilante stepped back, towering over you and you passed out again.

You woke to the sound of a metal chair scraping on the stone floor. Your arms ached, still tied above your head, but there was a heater on now and a small lamp glowing in the corner of the room.

The room itself was very strange, full of pallets of…was that cocaine? Was that money?!

And on the otherside of these impossible piles was Vigilante. Sat with his back to you visor on top of his head, humming to himself. There was something so familiar in the soft curl of his hair at the nape of his neck. The way he swung his office chair side to side. Even the humming.

Carefully you tested your bonds, trying to pull your wrist through but only succeeding in making the pipe rattle against the bare brick wall.

Vigilante pushed his visor back down, the red catching on the table lamp briefly before he was back at your side.

He hasn't killed you. That was good news at least. But you couldn't read anything in his body language to suggest he'd let you go either.

"You're awake."

"Please let me go, I promise I haven't done anything wrong."

"I know." He squatted beside the mattress. "But you saw too much, you said a name, when we were out there. You were spying."

"Spying? What, no, I was taking out the trash and I heard a noise and I thought it was someone else and — please, please just let me go and I won't tell anyone. I barely know anyone, I have no one to tell."

"You have a job, I saw you, what if you tell Taylor?"

"I won't, I won't tell Taylor, I wouldn't tell Taylor. I swear, I swear!"

He went quiet then, looking you up and down as if contemplating his own next step. This clearly wasn't what he'd planned to be doing.

Across the room his phone rang loudly on the desk and he sighed, hitting his knees as he stood back up.

"I'm gonna answer this, be quiet okay?" He held his finger up and then picked up the call.

"Sorry, I had to deal with something…no…someone saw me…outside the restaurant…no a girl…I don't think she is…I don't think she does…fine. I'll find out."

He hung up, tossing the phone and taking two long strides across the room to squat beside you again. His suit creaked as he moved, pulling tight over his legs and chest.

Vigilante knelt down by the mattress, watching the way you squirmed away from him, frowning at the panic in your eyes.

"Do you know anything?"

"I know some stuff…I learned today that manta rays are born like burritos, all rolled up." You gasped out. "A guy I work with told me, he has lots of facts I know lots of facts, do you want more facts?" You babbled.

"You learned that from…Adrian?" He cocked his head to the side.

"I did. I did, I learnt it today from a guy I work…wait you know Adrian?"

"No."

Vigilante was panicking now, backsliding quickly.

"What do you know?"

"I don't know that many animal facts — oh god — I wish Adrian were here, he'd tell you loads of facts and then maybe you'd let me go — would you let me go if I told you some facts?"

He clenched his hands together, his gloves squeeking at the pressure.

"Can I let you go? What if you know about Peacemaker?"

"I know about Peacemaker, everyone knows about Peacemaker, he eats at Fennel Fields, he likes zoodles and he likes Blake and — I don't know anything else though, I just know he lives round here I guess."

But Adrian was sure there was more, why had you been snooping around the bins if you weren't trying to find something out about Chris? You were supposed to be gone.

He was torn. Chris, his best friend, or you, the girl he'd been crushing on since that first night. So cute and sweet, you always listened to him, always asked how he was, and you made the nasty red uniform look like a ballgown. He couldn't keep his eyes off you when you pulled your apron tight, hugging your figure and pushing your breasts up higher in your shirt.

And now he'd managed to kidnap you and tie you to his spare mattress.

"How can I be sure you're telling the truth?" He pulled a knife from its holster, mostly because it was digging in, but also so he could twirl it around while he thought.

Your eyes darted to the sharp blade but he didn't notice, watching the way your legs curled up towards your chest instead.

He didn't want to hurt you really. He just needed to be sure.

Vigilante wracked his brains for a plan, kicking himself for being so impulsive and stupid when he remembered the last impulsive and stupid thing he'd done.

Having sex with Chris and Chris' friend, he was pretty sure she was a proatiture but Chris never confirmed these things.

Chris had gone down on the girl before they had sex, he'd spent so long eating her out that he'd been bored, scrolling his phone for a bit. But he remembered the girl had been begging him to stop eventually, pushing on Chris' head.

Maybe that was the way, if he could make you cum enough, maybe it'd be the same as hurting you without…hurting you.

He stuck the knife into the wooden pallette beside his feet and you flinched.

"We're gonna try something else."

"We don't need to, I told you, I don't know anything about Peacemaker. I don't know anything about you. Please let me go!"

He ignored you, slipping a hand between your legs to spread your thighs open.

"Yeah," he murmered to himself, before unfastening your work trousers and pulling them down your legs.

"No, no, no, no, no!"

"Don't worry, I won't hurt you."

Vigilante attempted reassurance, although from the look on your face it wasn't working. He frowned again, throwing your trousers somewhere behind him. He couldn't bring himself to look when you were sprawled out in front of him, white cotton panties rucked up around the curve of your ass, so sensible. Just like you. And, just like you, devastatingly sexy.

He knelt on the mattress this time, his weight rolling you off balance and giving you enough momentum to close your legs again.

"Hey, stop that." He spread his hands over your thighs and held them open, his gloves indenting in your skin. "I need to interrogate you, to make sure Peacemaker is protected and that you don't know anything you shouldn't."

"I told you already —"

"I know but what if you're lying?"

"What if I'm notttt—" Your protest was cut off by the involuntary noise you made at Vigilante cupping your pussy with his whole hand.

"You're really warm."

"Oh god," you bent your elbows in, trying to hide your face. It'd been so long since anyone had touched you, far too long since you'd slept with anyone. And now here you were with the fucking Vigilante cupping you through your panties and you could barely take it.

"Are you getting wet? That's good, otherwise this would hurt." Without waiting another beat he slid a gloved finger between your folds and pushed it into your waiting hole. You were very, very grateful for your embarrassing reaction when you felt the rough texture of the fabric, the plastic grips rubbing against your g-spot.

"You make so many noises, it's really hot, did you know that? Are you doing it on purpose? Like reverse Stockholm Syndrome?" Vigilante started to babble in a way that was oddly reassuring, as if his rattling off of every thought was necessary to the moment. "Maybe you're like a hyena, they have a clitoris so large it's basically a penis."

Suddenly it clicked fully into place, the hair, the humming, being at Fennel Fields of all places, the way he'd stood up for you in the parking lot that time with absolutely no fear, the fucking animal facts.

"Adrian." You gasped out as he pushed another finger inside, the palm of his glove pressed against your clit.

"What, who's Adrian? Anyway, listen, I need you to tell me what you know."

"Nothing, nothing," you thrashed your head from side to side, confused, turned on, so close to the brink. You liked Adrian and then this — this — oh god —

"Are you going to come? I bet you look so sexy when you come, I can't wait." He crossed his legs, forcing your legs wider apart, as his fingers continued a steady pace, he propped his head up on his hand, elbow on his knee, red visor trained on the spot where your panties were pushed to one side, his fingers twisting inside you.

You hated that he was right, that you were dangling on the precipice from his ridiculous dirty talk and rough gloves but then you were clenching down, back arching, your wrists burning from the zip ties.

"Oh fuck — oh fuck!"

Your release rolled through you like a shiver starting in your toes and running like lightening up your legs, your hips ruttinng upwards to catch against the palm of Vigilante's gloves.

Behind the red of his visor it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His body still, purposeful, the blankness somehow making you feel even more flush.

"Wow. I was right. You do look sexy when you cum. So. Are you ready to tell me what you know?"

"Adrian—"

Suddenly his hand was back, sliding three fingers deep inside of you and pressing up against your g-spot while he pressed down from the outside.

"I told you. I don't know who Adrian is."

"Sorry! Sorry! Please!"

He pulled his hand back a little, slowly moving his fingers.

"What do you know?"

"Nothing!" You wailed, "nothing!"

"Maybe you just need more of an incentive."

His fingers were gone just as quickly and he stood, looking around at the odd collection of items in the basement. Vigilante looked down at his hand, lifting his sticky fingers and spreading them out to see your arousal clinging to the dark fabric of his gloves.

He turned away, lifted the visor of his mask and gave them an audible, experimental, lick

"I know there's a crate around here somewhere."

Adrian searched through a few plastic crates before standing again, triumphantly tearing through a box to reveal a plug-in vibrating wand.

"These are supposed to be good, right?"

You squirmed, they definitely felt good, maybe too good if Adrian's ability to tip you into orgasm with just a few exploratory fingers was anything to go by.

"They're terrible, awful, look — why don't your untie me. I'm outmatched, I won't fight, and we can talk about this or — or — or you just let me go or something and I promise to never ever talk about it again?"

Vigilante, Adrian, turned the vibrator on then looked down at your dripping pussy. He pressed the round bulb at the top against you gently and you wriggled a little but made no noise, biting down on your lip. Truthfully it just tickled at this angle and you were grateful for the respite.

"This won't work." He moved his left hand, resting his palm on the tidy thatch of hair above your cunt and spreading your lips with his fingers, exposing your clit. "That's better."

When the wand touched you again it was like an electric shock coursing through your nervous system. You screamed in response, bucking your hips caught between fighting off the sensations and getting more.

"Feels good I guess. I wonder if I'd like it, maybe I'll try it later."

"Let me go and you can try it now," you fought against the zip ties on your wrists again, the skin beneath a painful sting compared to the hum of pleasure building inside of you again. "Fuck, Adrian, please take it off — I can't — I can't — fuck!" Your orgasm slammed into you and tears sprang to your eyes, your body convulsing, all the while his hand followed you, keeping the head of the wand pressed torturously against your clit.

"Wow. I could watch that all day."

All day?! You could barely think, all day might actually kill you, or all night.

Tears sprang to your eyes.

"No more, I'll keep your secret."

"Are you this sensitive everywhere?"

You were considering where else he could possibly mean when a gloved, finger slid down your weeping slit and then, after a brief pause to gather your slick, it circled your puckered hole.

"Adrian, I've never done that before, I don't know if I can."

"Just one more little experiment then, to make sure you really won't be telling anyone."

Adrian's finger slid inside with ease, teasing your sensitive walls. The stretch felt odd at first, but you settled into the sensation as soon as he started petting your clit with his other hand. It felt oddly comforting, to be so intimately full, and you missed his fingers inside of your pussy too.

Canting your hips up you encouraged him to let his fingers slide back inside your now sopping pussy. He obliged quickly and you were instantly floating in a cloud of lust, pleasure and pure confusion.

You were so full, powerless to do anything but give in to his ministrations. You closed your eyes and just let yourself feel, the rough push and pull of his gloved hands, working in tandem so that you were never truly empty, teasing at the soft spot inside of you that had already made you see stars so many times.

"You're enjoying it." Adrian observed, "I thought you might, but you never know. I've never done it, apart from maybe that one time, I don't know if it's the same if you don't have a pussy too and I don't want to try sounding." He rambled, absently curling and working his fingers inside of you while you writhed in extasy.

"Adrian — oh my god — if you keep doing that I'm gonna…" you clenched down and he tipped his head to the side. You could imagine his eyes behind the red visor, taking in your every movement, cataloguing it for later.

"I think you should, is it this you like?" He pushed his fingers into both your holes at once, twisting his finger against your g-spot while he rubbed his thumb pad over your clit.

"Fuck!" You came with a shout, squirting onto his hand and arm.

"Not as much as last time." He licked his fingers. "But I suppose that's to be expected. Now. Have you learnt your lesson about spying on me and Peacemaker?"

You were half-minded to argue that you hadn't done any spying at all, in fact he'd kidnapped you for just being at your place of work at the wrong time. But the rest of your mind was blank, taken over by your orgasms and the knowledge that shy, nerdy little Adrian could make you feel so fucking alive!

"Sure, Adrian, I've learnt my lesson."

He said nothing, but crossed his arms.

"Vigilante, I've learnt my lesson."

"Good," his voice brightened. "Stay right here, I think my mom made cookies, I'll bring you one and you can go."

Fleury and Bordeaux have been on the phone all afternoon, booking motels and rental cars, sparing no expense. Adrian and Judomaster pack up all the weapons, ammo, and other supplies they might need out in the field. It’s been a while since the field kits have been restocked.

Emilia and Chris hole up the conference room so she can debrief him in-depth on each of the targets they’re trying to track down right now. Economos tries to help, but he can barely bring himself to even say the names of his prior colleagues, falling back on his typical coping strategy of avoidance. If he doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t process it, then it can’t hurt him. He sticks his head in his laptop screen and does what he needs to do, and that’s that. 

Adrian and Ads should probably be in there with them, but they’re busy doing their own preparations. They want to get moving as soon as possible, before the lead goes cold, so they’re rushing to pack their bags and Chris’s. Chris will pass on the information while they travel. 

When they’re finished, they start bringing everything to the van, which Chris and Emilia have started prepping. It would be faster if they could fly, but with all the fucking weapons they have to take, they would never make it through any kind of security clearance. 

Three duffle bags are Adrian’s. One for clothes and toiletries. Two for his weapons and the Vigilante suit. He’s lugging them outside when he catches a glimpse of something that stops him in his tracks.

Chris and Harcourt, standing at the back of the van taking a rare, soft moment to themselves, Chris pressing a soft kiss to his mate’s lips. It’s fucking weird, is the first thing he thinks, watching them be all lovey and gross. He kinda understands how everyone else might feel when he’s being soft with you.

But then Adrian remembers that the bonded pair in front of him, his pack Alphas, are about to be separated for a week, and he feels a pang in his chest, because he understands in a way that he never has before. If they feel for each other even a fraction of what Adrian feels for you—

Adrian swallows roughly and turns away, giving them privacy. Suddenly, all he wants, more than anything, is you.

He’s been apart from you before, but not like this. Not since the day you first kissed him. In the last seven weeks, he’s seen you every day. Spent every possible waking hour at your side.

The idea of leaving you behind, even for just seven days, is eating him up inside.

After a quick pit stop at your desk for your picnic blanket, he finds you in the infirmary with Adebayo, where you’d been packing medical kits for them. When he walks in, you’re doing a refresh of some important first-aid practices. 

Ads doesn’t need it. But you do. You can’t go with Adrian, but you can do this. Make sure the med kits are fully stocked, make sure the supplies aren’t expired, make sure Ads remembers how to set a broken bone.

“One last thing—dislocations,” you’re saying, as he pushes open the door. “Both Adrian and Chris have dislocated their shoulders more than once, which means it’s even more likely for them to accidentally do it again, and neither of them are exactly careful about it—”

Adrian winces. That’s true, he has to admit. He’s come crawling back to you with his arm dangling loose more than once, and every time, you look at him with this exasperated frown before correcting the problem with your gentle hands. He knows how to fix it himself, and so does Chris, but it hurts a hell of a lot less when you do it.

“They know what they’re doing for the most part, but if they need help, you want to hold the arm here, and brace them like this—have another person help you, if you can—oh, and don’t forget to—”

Ads is half listening to you, half watching you with concerned eyes, because you’re rambling almost as much as he does, which can’t be a good sign. You’re normally more put together than this, giving clear, concise instructions, but today, it’s like you can’t get the words out fast enough, and everything is coming out in a jumbled, frazzled order.

It’s strange, seeing you like this. He wonders why you’re so stressed. Yes, your relationship with him has changed, now, but—you know him. You know he’s capable. This level of worry is something else entirely. 

“I think she’s got it, babe,” Adrian interrupts, with a gentle hand on your back, and you look up at him, your brow furrowed with concentration and worry.

“I know she does,” you say. You look at Ads. “I know you do. I just—”

“It’s okay, girl,” Ads says, her voice soft. “I get it. I’ll take care of him for you. I promise.”

Your lower lip wobbles, just a bit, and you throw your arms around her. “Thank you.”

She squeezes you tight, and exchanges a confused look with Adrian, who keeps a steady hand on your shoulder. He waits for the tension to drain from your body, the way it always does when he touches you, but it never does.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s take a break, baby.”

Adrian leads you out to the courtyard, to the spot beneath the tree. He has started thinking of it as your spot, a shared little bubble away from the chaos of the rest of the office. When he plops down onto the blanket, he yanks you down with him, into his lap, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him. You yelp as you topple on top of him.

“You didn’t even try to fight me,” he scolds playfully.

You roll your eyes. “I didn’t realize I had to be on guard around you. Next time you try to sweep me off my feet I’ll punch you in the face. I’ll ask Emilia to work on that with me in our next session.”

“The training with her is going good?” he checks. “You’re not hurting anymore?” Adrian’s hand brushes beneath your shirt, over the scarred skin of your healed-over bullet wounds. “I don’t want you to push too hard—I mean, obviously I want you to be able to protect yourself—”

“Emilia wouldn’t have let me even start if she didn’t think I was ready,” you remind him.

“I know. You’re super badass and capable, and also really cool and I love you,” Adrian says, and when you finally smile, he kisses it right off your face.

“You guys are so gross.”

Chris’s voice rings across the courtyard, and your lips break apart. Adrian glares at his best friend, and your bright laughter echoes in the air.

“Shut up, Chris,” Adebayo scolds in the distance. “Let them live!”

After work, you head home for the night with Adrian. You’re still buzzing with some kind of nervous energy, though it’s not as bad as it was earlier. Having something to do seems to be helping, so he steps back and just lets you take control. There’s also a tiny, selfish part of him that just wants to make sure that you touch everything that goes in his suitcase, so that everything he wears during the week that he’s gone will smell like you.

You haven’t stayed the night. It’s a bridge that both of you have been weirdly afraid to cross. You’ve done all kinds of other couple-y things. You went on cute dates to the zoo and the aquarium, you played video games, you had movie nights. You did all the same things you used to do when you were just friends, but now there’s—more. Now Adrian gets to hold you, to kiss you, to tell you the things he was never allowed to say before. But never pushes any further than that, because he’s afraid, not of you, but of himself.

After the heated moment you’d shared in the Checkmate office, Adrian had pulled back significantly. It’s hard to control himself around you. He just wants you, so fucking much, all the time, and—you’d agreed to take things slow, so that’s what he’s been trying to do. Because every time he kisses you, or sucks a dark bruise into the skin of your neck, he has to desperately resist what his body tells him it needs. To make that mark permanent. To knot you, to claim you, to make you his, forever. He doesn’t want to push you into something you don’t want, something you’re not ready for.

It’s one thing to cuddle with you for a few hours on the couch. Even in bed, above the covers. It’s another to lie there with you for an entire night. But as the evening grows later, and you’re still there, at the safe house with him, he smiles. Because it doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere tonight. He doesn’t want you to go anywhere tonight.

If he’s going to be gone for an entire week, he wants as much time with you now as he can get. And he thinks that you do, too. That it might help with…whatever the hell is going on inside your brain right now.

As you zip up the suitcase on top of the bed, he comes to stand behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kisses the underside of your jaw.

“Will you stay?” he asks, his voice low. “Just to sleep?”

“I was planning on it,” you say, and he smiles, rubbing his cheek against yours like a cat. You giggle, and he feels a little relieved, that you’re at least calm enough, happy enough, to still laugh like that. “That tickles. You need to shave again.”

“Ugh. Don’t wanna,” he whines, just to hear the sound again, and his heart lifts when he gets what he wants—he hears the light sound of your laugh, feels the rumble of it against his chest.

Adrian doesn’t mind shaving anymore, really. He’s used to it, now. But now, when he complains, you always offer to do it for him, and he has an excuse to stare at you for ten minutes uninterrupted.

“I’ll do it,” you say softly, and he grins, having gotten exactly what he wanted. “Just let me get changed, okay?”

Five minutes later, he swallows roughly when he sees you sitting on the bathroom counter in nothing but a short pair of sleep shorts and one of his shirts. He tries desperately to shove down his immediate arousal, even though he knows you can smell it, just like he can smell yours.

As you work in silence, sharp razorblade scraping across his cheeks, Adrian can still see the tension in the way you’re holding yourself. You’re worried. When you take a moment to rinse off the blade, he speaks.

“I’m gonna be okay, Omega,” he whispers, hands coming to grasp your hips. His thumbs rub soothing circles into your bare skin, where your shirt, his shirt, rides up.

“I know you’re going to be okay,” you say, talking while you work, finishing up the lower part of his neck. “I’m sorry if I’m being a lot. That’s not…that’s not what I’m thinking about right now.”

You finish what you’re doing and bring the damp washcloth to his face to clean him off. Once he’s clean, he grabs your wrist, turning his head to the side just slightly and pressing a kiss to the bracelet he’d made for you out of the scraps of his old Vigilante suit. You smile softly at him.

“What’s going on?” he asks softly, because you’re being quiet. Too quiet. You bite your lip and hesitate, and he hates it. “You can tell me, baby. You can tell me anything. You know that. I’m sorry we argued earlier, I don’t want you to think that I think you’re incapable or anything less than fucking badass, because you are badass, and great at your job, and I love you—”

“That’s not it,” you laugh. “But thank you. You are also a badass, baby.”

“What is it, then?”

“The week you get back,” you say carefully, “I’m due for my heat.” 

You’re trying hard to be casual about it, but—it’s anything but. You’re terribly nervous, because you know that Adrian is going to be too.

Adrian stares at you, mouth agape. You look at him pointedly.

“Oh,” he says, swallowing nervously, a little dumbstruck. “Oh.”

Everything that’s been happening with you today suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. The way you’ve been jumpy and anxious. It’s not just you being worried about Adrian going on a mission. It’s you, on the verge of preheat, if you aren’t in preheat already, being worried about your Alpha.

“So,” you say, clearing your throat. “Will you…help me through it?”

“Of course I will,” he says in a rush, his arms wrapping around you. “If that’s what you want. I just—I don’t want you to feel obligated or forced, just because we’ve been, you know, kissing and other stuff and—if you would feel more comfortable using…toys, I mean, just—I know we’ve talked about this already, that we want each other like this, and that you’re mine and I’m yours, but I want to make sure this isn’t just, like, hormones, you know—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and he melts into it instantly.

“I always want you,” you say softly. “The hormones just make it—more.”

“Oh,” he says dumbly, trying to ignore the arousal stirring deep in his gut just at your admission.

“And if you want,” you say nervously, tugging at the material of his shirt, “Since—like you just said. That you’re mine, and I’m yours. I was thinking. That I want you to mark me, Alpha.”

“I want that,” Adrian says hoarsely. He remembers kneeling in front of you, his face buried in your core, remembers just how strong the urge was to mark you, to make you his. He wanted it so bad, in that moment. He’s wanted it every day since. “I’ve never wanted anything more. But I want—I want you to mark me too. I want us to do it together. So—can we wait? Until my next rut? If your heat is in two weeks—then by the time you’re due for your next one, we should be—”

“All synced up,” you finish with a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, we can wait.”

“Should I even be going on this mission?” he checks worriedly. “If your heat comes early—”

“If my heat comes early, I will deal for a couple days until you get back.”

“No,” Adrian says firmly. He remembers how he felt during his rut, hot and writhing and miserable and alone. You will never feel like he did during that week of agony, not on his watch. “If your heat comes early, you will call me, and I will come home early and take care of you. Promise me.”

“Adrian—”

“Promise me,” he repeats, heart pounding. He holds your gaze.

“I promise,” you say. Your voice is soft. “I will call you.”

“I’m gonna call you every fucking day anyway,” Adrian says, smiling. “So much that you’re gonna be fucking sick of me.”

“I’d never get sick of you. Now, Chris, on the other hand—”

“Hey!”

“I’m just telling it like it is, baby.”

Adrian laughs as you hop off the counter and drag him toward the bedroom. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side! I don’t get sick of you. I want you around all the time. Always.”

You prove your point by flopping onto the bed and dragging him on top of you. He lands carefully, bracing his arms on either side of you so he doesn’t crush you with his weight.

“I think even you would get sick of me eventually,” Adrian says. He presses a quick, teasing kiss to your lips before going to shut off the lights. You worm your way beneath the covers, holding them up for him to slide in with you when he’s finished.

“You’re wrong,” you say, more of a whisper now that it’s dark in the room. Adrian pulls the blankets tighter over you both and lies down facing you, eyes wide open in the dark, waiting for them to adjust so he can see you a little more clearly. When they do, you’re smiling at him. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Stop thinking,” Adrian advises. “And just let me enjoy my first night sleeping next to you.”

“Well, if you would let me finish!” you laugh. “It’s been long enough. We should—” You cut yourself off, hesitating.

“We should what?” Adrian asks.

“I’m just thinking,” you say. “That it would be easier, if you came home, and you knew…where you were going home to.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if you want, while you’re gone,” you say, “I could take all your stuff that’s here in the safe house, and move it into my apartment. This was always supposed to be a temporary arrangement.”

Adrian’s heart hammers in his throat. “Really?”

“Really. And then when you come home, you can spend every night sleeping next to me.”

He imagines it. Coming home. Knowing that home means you. Means a place that you both share, where every blanket and pillow and coffee cup is touched with a hint of your scent and his. A place where he gets to go to sleep beside you every night and wake up beside you every morning for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” Adrian says, nodding furiously, smiling like an idiot. “Yes, let’s—let’s do that. Please.”

He kisses you, again, and smiles into it, thinking about how he’ll get to do this all the time.

He just needs to get through this fucking mission, and he gets to come home. To you.

It’s happening again.

Adrian is too far away, this time. He watches the red soaking through your uniform, your knees hitting the ground. He smells your scent in the air, tinged with the metallic hint of blood. Your eyes meet his across the field, terrified and pained.

He’s living his worst nightmare all over again, and he can’t stop it.

He’s screaming, and running, and he tumbles to the ground beside you, he yanks off his mask. You’re going to be okay, you have to be okay. You will be. He knows you will be. 

He’s had this dream, he’s relived the memory a dozen times since the day it happened, but this time, when he turns you over, when he touches your face—it’s cold. His own pulse hammers in his neck as he feels for yours. He can’t find it.

“No, no, no,” he says, heart rising into his throat. “What—no, what’s happening please wake up oh god no—”

Adrian bolts awake, breathing like he’s just run a marathon, and it takes him a moment to come back to himself, to realize where he is.

In bed. With you. With you, alive, tucked against him, safe. He can see you breathing, the rise and fall of your chest. He can feel your warmth.

It’s not enough. He reaches out with one trembling hand to touch your neck, careful not to wake you. Only when he presses against your neck and feels your pulse, thrumming strong and steady beneath his fingertips, does all the air rush out of his lungs in a relieved whoosh.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, and he feels a tear stream down his cheek. He doesn’t even bother wiping it away, just closes his eyes and lets himself slump down against the pillows, trying to calm his own racing heart.

“Adrian?” you mumble, and his eyes fly open again to see your hand fumbling for him in the dark. He instantly feels both terrible for waking you and immensely grateful to hear your voice.

“It’s okay, baby. Go back to sleep,” he says, his voice hoarse, a little frustrated, even. He catches your wandering hand before it can settle against his chest, where you’ll be able to feel how hard his heart is pounding in the aftermath of a nightmare. He doesn’t want you to worry.

It’s the first night he’s sleeping with you in his arms. It should be peaceful. It’s everything he’s wanted for months. Instead, here he is, staring at you through the dark like you’re going to disappear any moment, haunted by the memory of you soaked in your own blood.

Your eyes blink open sleepily, and you watch him silently for a moment, weighing whether to do what he says and just go back to sleep, or argue with him. He stares back at you.

You don’t argue. You don’t say a word. But you don’t go back to sleep either. You sit up, shift yourself over, and hug him, feeling his arms wrap around you in return, squeezing tight to hide the way he’s shaking.

“You’re okay,” you say quietly. “It was just a dream. You’re okay.”

“Not me,” Adrian says thickly. “You. It was—it was the day you got shot, baby, all over again. I couldn’t do anything—I saw you hit the ground and there was so much blood and I couldn’t—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“Stop that,” you shush him. After a quiet moment, you ask, “Do you dream about that day a lot?”

Adrian doesn’t answer. You sit up a little, prop yourself up on his chest, and brush sweaty curls off his forehead.

“Okay,” you say. “We don’t have to talk about it now.” You start to roll off of him, and he clings to you in a panic.

“No—stay—”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

You roll onto your back, guiding Adrian to curl around you, pulling his head down to rest on your chest. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” you say, running your fingers through his hair, and he wraps his arms around you like a teddy bear.

He tells himself he will, after you fall back asleep. Once he feels your breathing even out. But he stays awake the rest of the night, anxious, just listening to the steady thump of your heart echoing against his ear.

Adrian had promised you yesterday that he would back off after this mission. Get this protective anxiety out of his system. As he sits there, in the dark, he thinks that maybe that promise won’t be so easy for him to keep.

Adrian wakes up the next morning with you still draped over him, a comforting, calming weight. He’d drifted off eventually, into a half-sleep, and now he blinks awake, the world a little blurry without his glasses as he looks down at you, using his chest as a pillow, hugging him like a stuffed animal. He’s warm and soft and comfortable and he does not want to get out of bed and face the world.

He glances at the clock on the nightstand. 6 a.m. His chest tightens.

He leaves in six hours.

When he looks back down at you, you’re looking right at him, and he forces a smile, pulling you up to his mouth for a messy morning kiss.

“Your hair is a fucking disaster,” you observe, amused, lifting a hand up to tug at the little curly tufts that are sticking up every which way. “I didn’t realize you had such bad bed head.”

“I regret to inform you, there are a lot of things about me that are a fucking disaster,” Adrian jokes, hands landing on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles. “You did, unfortunately, sign up for this shit.”

“Well, how about you go shower and fix that while I make some breakfast?” you suggest. 

Adrian’s grip tightens on your waist. He doesn’t want that. 

The idea of spending even twenty minutes apart from you today, when the clock is winding down, when he is going to have to leave for a week, makes him feel anxiously possessive in a way that he hasn’t felt since—since he watched you walk away from him, that night at Chris’s trailer after the other Alpha ordered you to go home, when he was deep in his rut, when he needed you and couldn’t have you. It’s an irrational kind of panic, but he feels right now like if he lets you go, he’ll never see you again.

He can’t explain all that to you without sounding insane. Like some possessive, overbearing asshole. So he just clears his throat, and forces a smile, and says, “Come with me?”

You undress together, leaving your clothes on the edge of the bed, and you follow him into the bathroom wordlessly.

In the shower, he determinedly ignores the fact that this is the first time he’s seen you naked as you stand together beneath the stream of warm water, his arms wrapped around you from behind. He recalls the days you spent wrapped around him the same way while he worked on the Vigilante suit, the little kisses you would pepper on his neck, and he does the same now. You tilt your head for him, to give him better access, and he inhales deeply, hugging you tighter.

“Are you okay, baby?” you ask softly. “Still thinking about that nightmare?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Just. Gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too. You’re lucky, you have a big fancy mission to distract you. I’ll stay as busy as I can with work, but I’ll probably have to take things a little easier this week, once I’m in preheat.”

“You’re absolutely sure that it’s okay for me to go?” he checks, even though he’s already asked you a dozen times. He doesn’t feel good about leaving you so close to your heat. “I can ask Judomaster to go instead—”

That he’s even offering tells you how anxious he is. Adrian loves going on missions, and he loves going on missions with Chris, and he complains for days when Judomaster gets to work with his best friend instead of him.

“I know myself. I know my body,” you tell him. “If I felt like I needed you to stay, I promise you, I would tell you. You’re only gonna be gone for a week. I’m not due for ten days.”

It still seems like cutting things too close for comfort, in Adrian’s eyes.

“I just don’t want you to suffer,” he says, quiet and concerned. When you turn around to meet his gaze, you know he’s thinking about his own rut. The sweaty, sleepless nights, the cramps, the agony.

“It’s not so bad. Remember, baby, you just had your first rut,” you say. “They should get easier, now. I won’t be in as much pain as you were.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Because I’m going to be there, to help you.”

“I also have a decade and a half of experience under my belt,” you point out. “I know what works for me. How to cope with it. Four times a year, like clockwork.” You smile wryly. “Except that one time you threw me off schedule.”

“You’ve been with other Alphas before,” Adrian says. He says it like a question, but it isn’t, not really. He knows you have.

“You really want to talk about that right now?” you ask with a raised eyebrow.

“No,” Adrian grumbles as he turns off the shower, both of you clean and refreshed for the morning.

“There haven’t been that many, anyway,” you say, wrapping yourself in a towel and then brushing a hand through his wet hair. He hums at your gentle touch. “It’s hard to know that they won’t…take advantage. It was only ever people I trusted. And only when it was a particularly bad cycle.”

“Take advantage?”

“Mark me,” you explain. “When I didn’t want them to.”

Unexpected, possessive anger surges in Adrian’s chest when he remembers that there are shitty Alphas in the world who won’t take no for an answer. He looks at your neck and imagines seeing the shiny, silvery mark of someone else’s bite marring the smooth skin, and he growls.

“That’s so fucked up,” he says, his voice low and fierce. “That anyone would—you’re mine—”

“And you’re mine,” you say simply. “And soon, everyone—even strangers on the street—will know that.” Adrian shivers when you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to the skin at the juncture of his neck, right where you’ll sink your teeth in when the time is right.

He mirrors you, rubbing his cheek against yours, mingling his scent with yours on your skin. It’s wishful thinking that it will linger for the whole ten days that he’s gone. But he can mark his territory for now, he thinks, as he kisses your neck, sucking a bruise into the skin there. It’s not a bite mark, but it’s something. Something that will linger for a few days, at least. You laugh.

“You are ridiculous,” you say, and he smiles.

“Can’t let you forget about me while I’m gone,” he tries to tease, but it comes out smaller than usual.

“I could never,” you whisper. If you said it any louder, your voice would wobble.

The air in the bathroom is thick with steam from the hot water of the shower. But it’s thick with the scent of arousal, too.

“I want you,” you say, stepping forward, trailing your palms up Adrian’s bare, damp chest.

“You know I want you,” Adrian says nervously, reaching up to hold your hands there, firm, against his pecs. He watches a drop of water drip down from your hair, trailing down between your breasts, disappearing beneath the towel wrapped around your body. “I want you so much. I always want you.”

“I want you now,” you say.

“Are you sure?” Adrian can feel his heart pounding against his chest. With your hand sitting there, right above it, you can probably feel it too.

“I’m sure.”

Thank god, he thinks, as he guides your wrists up and around his neck and stoops low to pick you up. He carries you like you’re something special, breakable, precious. Every step is careful with you cradled in his arms. When he sets you down on the mattress, and you let the towel fall away, he can forget, for a minute, about everything else, because all that matters is this moment with you.

He kisses you, and he’s just too goddamn happy to be anything but sloppy and enthusiastic. You giggle as his kisses trail to your cheeks, your forehead, your chin, and it makes him feel even lighter, the way you laugh.

“Are you sure?” you check, and Adrian looks at you with bewilderment.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I just know you’ve never—now that you’re an Alpha. It can be a lot. We can wait, if you want.”

“I’m done waiting,” he says, firm and determined. “I’ve been waiting for years.”

He starts kissing your face again, down your neck, until his tongue is circling one nipple, and you groan. But just as his hand drifts down toward your core, trailing over the soft skin of your belly, he has a fleeting thought and pauses.

“Wait—um,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t have, like. Condoms? And I know we have not talked at all about—pups. But I’m assuming that even if—even if we did. Now is not a good time—”

You giggle. “You really didn’t pay attention to Alpha sex ed in school, did you?”

Adrian flushes a little. “No.”

“Even if you did have condoms,” you explain carefully, “they would probably break. From your knot.”

“Oh,” Adrian says, growing even redder. “So—what—Omegas are like, really fertile, aren’t you? What do we—”

“I’m on birth control. I’ve got an implant.” You bite your lip. “And you’re right. We haven’t talked about it. But if you wanted—one day. We could.”

You’re the one lying beneath him, but somehow, he feels like he’s the more vulnerable one right now. His heart feels like it’s beating outside his chest, and your words make him feel like you’ve reached out and touched it, setting him alight like a live wire.

“You would want that?” he asks hoarsely. “With me?”

“I want everything with you,” you say, eyes shining. “Alpha.”

Adrian surges forward and captures your lips with his, his broad frame pushing you down deeper into the mattress, and you gasp into a groan when his hips come flush with yours and you can feel the evidence of his desire pressing heavy on your thigh. Your legs fall open to welcome him closer, and you reach low, taking his cock in your hand.

His eyes flutter shut and his head falls forward to your chest, your other hand coming up to run through his hair and hold him in place as he goes back to pressing mindless kisses to the sensitive bare skin of your breasts. You stroke him, squeezing gently, and he thinks, suddenly, back to his rut. When he was thrusting against a pillow, or into his own hand, imagining, wishing it was you instead.

He doesn’t have to imagine anymore. Now the real thing is right here in front of him and he’s so swept up in you he’s not sure he’ll ever come back.

Your touch is soft and sleepy and warm, and it’s almost enough to make him forget everything else for a while—how much he needs you, how long he’s waited for this moment, how much he’ll miss you while he’s gone. He’ll think about this every day, your warm hand wrapped around his cock, pumping, lips brushing against his ear as you whisper praises.

When Adrian touches you, you’re already slick and eager, ready for him, but he pushes two testing fingers through your folds anyway, dipping inside you where you’re wet and warm, listening to the gasps of pleasure you make. That alone is almost enough to make him cum.

“Just—” you gasp. “Fuck, Adrian. Skip the fucking foreplay. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks.”

“I don’t want to hurt you—”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” you insist, hitching your legs around his waist, letting his cock drag through your wetness, whimpering when the head bumps at your clit. “Please, Alpha—”

“Fuck,” Adrian says, because he can’t stand to hear you beg like that. He could never say no to you. He caves instantly, notching himself at your entrance and pushing in, trying to keep his breathing steady as he’s swallowed by your warmth. 

You hiss out a breath at the stretch of him, spreading your legs wider. A pleased hum reverberates through your chest when he gives a testing, shallow thrust, and it hits you in all the right places.

“So good, baby,” you whisper. “You make me feel so good.”

Even as you say it, you’re touching him in return in ways that he’s only ever dreamed about before, your nails digging into his shoulders, heels pushing into his back, pulling him in closer, deeper. He wants more. He wants you to touch him everywhere, to leave traces of yourself on every single part of his body. Until you’re a permanent part of him, until he’s a permanent part of you, until leaving you behind for a mission doesn’t feel like leaving himself behind.

Adrian’s mouth trails over you in return—your neck, your chest, your arms, your face. He wants to leave his scent behind. He wants you to smell like him even when he’s not around this week. He wants any Alpha that sees you on the street to know that you’re taken, to know that you’re his.

It’s that thought that spurs his movement, quick, deep thrusts that makes you whine. You shift your hips to meet his, and then there’s nothing but the sound of skin on skin, of heavy mingled breaths, as Adrian ruts into you.

As your head falls back, his eyes latch on to your neck, and he feels it. The way his teeth are itching to bite into the juncture of your neck. He wants it so bad, his instinct is telling him to just do it, but—now is not the time. He grits his teeth, looks away, down at his own arm, which he’s using to prop himself up over you as he plunges into you, feeling the knot growing at the base of his cock. 

“Oh,” you gasp, as you feel it too, starting to catch at your entrance as he moves. “Want—want your knot, please, fuck, want it so bad, Adrian, fuck.”

“Whatever you want,” he chokes, watching you take him with fascination. “All of me, you have—all of me.”

A moment later, he feels you flutter around him, and your mouth falls open, drawing his eyes again to your neck, where he can see the furiously beating pulse. The urge to mark you roars inside him.

He thinks for a split second about biting into the skin of his own hand instead, just to satisfy the urge, until his eyes fall on the crumpled ball of your underwear lying on the bed next to him.

He shoves it in his mouth with a growl and bites down on the fabric as his knot finally catches. It’s nothing like biting down into your skin, but the taste of you still coats his tongue, and it sends him over the edge himself as he comes with a muffled groan.

For a moment afterward, you’re both quiet. He lets more of his weight rest on top of you, lets himself hold you tight. He closes his eyes and tries to commit the feeling to memory. He wants this to be the thing that lasts, the thing he dreams about while he’s gone. Not the nightmares of your cold body, drenched in blood. But the good dreams, holding you like this, alive and happy and so in love he can’t take it.

“You okay, baby?” you ask him after a minute. He feels your lips on his cheek, and he smiles around your underwear. You furrow your brow as you reach up and pluck them out of his mouth.

“Why are you eating my underwear, you fucking weirdo?”

“Because I really wanted to bite you,” Adrian says. “And this was a good alternative.” 

“I wouldn’t have minded if you did,” you whisper, fishing the fabric in your hand.

He grins and kisses you as he steals them back out of your hand. “I’m keeping them.”

“Wha–why—”

“Because they smell like you and they taste like you—”

“That is so fucking weird. If I wasn’t in love with you that would be so creepy.”

“But you are in love with me,” he says smugly. “And I don’t care if it’s creepy. I’m keeping them.”

“If you take my panties on this mission and Chris sees them, I will kill you. No matter how in love with you I am.”

Adrian sobers a bit at the reminder that he’s leaving. He glances at the clock on the nightstand.

“You’ll call me?” he asks. You don’t even get annoyed with him, even though he’s asked the question half a dozen times in the last two days.

“Every day.”

“And if your heat comes early—”

“I’ll call you,” you say softly. You frown, brushing his hair out of his face with both hands, trailing your palms down the front of his chest, letting yourself touch him because you know you’ll be starved of it for a while after this. “I’m going to be okay, Adrian. You are the one going out to do dangerous shit.”

“I do dangerous shit all the time,” Adrian says lightly. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“I know you are.”

“A week is a long time,” he whispers, like if he says it too loud, it will grow even longer.

“We have survived worse things than a week apart,” you say. “But no matter how long you’re gone, you’re stuck with me. I’m not letting you go that easy.”

“Literally,” Adrian jokes, shifting his hips, almost laughing at the way you move helplessly with him, knotted together.

You roll your eyes. “You are such a dork.”

“Your dork.”

Adrian tag list: @justalotoffanfiction @danversxwasabi @clowninavan @adoresami @a-young-g0d @bastardstevie @am-3-thyst @xoxocamis @morguegrl89 @somethin-sparklyy @secretjesterr @seeingdubs @lovenerdywhitemen2 @jeshomie @aerionshipthrust @deamlucem @tlfg-adrianchase @brianna-merlim @amart-e @countvonklit @pieolsen @gingerjane15 @dosyrosyposy @mylcvemineallmine @rentaldarling @vigilcourt @hot-bean-juice @meg-winchester @sepaaaaa @residentsuperhero

Your boyfriend was late. 

Like, by a lot. 

So much so, you were debating on calling Gojo to find out where he was, considering you couldn't get so much as a text back. 

Hovering over his name in your contacts before hitting the call button with a sigh, flipping the burner off and resting your hip against the kitchen counter. But even when he answered, there was just static-y silence on the other end. 

“Hello? Gojo?” You were pouting already, annoyed that you had to resort to hearing news about your boyfriend secondhand from quite possibly the least responsible person you knew. 

“Uh, yeah?” 

His voice sounded different. You couldn't put your finger on what it was until you realized he almost sounded serious. Not greeting you with a cheesy nickname or some obnoxious over-the-top pick-up line that he still insisted on using despite the fact you'd been dating his best friend for nearly two years now. 

“Is Suguru with you?” You huffed, the sharp edge of the counter starting to dig through your thin dress. Although, it was probably closer to lingerie than an actual sundress. 

“He’s not home yet?” 

You were expecting some annoying arrogant reply - that Suguru was strong enough to take care of himself blah blah blah or how cute it was that you were worrying about them yada yada. Not an actual response that came close to concern. 

“Is everything okay?” You bluntly asked, frowning while you tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder, reaching up to pull down a couple plates from the cabinet. 

“Why wouldn't it be?” Gojo awkwardly coughed, the usual cockiness that marked every word absent. 

“Something you wanna tell me?” You impatiently huffed, foot tapping against the tile. After the shitty day you had at your own job, the last thing you needed was whatever idiotic thing they'd gotten themselves in now. You'd been hoping for a quiet evening in with Suguru, had cooked him a nice dinner, lit a few candles, put on some soft music along with the tiniest thong you owned. 

“No?” 

Yeah, right. 

In the years you'd known Satoru, he'd never answered a question with just a single word. 

The plate pinched between your fingers slipped, hitting the marble with a crash! when it broke into big shards on impact. You winced at the sound, carefully picking it up piece-by-piece and tossing them into the open trash can by the counter. 

“Did something happen? Are you okay?” Gojo's panicked voice called out to you from your phone's precariously cradled position. You couldn't stifle your giggle.

“Oh? Is the great Satoru Gojo worried about me?” You teased. Seriously, what was his deal today? 

His laugh was dangerous, an octave lower than usual when it reverberated through you. It almost sounded like he was there, purring it directly in your ear. 

“You should be more careful,” He warned. Maybe Suguru had finally started wearing off on him. 

“I should, hm?” 

“It almost sounds like you're flirting with me,” He chided with a click of his tongue. 

“You wish,” You laughed. 

A thud by the entryway distracted you, keys jingling as the lock started to turn. Gojo started to say your name, all soft and low, and something pricked at the back of your brain, like an itch you couldn't scratch. 

“Whatever, weirdo,” You sighed. “Just forget about it. Suguru’s here.”

You hung up before he could keep you on the line and longer, sitting your phone on the counter and finding another tiny shattered piece of ceramic to toss out, heavy footsteps echoing on the floor behind you. 

“Sugu-” 

Your greeting was cut off by massive hands on your waist, fingers wrinkling the soft fabric of your dress as his thumbs traced little crescent moons along your back, a head nuzzling against the crook of your collarbone. 

“Did someone miss me?” You teased, trying to crane your neck back to take a peek only for him to squeeze you tighter. His lips grazing against the column of your throat, his breath cool on your skin. 

“Maybe,” He murmured, teeth nipping at your ear while you squealed and twisted away from him. 

A pretty bouquet of white roses was tossed on the counter next to the sink, a few of the petals starting to get crushed from where it was laying. 

“Those for me?” You suppressed your smile, ignoring the way one of his hands was currently sliding underneath the hem of your dress while you picked up the flowers, careful not to get picked by the thorns poking out underneath the thin ribbon they were tied together with. 

“Mhm,” His honeyed hum was soothing, music to your ears while he started to pepper your neck with gentle kisses, brushing the thin strap of your dress off your shoulder. 

“What's the occasion?” You giggled, taking a tiny whiff of them. 

“Can't I just get my pretty girl some flowers?” He practically whined behind you, his firm chest pressed against your back. You were used to him being glued to you after he got home, but usually it was just a hand on your back, a hip brushing against yours, just small expressions of his casual affection. The weight of his presence threatened to swallow you already, his mouth tracing your collarbone like he really might consume you before the night had even started. 

“As long as they're not apology flowers for something stupid you and Gojo did,” You hummed, relaxing back into him. 

He didn't say anything to that. 

“Sugu,” You started disapprovingly, about to scold him before he turned you around, quick to cop a feel while he did, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing hard when he picked you up and sat you down on the counter so you could properly face him. 

“I didn't do anything,” He asserted, dark eyes settling on you and trailing south, savoring each second like he was drinking the image of you in. A sharp canine biting down on his lower lip when his gaze settled on the cleavage spilling out. 

Maybe it was silly. 

But it felt like the first time he'd seen them all over again. How lovestruck he looked the longer his stare lingered, the sharp little exhales he barely seemed to manage, something hanging thick in the narrow space between you. 

“If you say so,” You yielded, delicately pinching a white petal between your fingers appreciatively, admiring his selection. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, faint lines etched into the skin when he pressed another featherlight kiss on your forehead. “Grab the vase for these?”

The curve of his mouth turned down, faltering for a second when he looked down at you. 

“Could you, um, remind me where it is?” He apologetically requested, going to scratch the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his dark hair. 

You squinted at him. 

Was he being serious?

“Under the sink?” Unless you were somehow misremembering, he was the one who stuck it there last. 

“Oh, yeah,” He sighed. Reluctantly pulling away to bend down and open the cabinet, moving sponges and the dishwasher detergent over until he found the vase tucked in the back corner. 

You watched him fill it up, his fingers clumsily clasped around the bottled neck of it, shutting off the water and taking the flowers from your hand to plop them inside. 

“You okay?” The hard edge of the counter bit into your palm as you scooted closer to the edge, eyes narrowed as they focused on him. He was quick to return to you, sturdy thighs nudging your own further apart, the tent in his pants only obvious when it suddenly pressed against you. 

“Long day,” Your boyfriend mumbled, looking at your lips like they were the only thing he'd been thinking about. 

“I'm sorry,” You murmured back, leaning in to plant a tender kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

His hand caught your chin though, pulling you in closer, your cheeks almost squished under his firm hold. His thumb digging in on one side while his index finger pressed into the hard line of your jaw, his mouth colliding against yours. Your lips parted automatically for him, his tongue immediately slipping between them, fervently exploring your mouth like you were tonight's meal, brushing against the ridges of your teeth and sliding over your own. It was sloppy, hungry, his lower lip soft and swollen while you sucked on it. Running your fingers through his silky hair, pulling the hair tie out of the messy half-bun he'd thrown it into earlier, brushing back the bangs that framed the sharp planes of his face. 

He didn't pull away until you were almost out of air, tilting your chin up while you both sucked in ragged breaths. 

“Baby,” You softly said, stroking his hair like all the muscles in your thighs weren't pulled tight, like there wasn't a growing damp spot soaking through the lace separating you from him. His eyes were closed, melting into your touch, his head relaxing into the palm of your hand. “Dinner's getting cold.”

“I want something else to eat,” His voice was raspy, a low hum that came from the back of his throat. Going back to kissing you the second the last word left his mouth, his mouth marking what felt like every inch of your neck, the ghost of his lips going from butterfly kisses to hot and heavy sucks that would surely leave bruises by tomorrow, lewd pops! joining the sound of your broken breathing. 

The friction of his erection rubbing slowly against your clit through the barely-there fabric of your thong was tantalizing. One hand hiking higher and higher up your thigh until one sturdy finger slipped under the band of your underwear, toying with it while you tugged on his hair. You could barely think straight, brain addled between his hands and his mouth and even just his cologne, warm and woody and as intoxicating as the rest of him. 

“Oh?” You could hardly choke the syllable out, shakily exhaling when his teeth scraped against the fragile skin of your throat. Instinctively chasing the more, more, more your brain was screaming for, you rolled your hips up trying to soothe the already aching bundle of nerves starving for attention, a desperate moan escaping his throat at how snugly your body was pressed against his. 

“Angel, please.”

You paused, but he was too lost in the moment to notice. Nudging the straps of your dress down further until he freed both your breasts, assuming your flinch was just from the cold air on your nipples, bending down so he could pop one in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around it, teeth graze against the sensitive nub. 

It wasn't Suguru. 

Only one person you knew would call you something like that. Or beg before you'd even so much as touched his dick. 

Those stupid fucking assholes. 

Suguru - or Satoru, you technically supposed - bit down again, sucking a harsh spot on your tit, about to pull your panties down with his other hand just to accidentally tug too hard, the dainty fabric tearing with a loud rip! 

“Oops,” He paused to grin up at you, his smile too wide, eyes too big when they landed on yours. Only further convincing you of the growing suspicion that this was not in fact your boyfriend. 

Weird curse stuff just sorta came with the territory - you knew that when you started dating him. Especially considering some of the, uh, bizarre aftereffects that sometimes came with his technique. You experienced that firsthand when he came home one night a few months ago after swallowing some filthy fucking lust curse. 

But this? 

“Oops?” You echoed, chewing on your bottom lip while he licked a clean stripe back up your neck, kissing your jaw again while he removed the now-useless scrap of fabric between your thighs, not-so-discreetly pocketing it. 

“M’ sorry,” He murmured, hands drifting back down to your ass when he picked you up, not pausing his onslaught of kisses carrying you through the kitchen into the hall until he reached the bedroom, kicking the door open a little too hard, the knob hitting the wall behind it with a loud thud. 

You barely processed your back hitting the mattress, the hem of your dress bunching up past your hips as the familiar weight of his frame climbed on top of you. His mouth made its way south, eager to claim every inch for himself, spreading your thighs with those huge palms and practically panting at how exposed you were. 

If you were right, and this was Satoru, you guessed that meant you must've been talking to your real boyfriend on the phone earlier. You fucking knew something was off. And he didn't say a word. 

You were going to kill both of them. 

They shared almost everything. Were you really that surprised you hadn't turned out to be the exception?

“God, you're so gorgeous,” He wasn't really even talking to you, muttering to himself while he admired you splayed out in his best friend's bed, on his best friend's sheets. 

You'd never taken any of his teasing seriously. It was just in his nature. A player, a flirt. Sure, you’d never actually seen him with any girls. But you just always assumed they existed. 

Maybe it was just because he was in Suguru's body, but he seemed so sincere, your name falling in a dreamy little sigh from his lips. 

Suguru had to know what Satoru would do once he came home. So why let him? Unless you were the pawn or prize in whatever game they were playing. 

If that was the case, you weren't going to settle for anything less than being the winner. 

You reached down, running your fingers through his hair again, playing with the ends between your fingers and humming quietly. 

“Suguru,” You purred, reminding your friend exactly who he was supposed to be imitating as he hesitated between your thighs. 

“Hm?” He didn't, or couldn't, tear his gaze away, his rough thumb absentmindedly tracing figure-eights along your hip, probably not even aware of how much he was fidgeting. 

“I thought you were hungry?” You innocently pouted, batting your lashes at him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Whatever faint restraint he'd been exercising snapped. 

The sharp point of his nose bumping into your clit as he pressed his tongue hard and flat across your entrance, dark glossy eyes fluttering shut while he pushed down your thighs, pressing them into the plush mattress. 

Even if he looked like Suguru, it didn't feel like Suguru. 

He was messy, overeager, his tongue lapping up every ounce, every drop you offered, devoted swirls exploring you. Open-mouthed kisses where his taste buds scraping against the inside of your walls, groaning with every squirm and gasp he elicited. It didn't take him long to figure out where your weak spots were, working them over and over again, ignoring how tightly your thighs were clenched around his head, your fingers pulling at his hair. 

“S-shit,” You whined, clawing at the sheets when his tongue slipped out, feeling yourself throb at the absence until his mouth wrapped around your clit. It almost felt like he tore the next moan out of you, the neglected bud sore, blind need pooling in your gut while his tongue roughly circled it. 

His touch wasn't as practiced, wasn't as steady, but what he lacked in rhythm, he sure as fuck made up for in earnestness. 

Suguru Satoru was clawing at your hips, pulling you into the warmth of his mouth while your back arched off the bed, needy whimpers rolling off your tongue while he dove back in to taste you again. It could've been intentional, how he was constantly readjusting like he was still getting used to Suguru's body, but his nose kept ghosting against your clit, the knot in your stomach getting tighter every time he did, desperation clawing its way to the surface as the heat rose to your face when you remembered who was eating you out like he was fucking starving. 

“S-” You stopped yourself, not entirely convinced whose name was about to leave your mouth. 

“Mm?” 

You covered your mouth with your hand, muffling your moan when his nose edged against you again, all the nerves in your body begging for him to keep going. 

But he caught a glimpse of you, his thin brows scrunching together while he narrowed his eyes at you. Pushing off your thighs until he was hovering back over you, pulling your hand away from your lips. 

“Wanna hear you, pretty girl,” He complained, digging his knee up until it was snugly shoved against your entrance, leaving a damp spot on the baggy fabric of his pants, gradually applying more pressure as if the friction alone wasn't enough to drive you insane. 

“Sugu,” You mewled, pushing your bottom lip out just for him to snag it between his canines, capturing your mouth with another searing kiss. You wondered if Satoru's pride could handle hearing his best friend's name from your lips when he was the one on top of you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbled into your mouth, groaning when you bucked your hips up to meet the slow grind of your boyfriend's cock against your clit. You let your head rest against the soft pillow underneath you, a quiet whimper falling out when he smothered your face with more kisses. 

“Remember what we were talking about a few nights ago?” You asked, knowing he'd be forced to lie either way considering the conversation in question never happened, just something you made up. 

“What about it?” He tested the waters, doing a poor job at mimicking the sultry silk of your boyfriend's typically reserved voice. He pulled away until his nose was brushing against yours, your fingers grazing over his smooth cheek, his marble complexion. 

“I’ve just been thinking,” You drawled, running your thumb over his defined cheekbone, a nervous glint in his eyes he couldn't hide at how you trailed off. 

“And?” He pressed, something damp leaking through his pants onto your thigh. 

“Mm, maybe we should invite Gojo over,” You suggested, leaving the implication hanging in the air, feel the energy shift when it finally struck him. 

“Oh.” 

His cock twitched against you, begging to be set free while his mouth hung open. 

“You change your mind?” You teased, craning your neck up to plant butterfly kisses along his throat, tracing the tendons there the same way you'd done hundreds of times before. 

“N-no,” He stammered, a throaty grunt falling out when your hand trailed down his chest, running two fingers along the band of his pants before slipping them underneath his boxers, collecting the pre-cum that had leaked out and slathering up-and-down his thick shaft. The vein running along its side was bulging, throbbing more with every slow stroke of your fingers wrapped around his girth. “I-I can call him.”

He didn't really look like he wanted to though, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, jaw slack like your hand alone was heaven. 

“Uh-huh?” 

Suguru wasn't normally this sensitive, moaning at every little touch, putty in your palm. 

“Whatever you want,” He ran his tongue along his bottom lip like he was savoring the traces of you left there. It was probably wrong of you, but you sucked hard on his neck, hoping to leave a patchwork of blue and purple hickies by the time you finished, marks Suguru normally would have scolded you for, but Satoru seemed to worship, freely groaning every time your teeth brushed against him. He hissed when your grip tightened, rutting up into your hand. “Fuck, angel.”

Too distracted, too worked up to think of anything except the friction of your palm against his shaft, he didn't notice when your other hand slipped into his left pocket, plucking Suguru's phone out. Unlocking it just to find a message from ‘Gojo’ already there, along with all the unread ones you'd sent earlier. Your boyfriend so kindly informed him to go ahead and try, and what he was implying only irritated you more. 

Your reply was short. 

Come over. 

How long would it take him to show?

Gojo could teleport, and while you had no idea if that meant Suguru would also technically be able to, the idea of your boyfriend popping in to find you jerking him but also not-him off had your blood rushing south. Your frustration fighting the lust clouding your judgment, all the cells in your body currently occupied by the thought that one of them better make you cum soon.

“There,” You mumbled, and he peeked at you through half-lidded eyes, lost in his own sea of desire.  

“What?” He choked out, his voice thick as you continued pumping in your steady rhythm, his breath hitching. 

You dangled the phone in front of him briefly, having to stretch to deposit it on the nightstand by your boyfriend's thin pair of reading glasses he'd left there this morning. Straining to reach over and flick the lamp on, the fading evening sunlight throwing long shadows across your bedroom. His expression twisted for a second, and you couldn't tell what he must've been thinking, but it melted into almost ecstasy when your fingers grazed against his sensitive tip. 

“Toru should be here soon,” You murmured, slowly enunciating the nickname you rarely ever used for him, feeling him twitch at the way it rolled off your tongue. 

“Toru?” You were pretty sure he was trying to sound jealous, but he couldn't hide the hint of pride, his ego inflating just from you mentioning him.

“Mhm,” You purred, probably having more fun than you should at playing with him the same way he always toyed with you. “You know, I think he might have a little crush on me.”

“W-what?” Hearing your boyfriend stutter was delicious, to see his composure crack so easily. 

“You don't think so?” You teased, your hand jerking up and earning a low hiss. 

“I don't know,” He breathlessly murmured, his cheeks flushed pink. 

“Take your clothes off,” You tutted, arching your brows up and pausing there. 

His moan was nothing short of filthy, his cock jerking up when your hand didn't move. 

“You’re not gonna cum just from a little hand job, right honey?” You taunted, finger drifting across the slick slit along the top, another gutteral noise leaving him like he was letting you know he very well might finish before the real Suguru could show. 

“Course not,” He scoffed, but it came out more like a whine. 

“Then. Take. Your. Clothes. Off.” You repeated, punctuating each word with a slow drag of your fingers along the throbbing vein, watching his cheeks hollow while he sucked on his molars. 

“Fine,” He grimaced, pulling away to remove his shirt first, tugging it over his head and quickly working to pull his pants and boxers down in a single fluid movement. His cock was so red it must've hurt, damp and slick as it sprung up to smack into the hard muscle of his abdomen, your eyes lingering when they landed on his dark happy trail. 

When he wasn't talking, his mouth set in the same hard line and eyes fogged with hunger, it would be easy to convince yourself he was Suguru. 

The knock down the hall reminded you who was really the one standing naked in front of you.

“Should I-”

“The door's unlocked,” You shrugged before you could finish, propping yourself up on your elbows while you tilted your head to the side. “Besides, can't he just teleport inside?”

You waited for an excuse, for him to give their little game away, but he didn't. 

“Yeah, you're right,” He murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling you into his lap, taking the hem of your dress between his fingers and lifting it up over your head, discarding it with the rest of his clothes scattered on the floor. 

The door creaked open at the same moment he unclasped your bra, his tip twitching against the hood of your clit at the slow sound of footsteps approaching.

It was funny, they were lighter than Suguru's, a little softer, but they had the same rhythm, one you automatically recognized as his. 

“You nervous, baby?” You whispered, caressing his cheek. 

“No,” Satoru huffed, brows furrowed together tightly.

Liar. 

You were about to turn to face the open doorway, but his mouth landed on yours before you could, kissing you like it might be the last time he’d be able to. Which you guessed could be true, that even if Suguru told him he could try to fuck you, he might actually kill Satoru for it if he discovered just how close he'd already come. 

His lips tearing at yours, a hand on your lower back holding you firmly against his chest while his tongue traced your teeth, slid against your own. 

The actual Suguru cleared his throat.

But Satoru refused to back off, his thumb brushing over the ridges of your spine, canines tugging at your kiss-bruised lips. 

“Started without me, huh?” Gojo's taunting voice called out, the wooden frame of the door creaking like he was resting his weight on it. 

You managed to twist your head, lips pressing messy kisses along your neck while you assessed your new company. 

Intense blue eyes narrowed, white brows scrunched together and his jaw set tight while his gaze slowly scanned over your bare body, probably already littered with hickies and bruises. He reminded you of a big cat, how leisurely he measured you, his stare flitting from you to him and back to you. Hands slung in his pockets, amusement and maybe something darker, more possessive glimmering in his eyes when they locked with yours. The lights flickered for just a second, a small crackle hanging in the open space, the air thick and charged. 

“Sorry,” Satoru apathetically shrugged, unbothered while his other hand groped at your breast. 

Your boyfriend wasn't looking at him(self) though, focused entirely on you. 

“Suguru,” You let out a soft moan, not breaking his stare while Satoru hummed happily, rolling a nipple between his fingers, content to keep the charade up. 

The one you were actually talking to smirked. A little crooked smile smugly curling up to let you know he knew you knew. 

“Mm, what, sweetheart?” Satoru whispered into your skin. 

“You're being a little rude ignoring our guest,” You scolded, grinding against him just enough for him to get his teeth. 

“M’sorry,” He apologized again, warm eyes fluttering open when you climbed off of him, his fingertips grazing against your wrist in an attempt to stop you before you started walking over to where Suguru was leaning against the frame, and his usually passive expressions were even harder to read when they were hidden under a new face. 

You hadn't been nervous before. 

But walking up to Gojo while you were naked, even if you knew it was actually your Suguru was unnerving, anxiety pricking at you when you pressed a finger against his chest, just for nothing to stop you. Heart lurching in your chest, lungs no longer working when you realized infinity was on. But then he let out a small, almost inaudible sigh, and the tip of your finger was suddenly wrinkling the tight white shirt covering his broad frame. 

The dull thrum of blood rushing to your head filled your ears at the way his unnatural eyes seemed to be scrutinizing every inch of your skin, how much they seemed to burn for you the longer he looked. 

“Well?” You cocked your head to the side, hoping to come across as far more confident than you really were when you knew he'd be able to see straight through you. 

“You wanted me here,” Suguru simply said, choosing his words carefully. The game had changed, morphed into something new, trying to make the other break first, come clean, an implicit sort of understanding exchanged in his heavy state. 

“I thought you'd be a little more excited,” You tried to sigh like you were disappointed, starting to turn around just for a hand to snag your waist, his tongue clicking when he pulled you back. 

“Did I say I wasn't?” He muttered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his arm snaking around your back to hold you closer until your tits were practically squished against his chest. 

Your attempt to slip away was futile, his grip only getting tighter when you peered up at him, your stomach twisting when all you found was Gojo's face looking down at you, the messy white hair and the bright blue eyes you’d never seen so close, pretty pink lips pursed together. 

It's not like you'd never realized he was attractive. But it'd always been more like a fact, something you'd never really paid attention to. You realized with abject horror that holy shit, you were attracted to him when your breath hitched in your throat, your thighs pressing together at his sudden proximity. 

“You’re a dick,” You mumbled, squirming under his hold. You weren't positive which one you were talking to - honestly, probably both. 

“Oh yeah?” Suguru chuckled, the sound of Gojo's lighthearted laughter doing nothing to soothe your nerves. 

“Yeah,” You managed a tiny nod, sucking in short inhales, feeling like you were being crushed under his piercing gaze. 

Someone else's hand found your hip, familiar callouses claiming you as a firm chest pressed against your back, Satoru's other one tangling itself in your hair and tugging, your head forced to tilt back to look up at the dark-haired man you were used to waking up with. 

Caught between the two of them, not sure if you were ensnared in their trap or if was the other way around when you craned your neck up to smash a kiss against your not-boyfriend’s mouth, forcing the real one to watch as your tongue slipped between his lips, explored every nook and cranny you’d already committed to memory. 

“Honey,” You whispered when you broke away, studying his jaw, all his familiar features, somehow still stuck reminding yourself that it wasn't Suguru when he looked at you like that. The unspoken affection, the searing adoration in the amber glow when it caught the light from the lamp. 

“What’s my girl want?” Satoru teased, a deep hum in your ear. 

“I want you,” You bit your lip when he gave your hair another tug, swallowing hard. 

“You heard her,” Satoru mockingly addressed Suguru, oblivious to the fact he was really the one left out, unaware that the charade had been up before he’d gotten his first real taste of you. 

“You can watch,” You let your gaze linger on Suguru, while Satoru pulled you free from his grasp and tossed you onto the bed. 

All you heard was one short exhale before Suguru relegated himself to the oversized armchair in the corner of the room. It was supposed to be a small reading nook, tucked between the tall bookcase he built for you over the summer and the tall mirror leaning against the wall. Certainly not meant for this. 

But his expression didn't change. 

Lips pressed together, the muscles in his jaw pulled tight while he watched the bounce of your breasts when you hit the mattress, watched his own hands pry your thighs apart to reveal how wet you were, a few faint red splotches staining your skin to hint at what had happened before he arrived. He didn't miss the way you were watching him either. A small part of you wondered just how much he could see with Gojo's technique, considering he hadn't shown up with any of the blindfolds or bandages or sunglasses the latter usually always had with him. 

But Satoru snapped you back to reality, grabbing both wrists in one huge hand and pinning them above your head, nudging your legs just enough to line himself up properly, his movements still jerky, still adjusting to his new proportions. 

You had one singular moment of clarity. A split second where you realized you were actually about to let Gojo fuck you. Okay, yes, he was in Suguru's body, it was still technically him. 

And the next moment he was sinking into you, and fuck, you nearly forgot everything at how fast he filled you. Whimpers your brain could barely recognize as your own falling out freely when he started fucking you like you really were his girl. 

Dark bangs falling in his face, the first beads of sweat sitting his forehead, hovering over you like he was trying to sear what you looked like underneath him in his brain. 

His thumb digging into the divot of your wrist, the mattress creaking when he found a pace bordering on brutal. Each thrust hard and fast, his hips smacking against your skin while you hooked one leg around his waist, your chest heaving with every shuddered breath. 

“Mine,” He murmured, low enough you suspected he hadn't intended for Suguru to hear, but in the blurred edges of your vision, you caught the way your boyfriend's fist tightened, how white his knuckles were. 

You figured it was a fifty-fifty chance on whether Satoru was saying it purely to piss him off or if he was trying to stay in-character. 

“Mm, all yours,” You whined back, straining under his grip, absolutely hoping to get a reaction out of Suguru. 

You'd never expected Satoru to be so, well, desperate. 

It almost felt like he was trying to brand you, ingrain himself so deeply you'd never be able to root him out. 

“I wanna touch you,” You jutted out your bottom lip, flexing the tendons in your wrist where his hold was starting to ache. His hips stuttered at your request, pausing to recollect himself, his hair hanging down in a thick curtain. Releasing your hands with a heavy breath, cock twitching when you reached up to brush his bangs back. 

It had to be muscle memory. 

But you could've sworn you saw his lips mouthing an ‘I love you’ before they met yours. 

Satoru never really gave your thoughts the time to linger on anything though, hips pounding into you, trying to press the shape of you into the squeaking mattress, the bed’s wooden headboard smacking into the wall in time with every forceful thrust. 

Mumbling mindless compliments into your skin between every kiss, promises of how pretty you looked like this, how much he was yours. 

As much as you loved hearing those words come from Geto's mouth, the shriveled up leftovers of your logic reminded you that just because Satoru never shut up, it didn't mean he actually meant any of it. 

It was just his dick talking. 

Probably. 

He had one hand behind your neck, cradling your head up so it was easier for him to kiss you, distracting you from where his other one was heading until it was already there, his fingers forming a sharp ‘V’ as they skimmed over your clit, teasingly kimming over it just to return to massage rough patterns over it, not very discreetly experimenting with what made you gasp, thighs squeezing around him. Your own fingers tangled in his hair pulling free to scramble for his broad shoulder blades, the nails scratching down his back earning you a heedy moan, his hips suddenly bucking up, and you weren't sure what pushed you over, the tip grinding hard against the spongy little spot at the back or how he rolled the already overworked bundle of nerves between his index and thumb, but you were crying out, tiny stars dotting your vision eyes clenched shut, legs quivering when you came.

“Fuck, you're gonna make me-” His quiet curse was cut short with a raspy moan, stalling out inside you, frozen except for the breaths he managed to suck in and force out, finishing earlier than he'd intended.

The thick warmth of his cum already started to leak down the inside of your thighs, coating his still-throbbing shaft when he reluctantly pulled out.

You kissed him anyway. 

The same way you had when you still thought he was Suguru, just a tender one pressed to the edges of his lips before he untangled himself from you, flipping over next to you to stare at the ceiling fan slowly spinning overhead. 

Suguru laughed. 

“It's my turn, isn't it?” 

The lilt of his voice, the way his mouth quirked up in half a smile stole the breath from your throat. 

You could feel your chin turn up, but you couldn't control it, couldn't move when it felt like all you did was blink and he was standing up, article after article of clothing being peeled off, tossing them over to the half-empty laundry basket in the closet. Satoru was still dazed, blinking lazily next to you, head reclined back on the pillow, Adam's apple bobbing through his ragged breathing. 

“Well?” Suguru mimicked your tone from earlier, padding over to your side of the bed left only in a plain white pair of boxers. Propping yourself up on your elbows, your eyes automatically trailing down his sculpted chest, the defined muscles of his abs down to the trail of white peeking out above the band of his underwear. In a fluid movement, he was shedding those off too, his cock springing up the second it was free. 

And shit, Gojo really had won the fucking generic lottery when he was born, because how the fuck was that fair? Even his dick was pretty. Not quite as thick as Suguru's, but longer, a slight curve to it, the tip a tantalizing pink. 

You had to swallow the spit pooling in your mouth. 

“Forget how to use your words?” He tsk-ed, one knee sinking into the mattress next to you, a soft hand slipping down to the small of your back and pulling into the warmth of his chest. Picking you up, holding you how he always had, cradling you and carrying you in front of the mirror. But he smelled like Satoru, the candied scent of his cologne, the sweetness flooding your nostrils. 

“No,” You choked out, loathing how small it sounded. Staring at the sharp outline of his collarbones so you didn't have to look at his face, brain refusing to reconcile who you were looking at with who it actually was.

Suguru wasn't having it. 

It was hard to tell what happened first when you still felt so dizzy, how fast he sat down, his hand twisting you around so you were on his lap, his chest on your back, his erection pressed against your spine. Forced to meet your own glossy eyes in the mirror, the necklace of hickeys left around your throat, your trembling body perched prettily on Gojo's thighs. His fingers pulling your thighs apart, repositioning you until you were directly above the dripping tip, your mouth dry at the thought of taking all of him like this. 

You didn't think it'd fit. 

For all your teasing and taunting, he was about to give you back everything you gave him tenfold. 

“Su-” You nearly slipped up, blinking too fast. 

But he shoved two fingers in your mouth, muffling your voice before Satoru overheard and spoiled the fun. 

Automatically, you parted your lips for him, swirling your tongue around his knuckles, sucking softly, lashes fluttering closed while he ghosted over your entrance, his free hand tugging your hips down, pushing himself in inch by excruciating inch. 

“C’mere,” He murmured in your ear, forcing past barely-there ring of resistance, all your muscles squeezing hard around him like he was the interloper here. 

“Oh, oh,” You panted, probably incoherent talking with his fingers pressed against your tongue like that. Your thighs quivering with the strain of being spread so open, your sore walls stretching around the delicious length of his shaft, the veins throbbing inside you while he continued to hold you down, slowly filling you up.

“Sweetheart,” He purred, using the same saccharine voice Gojo always did, and you almost jolted, squirming, but he just chuckled dryly, clicking his tongue as he paused, the sound not quite covering your own whimper. Your chin tilted up, head reclining back to rest against his chest, pushing puffs of air out of your nose, clawing for some tiny sliver of control. 

“Fuck,” The sound of Suguru's voice from across the room, Satoru finally noticing what you and your boyfriend were doing with his body. 

Peeking through heavy lashes to find his dark gaze in the mirror, his jaw slack at the sight of you looking so fucked-out on top of him, the needy noises pouring out despite the fingers still stuck in your mouth. 

“Eyes on me,” Your boyfriend muttered, his quiet voice firm when you pulled your attention back to the man behind you in the mirror. 

Cold blue eyes locked onto yours, his pale cheeks making the flush show easier, his lips a pretty shade of pink while they left phantom kisses across the column of your throat. 

“Please,” You whispered against his fingers, his twitch feeling more like torture the longer he refused to move. 

He pulled his fingers out, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip with a pleased sigh, slowly skimming his hand down your front so he could hold your other hip, his touch surprisingly delicate, controlled. 

“You really want me to fuck you while your boyfriend watches?” Suguru mocked, and you guessed it wasn't even incorrect in his assessment even if he was just playing his role. And really, he made a far better Gojo than the cheap imitation Satoru had been giving you of Geto. 

You shakily nodded, your own hands gripping onto his, fingers laced between his much longer ones, the pad of your thumb rubbing tiny circles over his knuckles, a silent reminder that you loved him despite whatever lengths you were both willing to go to win this stupid game. 

“Please,” You repeated. 

He bottomed out before you could breathe, his hips jerking up at the same time as he yanked you down, his tip not grazing, but smashed against your womb, deep enough that you were instinctively falling forward, trying to wiggle away, but he pulled you back before you could hit the mirror. 

Whatever sound came out was strangled, your brain and your guts quite literally being scrambled by his rough thrusts, his hands easing you up just to spear you back down, feeling almost like you were being split open on his intimidating length.

“I-I,” You were stammering, gasping for air when every stroke seemed to slam the breath right out of you. 

“What, baby?” He teased, his left hand drifting up to the bare strip of your midriff below your belly button, pressing down on it as if he could feel himself there. 

“S’ too much,” You practically slurred, drunk on him and the stretch and the burn. He leaned in closer until his canines were teasing at your earlobe, shivering at how much of his body was already connected with yours. 

“My love,” He coo-ed, for your ears only, lost under the filthy smack of his hips against your skin, the sloppy noises of him bucking up into you. “You can take it.”

It was embarrassing how easily he was pushing you back towards the edge, already on the precipice of another orgasm. Knowing your body like the back of his hand, angling himself to hit the same spongy spot as before, tears brimming along your lashes at how wrong right it felt. 

How wrecked he looked in the mirror didn't help. 

The stark white hair glued to his forehead with sweat, the muscles straining in his face, his bicep bulging, his fingers splayed out further to press down harder on your stomach, your body locking up when he drove himself deeper. 

“S-Satoru,” You whined, starting to wonder if his dick was somehow lodged in your throat with how hard it was to manage less than a handful of syllables out. 

“Mm?”

“Yeah?”

Idiots. 

Suguru paused mid-thrust, sighing, stark-white eyebrows furrowed in frustration when he realized Satoru actually responded at the same time as him. 

You both turned, peering over Gojo's shoulder at the real him. 

You didn't think you'd ever seen Geto make that face, the panic that tinged his features, his mouth hanging open like even Satoru couldn't believe he'd given himself away. 

“I-uh, listen,” He started to speak again, until his dark eyes narrowed, belatedly realizing that all your faces reflected was mild annoyance instead of confusion. 

“I think I still won,” You peered up at your boyfriend with a little huff, pouting. 

“Did you now?” He wryly murmured back, and you knew you lost when all it took was a harsh roll of his hips for you to moan his name this time. 

“Shit, Suguru,” You whined, gripping his right hand tight to anchor yourself when you were already fully at his whim. You were throbbing around him, the heat building from within, the swollen bundle of nerves starting to ache from his neglect. 

“Giving up already?” He taunted. 

You stayed silent, lips pressed together tight to hold in what might've been a rebuttal or begging. 

“Oh?” 

He hoisted you up, your whine at how empty you felt without him ringing through the room until he positioned you on the bed, manhandling you into place until you were on your hands and knees in front of his best friend. Satoru was blinking hard,  sitting up and staring at you like he couldn't believe you were real. 

It was something you'd seen before. 

The silky black hair, the bangs stuck to his skin, the veins popping out on his fist when it was wrapped around his cock, a weird sort of comfort reassuring you at the soft sound of your name falling out of his mouth. 

“When did you figure-”

“The kitchen,” You started to shrug, a barely-there smile curling up until Suguru suddenly slid inside, not stopping until he managed to snugly force himself in to the hilt, your lips falling open as you made a strangled yelp. 

The force of it pushing you forward, your hand grabbing one of Geto's sturdy thighs, scrambling for something to hold onto, Gojo's nails clawing at your hips, probably leaving little crescent moons on your skin. You doubted Suguru even realized it, his own usually clipped too-short to ever leave marks. 

Geto's cock was barely inches away, the thick vein running along the side pulsing, Satoru apparently throbbing at the sight of him fucking you like you were on some invisible leash. 

He might as well have been drooling. 

“I think he needs a little help, baby,” Suguru was making fun of him, but you didn't think Satoru had it in him to care about anything other than the need that was surely coiling just as tightly inside him as it was in you. 

“Yeah?” You asked him, trailing your hand higher until it was cupping his balls, just close enough for your fingers to brush against where his own were wrapped so tightly around his dick. “You want my help, Toru?”

His hand jerked up hard when you leaned in to slowly wrap your mouth around his tip, the point of your tongue slowly swirling over it. 

You were content to keep teasing him, but your boyfriend had something else in mind, his next thrust unexpectedly forcing you to take Satoru in, the vein thrumming along your tongue as he hit the back of your throat. You nearly gagged, barely stopping yourself from biting down when you couldn't even breathe. 

“Doin’ so good,” Suguru murmured softly, appreciatively, trailing delicate fingers across your spine to stop right at the nape of your neck, a smooth palm resting against it. You shivered, your shoulders rolling back just for him to push your head down on the last couple inches you hadn't managed to fit in your mouth before. 

“Oh fuck.”

You were inclined to agree with Satoru. 

Actually gagging now, your cheeks hollowed out in your weak attempts to bob your head up-and-down, but he was acting like it was the best head he'd ever received, his groans sticking out over the sound of skin-on-skin and the never-ending whines of the mattress (and you.)

“You okay?” Suguru muttered in your ear, his chest resting on top of your back, planting soft kisses over the sore bruises lining your collarbone. Checking in to make sure it wasn't too much like he didn't already know you just wanted more. Filled-up and fucked-out and somehow still starving for whatever affection either one would offer. 

“Mhm,” You moaned, the sound from your throat practically making the cock in your mouth jump at how needy it sounded. 

Suguru was the kind of man who'd put your needs first. 

Just in his, uh, own way. 

Something almost intangible stretching you further, almost like Suguru had somehow managed to slip a condom on without even slipping out of you. Your mind was too hazy to process what was happening while it expanded in the tiniest of increments, your body reflexively jolting forward with nowhere to go. Whimpering meekly, your fingers digging into Geto's muscled thighs like it'd help any. 

“Oh, that's mean, Suguru,” Satoru chuckled hoarsely, apparently realizing what was happening before you had. 

It wasn't until you noticed that there weren't any nails sinking into your skin, no honeyed kisses tracing your neck that you figured out Suguru was using infinity again. 

“I'm mean?” Suguru wryly scoffed, more amused than annoyed considering he was still buried deep enough inside you he could probably feel your guts. “What do you think, sweetheart?”

He leaned in impossibly close, shuddering at the immense weight of the distance bearing down on you. 

Even if they weren't both stuffing you full, you didn't know if you'd be able to formulate a reply. Stuck dumbly shaking your head no to take Suguru's side, shamelessly grinding your ass back against him, reduced to chasing your most basic instinct. 

This time Satoru laughed, laced with a tight sort of disbelief. But you went back down on him, running your tongue along the vein and feeling the automatic rut of his hips, the laughter turning into a breathy moan of your name. Reaching out to caress your face while he fucked it, clearly close to cumming again.

Probably bruising the walls of your throat with the way he was rutting up into it, the girth forced up against the roof of your mouth. The sweet nothings rolling so easily off his tongue clued you in before the vein pulsing along the swirls of your tongue did, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat, the tension in his muscles all relaxing at the same time while you struggled to swallow all of it. 

“God, I fucking adore you,” Satoru groaned, not making a move to pull out this time even after the last drops leaked out. 

“Watch your mouth, Satoru,” Suguru warned. 

“Well, technically, it's yours,” Satoru reminded him. 

Infinity flickered off. It was hard to tell if it was on purpose or if maybe it was too much to maintain.

But Satoru slipped out of your mouth, watching you through half-lidded eyes, the pupils so wide they almost looked entirely black. Combing his fingers through his long hair, untangling a tiny knot you probably put in it tugging it earlier. 

“Suguru,” You mewled, glancing over your shoulder at the white-haired sorcerer behind you, immediately regretting it at how tightly your stomach knotted at the reminder of whose body was fucking you. 

You hated to admit it, but you were nearing your limit and you wouldn't put it past him to work you well over it if you didn't concede defeat soon. 

“Yeah?” He softened, his harsh pumps easing, his thumb hooked over your hip tracing tiny patterns. 

“You win,” You muttered under your breath, biting down on your lip. 

“I know,” His voice was low, rolling straight through you, only stoking the desperation clawing its way up from your core. 

Losing was still fun when it was with him. 

His hand slipping around, not having to fumble to immediately find your clit, pinching at the sore bud just to make you gasp. 

“Say please,” He teased, your company clearly in mind considering how much he was making you beg for it. 

Satoru wasn't wrong. Suguru could be mean. You just liked it. 

“Please,” Your whisper was more of a rattle, your vocal cords straining to get the noise out. But it was enough. The pressure of his fingers working circles over your clit, massaging the same determined motions against it, damp streaks trailing down your cheeks at the tears brimming over your lashes. 

The crescendo finally cresting, a white-hot wave of pleasure hitting you when pressed down just right. Blinding you to anything else other than the way he burned inside you, the ache in your heart at his proximity. You were only dimly aware of him cumming a handful of seconds later, just a faint inkling of surprise that he hadn't pulled out considering he was in Gojo's body, your already slick thighs pressing together when he pulled out like it'd contain what was dripping down them. 

Your knees buckled, body simply refusing to support your weight and brain doing nothing to stop it. 

Satoru caught you, leaning over to hook a sturdy arm around you and pull you on top of him, his other palm pressing your head down against his broad frame. His skin was still sticky, slick with sweat, every breath he forced in and out of his lungs making his chest move, the steady thrum of his heartbeat reverberating in your ear. 

You didn't have enough strength left to move, letting him stroke your hair softly in silence. 

Even if he wasn't currently stuck in Suguru's body, you suspected you'd still let him. 

"You're okay," You barely processed his smooth murmur, still too lost in the haze of what happened. 

"I would like my girlfriend back now," Suguru dryly remarked, a second set of hands sliding up your hips to grab your waist. 

"Mine."

Did Satoru even realize how much he sounded like a five year old trying to steal someone else's toy on the playground?

Suguru crudely laughed, and your shiver was involuntary, how wrong it sounded to hear Gojo's body sound like that. 

But he tugged you free from his own body's grasp, pulling you into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, a hand on your back to support you while he stood in front of you. 

You didn't know if you could ever get used to this.

Staring at Gojo and knowing it was really Suguru, hearing his voice and feeling his hands, picking up on all the little mannerisms you'd grown attached to over the past couple years, how strange it felt to watch someone else do them. 

"Are you-" You paused, flinching a little at how raw your throat felt. "Um, how long are you guys going to be stuck like this?"

"Dunno," Satoru chirped from the other end of the bed behind you while Suguru sighed, rolling those pretty blue eyes. 

"Shoko said it might be a day or two," Suguru answered slowly, his serious stare focused on you, a deep crease between his brows that you'd never seen on Gojo before. 

"Might?" You questioned, the first icy pinpricks of something close to dread starting to sink in at his careful choice of words. 

"She has no idea," Satoru unhelpfully chimed in again, revealing what you guessed was probably the truth judging by Suguru's strained expression. 

"You shouldn't worry about it, okay?" 

It was pretty hard not to worry when those were the words leaving Gojo's mouth. 

He leaned down to kiss you, softer this time, cupping your cheeks. You peeked, unable to help yourself. His sharp nose brushing against yours, his snowy lashes fluttered shut, the white brows peeking out above them. 

"Kiss her like you mean it," Satoru heckled, the bed creaking while he got up. Suguru scoffed at his snipe, barely breaking the kiss. But he did listen, his teeth grazing against your swollen lower lip to dip his tongue further in. 

“That better?” Suguru sarcastically remarked when he pulled away. 

“Could you do it again so I can get a picture?” Satoru was holding up his own phone, snagged from the pants Suguru had discarded earlier, his camera actually pointed towards where you were currently sitting in front of his actual body. 

You were huffing, everything aching when you scrambled back to grab a pillow from the top of the bed to throw at him, giggling to yourself when you remembered he no longer had infinity to block it, the pillow smacking him straight in the face. 

Suguru laughed at him, a lopsided smile forming when the six eyes landed on you. 

“Don't think you're off the hook either,” You pouted, common sense and reasoning starting to trickle in for the first time since Satoru showed up. 

“You wanna punish me first?” Satoru cheekily volunteered himself, not making a move to put any of his, or you guessed really any of Geto's clothes back on. 

“Shut up,” Your face was still flushed, turning away, not sure how to even keep eye contact with either of them when they were swapped like this. 

“Guess we should all just spend the night here, huh?”

poll on what happens in pt. two here

mini a/n: pls lemme know if you enjoyed hehe!!! this is meant to be a oneshot but honestly I'm so tempted to write literally a prequel a sequel and a spinoff bc I simply cannot help myself lmfao <3

"What's happening?" You huffed at him, attempting to reclaim a fraction of your dignity despite him seeing you in far worse states than this before. He'd held you when you were disheveled, thighs pinned to your chest as he prepared you for things you were supposed to do with your future husband one day. With sweat sticking to your forehead and your body shaking, face scrunched up with pure pleasure from his nimble fingers and tongues. He didn't even react at your obvious worry, watching you swallow hard as the panic still freely pounded in your chest, holding onto his strong forearm to steady yourself. "Where are we?"

He smiled at you, letting go of your side to caress your cheek, your heart stupidly fluttering at the gesture you both knew he shouldn't be doing. Not when he was meant to stand guard for you.

You were his duty. His life.

He was only ever supposed to be a supporting role in yours.

"Somewhere safe."

“Safe?” You echoed, blinking up at him without understanding.

“I brought your favorite books,” he murmured, softly stroking your hair as he looked down at you. “And more of those paints I got you last year for your birthday.”

“But why are we-”

“Your parents were about to sell you off to a brute,” he grimaced, even when he was speaking to you so tenderly. Dark eyes hardening as they narrowed just enough to let you know he was serious.

"He wasn't-" You started to protest, thinking back to the single time you'd actually seen him at a banquet a handful of months ago. Sure, you hadn't spoken directly to you, not when you were so closely supervised, but you watched him from across the room.

There were men far worse than that.

“He would have just used you for heirs while he slept with half his court,” he dismissively scoffed.

But, wasn’t that you were meant for?

A pretty tool to be purchased as a means for peace between kingdoms?

You always knew it would happen to you. The arranged marriage, having heirs, living in a foreign place with no friends.

All your manners classes, the rigid rules you'd spent your life learning, they were all leading up to this.

You were born to be a queen.

"I can't just run from my duty," you murmured, reaching back up to drag your thumb over his defined jaw, attempting to soften the blow of disappointment. He must've spent a long time preparing this place for you, ready to commit treason just to do what he thought was best.

Forever your knight, always thinking of you when you both knew that the feelings you harbored for each other would never amount to more than the handful of nights you'd stolen together.

"And you can't expect me not to do mine."

Your mouth hung open, not sure what to do with his defiance. Just staring at his unchanging expression, resolve etched into every strong line of his face while your hand fell from it.

“This is for your own good,” he promised, leaning close enough to press a chaste kiss to the top of your forehead. “You’ll see.”

You hadn't seen three months in.

He wouldn't let you leave.

Refused to budge even when you begged with your best set of puppy dog eyes as you asked about how your family was doing, if you'd been declared missing, what was happening back at home.

His jaw would always clench, dark eyes swirling as he cupped your face and told you that you worried too much.

Solemnly swore your parents weren't even looking for their missing princess.

No, apparently, they'd just sent someone who looked enough like you to not arouse suspicion to the prince you were meant to marry.

Suguru dried your tears with kisses, dragging his tongue over the damp spots they left, his honeyed voice reassuring you that no one could replace you to him.

An imposter was out there in your place, pretending to be you, and you were in a tower trying to find the positive in this...monotony.

It wasn't like it was so terrible being trapped here with him.

Homemade meals. No more awful meetings or balls you were forced to attend. Nights spent in the warmth of Suguru's body with no fear of getting caught and condemned for what your heart wanted.

The days drifted by lazily. Napping in your bed. Reading the books he brought you. Painting by the small window.

Pacing your floor when the minutes started to drag, counting how many steps it took to get from one side of the room to the other. You even started to teach yourself how to sew, although you had to practically plead with Suguru to bring you the supplies for them.

The tower itself was cramped. Your room led directly out to a spiraling staircase, with uneven stone steps and a nauseating drop down the middle. The steps widened as you went down, but you'd barely been able to bring yourself to make it further than Suguru's living space below yours.

It was bigger than yours, but more...quaint, you supposed?

Rickety wooden furniture. A thin blanket over his bed. A single table with two chairs for you to eat with him.

He knew you hated heights.

So Suguru usually ended up coming to you instead.

A picnic blanket spread on your floor. Flowers freshly plucked from the forest below. A candle lit like it made this romantic.

And despite your determination to convince him that you could both still return to the palace, or even start a new life in a quiet port town somewhere, you were the one starting to crumble under his coaxing.

What was so great about your old life anyway?

No one could make you do anything up here. For the first time, your life was now yours.

It took you another year to realize your life was actually his.

Well, considering you lost track of time, you could only guess it had been a year. Watching the seasons come and go, leaves falling off the trees and snow capping the branches until the weather warmed again.

There was only so much painting to pass the time you could do before everything became boring.

Staring out the window waiting for something to happen, Suguru's hand on the small of your back while he delicately brushed your hair off your shoulder.

There weren't any scissors for you to trim it with. Not a single sharp item left anywhere within reach. He refused to entertain the idea of chopping some of it off either, insisting on taking care of it himself, toying and twirling the ridiculously long strands down as they cascaded over your worn dress.

It had always been long, but whatever was in the food he'd been feeding you had made it grow far faster here, trailing along the floor wherever you walked. He brushed it out for you, washed it and dried it while he made excuse after excuse not to cut it.

"Let down your hair, princess," Suguru called out from below, and for a brief second, you considered telling him that his joke wasn't funny - even though you suspected after another year or two, it might really be long enough to reach the ground. You stared down at him as he shielded his face from the sun, a hand on your hip as your brows scrunched together.

"Come inside," you shouted, struggling not to frown as you watched him walk out of your line of vision, a basket slung over his shoulder, probably with food from the closest town - not that he'd ever let you see it for yourself.

No, he locked your door when he left.

Kissed your forehead and promised to be back as soon as possible whenever he had errands to run.

It took him nearly fifteen minutes to make it back up to your door, the keys clinking as he unlocked it from the outside, swinging it open with a loud creak as you refused to look back at him.

"How's my beautiful girl?" He murmured as he approached, lips grazing against the shell of your ear while his hands traced your frame.

"I'm getting sick of being up in here," you half-whispered as you confessed what had been plaguing you for weeks, your voice raw from how little you'd been using it lately. "Can't we go to a village? Just for a day? We could wear disguises or-"

"No," he firmly said, pressing a kiss on your collarbone as you let out an annoyed huff.

"Please, Suguru," you whined. "It's been so long-"

"I'm not taking any risks when it comes to you," he scoffed a little, as if you were asking him for something absurd.

"Didn't you say no one was even looking for me?" You tilted your head to the side, pushing out your bottom lip like it would make his impenetrable resolve finally fracture.

"Anyone who saw your hair-"

"So cut it," you stomped your foot, swallowing hard as your lashes fluttered up at him.

"No," he repeated, refusing to budge.

His fingers were already unlacing the back of your dress, making quick work of loosening it while you struggled to come up with an argument that might sway him just for him to spin you around to face him.

Could you somehow convince him to take you on just a single outing?

Was it truly too much? Were you a moron for wanting more than just this?

Your dress was falling by your feet before you could think of anything - and his mouth was on your throat to make sure you wouldn't be able to.

Kiss after kiss pressed against your skin, lips tantalizingly skimming along the tendon until his teeth were grazing over your jaw. His hands making their way over your waist, fingers digging into your sides as he suddenly hoisted you up.

Carrying you back to your bed, careful not to step on your hair as he continued to pepper you with his gentle affection.

"Did I not make it perfect for you here, princess?" He purred, tenderly placing you back down on the soft mattress, making sure to drape your hair off the side. His own was falling in his face as his mouth slowly traveled down the valley of your breasts, across your belly button and pausing just below it to peek up at you. "I try so hard."

He did, didn't he?

Suguru had risked his head just by bringing you here. Did his best to make sure you weren't wanting for anything - that you wouldn't go without the luxuries you'd be lavished in your entire life.

Couldn't you just be happy for him when he was working so hard for you?

"I know," you muttered softly, guilt creeping in while his soft purple eyes bore into you. "I just-"

"Want to throw away everything I've given you for what? You'd rather hang around some peasants than me?" He grumbled, stare narrowing as he pushed your thighs up against your chest, like he had some point to prove.

"No, that's not-" You started again, but then his fingers slipped inside you, two thick digits digging deeper to stretch you out - and shut you up.

"Not what?" He dryly mocked, cocking his head to the side, well aware you would't be able to answer as he shoved his fingers deeper, dragging them against your walls.

"Don't be mean," you hissed at him, chest constricting as your lungs squeezed in time with your cunt. Unable to breathe when his digits felt like they were forcing all the air out with each consecutive thrust.

"It hurts my feelings when you want to leave me," he said, but his condescending tone didn't exactly lend any credence to what he was saying. Still, your heart stalled anyway, mind instinctively working to win him back.

"I don't want to leave you," you argued. "Just here. For a little bit."

"For a little bit," he sarcastically echoed, an anxious pit opening in the bottom of your stomach as you shook your head.

"Suguru," you whined, wiggling your hips as he drove those digits all the way in, working you open with an almost clinical precision.

"What, angel?" He hm-ed, knowing exactly what you wanted - and pretending he didn't.

You knew you should be mad. Put your foot down and demand that he take you out. But when he was looking at you like this, his fingers dimpling your skin and his mouth pampering you, you couldn't bring yourself to do either.

No matter how much you missed the sun. Smelling fresh flowers in your garden. Talking to a stranger instead of someone you knew every damn detail of.

"Come on, Sugu, would it be so bad?" You tried to charm him, but he just clicked his tongue.

"What do I have to do to keep you happy, hm?" He asked, sapping your strength without even trying. Drawing it out with every fast drag of his fingers. "Fuck you until you forget about these silly ideas?"

He pulled his fingers out, mouth pressed in a thin line just for him to tug his pants down enough to free his cock.

It bounced up against his shirt, pre-cum leaving a stain on it before he wrapped his fist around his thick base.

Watching it bob as he got back on top of you, one hand still pressing your thigh down to keep you open as he nudged his fat tip against your entrance.

His chin tilting up as he started pushing in, his jaw flexing as his shoulders tensed, testing his own self-control with each inch he slid inside of you.

You used to think your knight was an expert at restraining himself.

Back when he'd keep a straight face during banquets despite how often you'd pester him about sneaking away. Composed and collected until he finally got to claim you in private.

And now, he'd stolen you.

Turned your dreamy little secret into a reality that had started to stretch towards a forever.

You were still reaching up for him, tangling your fingers in his dark hair while he reached up to softly stroke the top of yours. The weight of him pressing down as he drove his cock in further, making sure to fill you up until he was fucking every thought that wasn't about him out of that pretty head of yours.

"My princess doesn't know what she needs," he murmured, his voice thick with hunger, all dark and dangerous as he dragged you down with him.

"I need you," you whispered, voice cracking when he abruptly bottomed out, his tip smushed against your cervix as your mouth parted in a broken gasp.

You needed him to let you breathe a little. To understand that you couldn't just spend eternity in this little world he crafted for the two of you.

But none of it actually came out.

Just more messy moans, your fingers clawing at the blankets while he just thrusted into you again and again.

The bed whined under your combined weight, your thighs trembling as his hips smacked down into you. His mouth was colliding into yours, sucking on your bottom lip while he wrecked you without hesitation.

Trying to ruin you.

Rip your heart out to have for himself. Hold it hostage too.

"Maybe I should put a baby in here," he grunted when the kiss broke, his breath warm on your cheek as he gritted his teeth. Stare drifting down to your stomach with a determination you knew you should be scared of. "You wouldn't leave our baby, would you?"

He knew exactly what to say to get to you.

Which strings to pull to turn you into his perfect puppet.

No better than a plaything. A doll to be dressed up in his very own dollhouse.

"I-I-" You stammered, but shit, when he was stuffing you so full, you couldn't find enough sanity left to string coherent words together. Left writhing and whimpering as his cock rocked and rutted into all your favorite spots.

"You what? Want one?" He teased, your heart hammering faster at the idea of actually being pregnant.

Carrying his child while you were still confined to this room.

Would he be so overprotective to confine you to the bed next?

"It's okay if you don't know," he cooed, his soft voice pitching lower while the hand on your thighs slipped down so he could have fun with your clit next.

Massing it with intention, drawing rough circles over the sensitive bud while he clicked his tongue at you again.

"That's why I have to take care of you," he continued, pressing down harder, his cock pistoning back in with more force, making sure you didn't even have the air in your lungs to tell him that you didn't need to depend on him.

You loved Suguru.

But the only way he knew how to love you back was to suffocate you. You knew you were his world. He just had to make sure he was yours.

Perhaps you were a fool for thinking that you'd be able to find a way to express that to him. To change a man who already made up his mind.

"I love you," you started, swallowing hard as you tried to gather your focus enough to get the right words out this time, get him to see your side.

But then his lips were connected with yours, barely parting enough to breathe, "I love you too."

His hips slammed against yours harder, his fingers working faster, your stomach tied together in knots as the pressure pushed you to a precipice you knew you'd fall from.

"C'mon, princess, cum for me," he groaned in between kisses, swallowing your moan as your body unravelled for him in a bright burst of pleasure. Stars you sorely missed splotching across your vision as you scrunched your eyes shut, feeling him buried to the hilt as something warm started to fill you up.

Had he-

"I hope it's a girl," he muttered, half-collapsing on top of you. His forehead pressed against yours as he sucked in heavy breaths, his cock still throbbing as his cum leaked out inside you. "Or twins."

"Twins?" You echoed, dazed as you blinked up at him.

"That should keep us busy," he smirked, one corner of his mouth curling up higher than the other as he refused to pull out. Still lodged deep inside you like he wanted to make sure his seed took.

He readjusted you, pulling your legs down so he could lay on top of you fully, his firm chest pressed against your softer one, his calloused fingers caressing your cheek as he looked at you with that lovestruck stare you'd grown accustomed to.

Had it always looked so sly?

Or were you starting to piece together something you missed once the haze of sex started to dissipate?

"I'll always keep you safe."

As your lover? Your knight? Your warden?

You still weren't sure which when you woke up the next morning. The smell of sex and sweat still sticking to your skin as you rubbed your exhausted eyes and rolled over with sticky thighs.

The left side of bed was empty.

Only a warm spot where Suguru was supposed to be. Had he gone to make breakfast? Perhaps decided to spare you of more discussions of raising children in this lonely room?

You pulled the covers up to your chest as you sat up, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you stared at the ghost of your past life in the form of furniture and books you used to enjoy before you read them a hundred times.

A piece of paper was left on the nightstand, a small note you supposed Suguru must've written for you, neat letters informing you that he'd be out for the day and he left meals pre-made for you on a tray outside.

Maybe on a different day, you might've found it sweet.

But an idea sprouted in the back of your head, blooming quickly enough that you were scurrying over to your dresser to find something to throw on, hurrying to get dressed before opening the door to find the tray he mentioned.

Instead of taking a bite, you just brought it inside - and slipped back out.

Bracing yourself for the long walk down, holding your breath as you crept down the stairs, a lump in your throat that seemed to get larger with every step you took.

You refused to look at the bottom.

Slowly making your way, attempting to remind yourself that with each step you took, you were another one closer to a way out.

It wasn't like you wanted to run away.

Not really.

You doubted your family would take kindly to you returning. Especially not if their unwed princess came with the unexpected baggage of a child they'd consider a bastard. With a man of no noble blood or important background.

But you were sure that you'd die if you didn't get some fresh air soon, wither and rot up there in your single-windowed cell.

The end came into sight - the last stair just a few feet away, your feet scampering down as your excitement started to bubble over, your head snapping up to the-

Door?

There was nothing there.

Just stone walls with no way in or out.

Was it magic? Some seal on the outside that stopped anyone else from intruding on something they shouldn't?

You were simply stuck.

And you sincerely doubted any prince would be coming to save you.

a/n: feel kinda meh about how this one turned out but hope you guys enjoyed anyway <3 reblogs + comments always appreciated

The goal is to serve your time, do your sentence, and eventually get access upstairs.

The unfortunate rule is that time can be added. Which, in a place run by the inmates with no laws, no dignity, and a catastrophic lack of ethics, makes it alarmingly easy to rack up a sentence.

You found yourself wandering up to the front desk, the waiting room stretched into a bright white that seemed to swallow the space, only to find your childhood plush sitting primly, wearing a tie.

No need for a name tag.

“Ah ha! You’re awake. Welcome to hell!”

The thing had a sweet voice, the kind that reminded you of a cartoon mascot or a customer service representative who had never known the feeling of despair. Its voice rang oddly in your skull, a little too crisp and far too close, and as you slowly looked around, the room itself seemed rather... unsettling.

It was pure white.

Not a warm white, like what you’d imagine the afterlife would have, but a sterile, flat white, like an office building scrubbed of all personality. Gone was the horrible waiting room chair and whatever space you had crossed to get here. All that remained was a thick glass barrier with a tiny microphone built into it and the plush sitting behind it, bent over and a little lopsided.

The barrier must be for people who didn’t take being in hell particularly well.

You forced yourself to ask the sort of question one generally asks upon dying.

What did I do to deserve this?

Sure, you were no saint, but there was nothing you could think of that actually warranted eternal damnation. And honestly, you had expected hell to be far more dramatic. At least something to match the descriptions in Dante’s Inferno. Something worth crying about, not this bureaucratic nightmare.

At the very least, give you the backrooms.

“You died by a...,” the plush paused. “Wait, wait, you asked what you did?”

The comfort object blinked at you with round, beady little eyes. Perhaps after years and years of handling people who stepped into the room, it had simply grown accustomed to a different string of questions.

“Huh. Usually they start with an ‘AHHHHH!’ and a ‘NOOOO! I need more time!”

The fuzzy little thing acted out each response with theatrical enthusiasm, its voice pitching and warping to accommodate each imaginary soul it seemed to be quoting. You stared at the thing, half convinced you had finally tipped into insanity. Maybe this was all some sort of terrible nightmare, one your feeble little mind couldn’t quite make sense of. Did everyone get their own plush? Was hell customized? Or was this simply the first sign that your mind, faced with the incomprehensible, had decided to protect itself by becoming stupid?

Before you had time to wrap your brain around it all, a paper scroll appeared in front of you with a dry little rustle as it unfurled. Only one line was written across it in a stiff, businesslike font:

Section 67, Rule 421: Copied Another Individual During a Major Test

A low, dramatic whistle rang in your mind. You assumed it was the plush, seeing as it had no mouth to accommodate such a sound.

“That’s really bad, you know!” It shook its soft little head, disappointment evident in its tiny features, before looking back at you through the glass divider. “Thankfully, you only have a week here. I think you’ll survive quite well.”

Unfortunately, you did not survive very well.

By the time you were discharged to the city streets through one of those plastic, bank-vault-looking things that dropped you into a particular district, you were already exhausted. You imagined everyone had a different drop-off location depending on their crime. You weren’t given a map, so there was no way to confirm whether your theory was correct.

Hell was not the cinematic inferno every cautionary church pamphlet had promised you. Instead, it was rather functional, much like a big city, except the time was always mostly night, or some in-between time designed to guarantee you would never have a restful second of sleep because your circadian rhythm would be forever screwed up.

The air was thick and damp, clinging to your skin like a second layer, with a persistent drizzle falling from somewhere above that never quite turned into proper rain but never stopped either. Instead, it slicked the pavement and softened the neon lights plastered above buildings, the words shifting through languages you didn’t know and yet could still understand.

Something large swept overhead.

You flinched on reflex, the shadow warping across the ground, and looked up just in time to catch the silhouette of wings cutting through the glow of the city, massive and slow-beating, before disappearing between buildings. Others followed, some similar in shape, others larger or smaller, either hovering, gliding, or simply watching.

You had the awful feeling that one of them lingered a beat longer than the rest, its eyes fixed on you as though you might be its next victim for an early dinner.

You decided to keep walking, matching the pace of the other creatures on their commute home, or to work, or wherever one went in hell. Some were human like yourself. Others had scales slick with rain, or fur damp and clinging to their bodies. Horns knocked faintly against passing umbrellas. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed loud enough to make your shoulders jump, but no one else seemed to pay it any mind.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You managed to secure a place using whatever money was left in your bank account when you died. Unfortunately, your 401(k) had been drained and passed on to your loved ones, but with the sad little chunk of change you still had access to, you were able to get a furnished apartment.

Again, you did not survive your first day in hell well.

At least not socially.

Mr. Nanami had been kind enough to point you toward places that were hiring since, thankfully, your degree had transferred over. Which felt like one of the only mercies this place had afforded you. So naturally, in a desperate attempt to remain housed and not piss off your landlord, who accepted rent weekly instead of monthly, you tried to get a job.

Unfortunately for you, the hiring manager at one of the establishments Mr. Nanami had suggested was an orc.

A very ugly one, too.

Broad, tusked, and sweating through a short-sleeved button-up that strained across his chest. He smelled faintly of sulfur, wet pennies, and microwaved fish. The hiring office itself was hardly any better, with bolted plastic chairs and a sad little ticket dispenser by the front desk for interviews.

You waited nearly an hour for your turn, resume trembling in your hand as you were finally called up to take a seat in front of the gruff orc, who adjusted his glasses to read the small print of the freshly printed paper you had spent your last dollar on.

The orc squinted down at your paperwork, snorted, and tapped the note attached to your file with one bumpy green finger.

“Did you really earn your degree?” he asked.

Not quietly, either. Several heads turned in your direction as heat began to crawl up your neck. You forced yourself to nod, bottom lip wobbling, because this had to be the third place rejecting you over your crime.

“Sorry,” he said in an annoyed voice, his lips curling around the words before he spat them out. “Can’t do it.”

You did your best to plead your case. You insisted that you really had earned your degree, that one copied test did nothing to invalidate years of work, sleepless nights, and academic suffering. But the smelly orc merely jerked a crooked thumb toward the others waiting in line and informed you that, at the very least, they were more qualified than you.

Someone behind you made a little huff and whispered to another creature waiting for an interview, “At least commit murder if you’re going to end up here.”

You stood there for one long second, feeling every eye in the room on you, all because of one stupid test. The living had already been hard enough. Why did the dead have to be worse?

Something hot and furious crackled inside you. You reached for the hand sanitizer and the free lighters from the front desk and, well...

You torched the place.

In hindsight, perhaps not your best moment.

Still, you had not even known you were capable of that kind of firepower, which was at least a little exciting. The flames licked across the front desk and raced up a motivational poster with two kittens hanging over a branch above a fire pit, the words Hang in There curling black at the edges as the whole thing went up.

You did, unfortunately, kill a few people in your little arson attempt, to which hell did not respond with much whimsy.

A cheerful little ding sounded somewhere above your head, and then the plush returned to announce:

New Sentence: 667 Years

You picked up your torched resume off the floor and figured you had better find a job before Mr. Nanami refused to extend your lease because you couldn't make your next payment. Pitiful little crocodile tears could only get you so far in a place like this, and if you didn't figure out a way to make rent, and quickly, well, selling yourself was always an option.

Though you weren’t sure your soul would rest easy with that.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

With an odd little stroke of luck, you spotted it on your way back to the apartment while kicking rocks along the sidewalk. A convenience store was hiring, and the going rate was three times your rent every two weeks. The bubble letters were oddly specific.

Late Shift! Five-Year Contract!

Printed at the very bottom of the crumpled pink flyer, beneath faint stains you could only hope were ketchup and not blood, were the words.

Rules Apply.

Surely you could follow rules, and there was no way your crime would be a problem for an establishment like this. With your dignity hanging by a frayed thread, you stepped inside to apply.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

For as cheerful as the flyer had been, you expected someone equally cheerful behind the counter.

Instead, there sat a dragon hybrid who looked less like a store manager and more like a final boss guarding a dungeon you very clearly weren’t the right level for.

He was huge.

Not just tall, though he certainly had that going for him too, but broad in a way that felt excessive, built with the sort of monstrous proportions that made the cramped convenience store seem laughably too small for him. The place itself was dingy, with flickering fluorescent lights overhead, one of the drink coolers making a low rattling hum in the back, and tile floors sticky enough that your shoes made faint little tacky sounds every time you shifted your weight. A cheap bell had jingled when you walked in, though he hadn’t looked up right away.

Four arms. Two folded lazily across his chest, one hand flipping through what appeared to be hell’s version of a Playboy while another obsidian claw picked idly at one of his fangs. One of the lower hands was occupied with absolutely nothing at all, drumming black claws against the countertop beside the register, as he might eventually remember that he worked here.

You stared.

Because frankly, what else were you supposed to do when faced with that?

A pair of red eyes slid over you once. The slushie machine in the corner gave a loud, wet gurgle. “You here to buy something,” he drawled at last, “or just stand there gawking before asking for a job?”

Your mouth parted. You couldn’t say anything for a handful of seconds, which only made him roll his crimson eyes. “A job?” you merely squeaked out with your resume already crumpling in your hand.

“So you can read. That’s a relief. I was beginning to wonder if hell had lowered its standards again.”

You bristled instantly. “Yeah… I’m here for the job.”

He looked you over once more, taking his sweet time with it, and somehow managed to make standing there in your own skin feel weirdly humiliating. One claw tapped lazily against the laminated countertop. Somewhere behind him, a refrigerator compressor kicked louder for half a second before settling back into its usual little hum.

“That bad out there already?” he mused, flipping another page. Two of his four eyes dropped back to the magazine. “Couldn’t even make it a full day before crawling into retail?”

His tail gave a lazy thump against the floor, heavy enough to rattle a crooked little display of lollipops near the register.

“You can call me Mr. Sukuna,” he said. His voice came out low and rough, thick with amusement that never once softened the threat beneath it. “Not Kuna, not mister, not Sukuna, and definitely not by my first name. You don’t look nearly important enough for that.”

You almost asked if that meant you could call him Mr. Kuna, but one glance at the claws, the fangs, the tail, the extra arms, and the overwhelming possibility of dying again convinced you that perhaps restraint was a virtue after all.

He seemed to notice your hesitation.

“What?” he asked, mockingly expectant. “Got a smart little comment caught in that tiny head of yours?”

You said nothing.

“Pity,” he hummed. “You looked just irritating enough to have one.”

His crimson gaze dragged over you again, slow and invasive, from your shoes to your face, with all the lazy scrutiny of a predator deciding whether you looked more pathetic than useful.

Then he snorted.

“I don’t usually hire little runts,” he said, glancing back down at the magazine in his hand, “but you’ve got that desperate look I like in employees.”

He turned another page.

A beat passed.

Then, without warning, one of his lower hands reached beside the register, grabbed a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and tossed both toward a customer who had apparently been waiting by the end of the counter the entire time. You startled hard enough to nearly jump out of your skin. The creature caught them, slapped a few crumpled bills onto the counter, and left without either of you acknowledging what had just happened.

“What?” he said flatly. “Did you think this was going to be a formal interview? I sell cigarettes, energy drinks, and cursed scratch-offs to the damned at two in the morning. If you can stand upright and count change without crying, you’re overqualified.”

That was fair, actually.

He finally looked back at you, grin turning sharp enough to split skin.

“But if you steal from me, mouth off to me, or make my store look worse than it already does, I’ll peel your hide off and use it to mop the freezer aisle. You understand, sweetheart?”

You were almost too stunned to say anything before nodding eagerly.

“You start now.”

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

As it turned out, working for Sukuna deserved its own circle of hell.

On your first night, he handed you an entire list of rules, most of which you had only skimmed with the sort of confidence only a fool, or someone recently dead, could possess. Some of them had been normal enough, if you could even use that word to describe hell.

Don’t antagonize armed customers. Don't flirt back with the customers. Don't open the back door past 3 a.m.

Others made you wonder why, exactly, he had thought to warn you in the first place despite his generally miserable exterior. Anytime you asked, he would grumble something under his breath about you being too much of an idiot to understand the basics of this kind of life.

You imagined he would know, seeing as he had apparently been here for two centuries.

And of course, there were also rules that felt a little too personal.

Don’t touch my food. Don’t sit in my chair. Don’t use my office for anything other than dropping off your timecard.

The most important one had been written in thick lettering and decorated with an alarming amount of stickers; you didn't quite take him for the type to own. You briefly wondered if he had someone locked in a basement somewhere making these signs for him. The thought passed almost as quickly as it came.

THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT.

You had heard that one before back in the land of the living. Everyone had. And more often than not, everyone had abused it.

The job itself was relatively easy once you got used to the sort of riffraff that drifted into the shop. Sukuna would linger with you for the first few hours of the night, always with a new porn magazine in hand, which you sometimes caught him lazily jerking off to before scoffing when you looked his way.

He never stopped, though.

Sometimes he was kind enough to leave the old boxy television on. It played whatever happened to be popular in hell on a low, tinny volume throughout your shift, the sound crackling beneath the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the occasional wet gurgle from the slushie machine in the corner.

Commercials for blood banks and strip clubs. The occasional ad for demon casinos promising that you can even bet your soul! Prescription medication with side effects read so quickly you were fairly certain they had to be illegal. Even the local news changed depending on the district, usually something about possession rates, traffic pileups, or whichever neighborhood had the highest body count that week.

And every so often, music.

Some of it you had heard back in the land of the living. You supposed not every musician made it to the pearly gates on talent alone. Others were actual creatures you had never heard of before, though you were quickly becoming a fan.

Then one night, a familiar tune drifted through the store speakers.

A love ballad sung by two of the biggest pop idols in hell at the moment: Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru.

Lovers, some of the trashy little entertainment articles had claimed, which you had read during the slower hours of your shift while pretending not to. Apparently they had committed something heinous enough to land themselves a sentence nearly as long as Sukuna’s.

Sukuna often told you not to pay them any mind if you knew what was good for you. Especially if they ever made their way inside. You had laughed the first time he said it. You couldn't imagine men like that setting foot into a run-down convenience store in a district like this.

To which Sukuna had only given you a long, knowing look and muttered, “If they knew what they were looking for.”

Sukuna sometimes talked like he knew things you never would. You pushed, he pulled away, and the most he ever left you with was:

“No creature here is a good person.”

That had been reassuring.

So naturally, you paid him absolutely no mind.

Instead, tonight, you found yourself leaning against a mop and staring at their little performance on the old television. Satoru, with his blinding white hair and dazzling smile, reaches for the hands of screaming fans like he might siphon the feeling of love from their adoration alone. Suguru carried the softer notes, smooth and far too easy on the ears, only to slip into a rap halfway through before making a heart with his broad hands and winking directly at the camera with those pretty violet eyes.

You could see why people were stupid about them.

Sukuna noticed immediately. With a sharp click of his tongue, he stood and smacked the side of the television hard enough to make the image warp and shriek into static before blinking black.

You jolted and shot him a look that very clearly said: Hey, I was watching that.

“What?” he said without looking at you, two hands still counting bills while another idly picked at one of his fangs. “You here to work or stare like a creep?”

Heat crawled up your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Hm.”

His tail lashed once behind him, displeased.

Then his red eyes slid over you.

“Listen carefully,” he said, voice low and edged with irritation. “I don’t care if customers rob you, threaten you, or cry at the register. You follow my rules exactly. And if you don’t, I’ll crack your bones open with my teeth and stock what’s left of you in the freezer.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, with the sheer arrogance of a creature entirely confident in his place at the top of the food chain, he snorted and looked away first.

You decided to finally listen to the old bastard for once.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Still, that was not the rule you failed.

No, what you failed to do was correctly price-mark the limited-edition Dungeon Crawler Spellbooks over in aisle three. In your defense, they had been shelved right beside the clearance bin, and the little orange stickers had all started to blur together after your fifth hour under those migraine-inducing neon lights.

You had tried to explain to Sukuna that you had simply gotten confused.

Unfortunately, before you could fix your mistake, a goblin had waddled in, squinted at the shelf with all the greedy suspicion of a man born to haggle, and promptly robbed you blind.

Didn’t even pay the clearance price. Just stuffed the books under his greasy little vest and bolted.

What a truly spectacular stroke of luck for you.

So now nasty old Sukuna had docked your pay down to one penny a day, which you argued was not only ridiculous but deeply evil, and he had simply stared at you as if to say:

Are you planning to pay for what I lost?

You had, unfortunately, not been planning that.

Which was how you found yourself standing in front of your neighbor and landlord’s door, fist hovering in the air.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your knuckles never made contact before the door swung open, causing you to startle back a step.

You had nearly forgotten just how large Mr. Nanami was.

He was not monstrous in the obvious way so many others in your district were, with their dripping fangs and proud vulgarity, their open displays of appetite and violence. His intimidation was of a far more insidious sort. The kind that did not announce itself. The kind that merely settled into a room and let your nerves discover it for themselves.

He was an orc, yes, but scrubbed clean of the usual roughness you had come to associate with most of them. His ivory tusks were smooth and immaculately kept, neat against the severe line of his mouth, and his skin lacked the grime, the sweat-slick coarseness, the animal disorder so many others seemed to wear with careless pride. There was nothing careless about Mr. Nanami. Everything about him looked deliberate. Pressed. Ordered. As though even his cruelty, if it existed, would arrive neatly folded and set before you without so much as wrinkling the tablecloth.

“I was just about to see you.”

His voice was soft, but there was a bluntness beneath it that made your stomach draw tight all the same.

He stepped aside, one broad hand motioning for you to enter. You brushed past him into the apartment and were struck all at once by how clean it smelled. Faint soap. Starch. Something dry and papery, like old books left undisturbed on a shelf. It wasn't an unpleasant scent.

“About my rent,” you began, though your voice had already started thinning by the second word.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click. Nanami didn't move right away. His hand remained resting on the lock for one suspended second longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, his posture still as stone.

“You have it, yes?”

Again, his voice was far too gentle for a landlord with a tenant already a week late.

Then the lock turned.

Such a small sound.

And yet it seemed to pass through you with the cold precision of a needle.

He motioned for you to sit, and with all the solemn dread of someone approaching their own execution, you lowered yourself to the floor before him while he took his seat opposite you. His knees spread slightly. One hand rose to prop his chin, thumb resting against the edge of his jaw, while the other came to rest low at his waist, fingers grazing the polished buckle of his belt.

Great.

You kept your head bowed, save for the occasional flicker of your gaze upward to see whether he was still looking at you. He was. Those hazel eyes had a way of fastening to you that felt less like attention and more like arrangement, as though you had already been set neatly into place before him. Pinned there. A specimen behind glass. Every second beneath that gaze felt like another fine silver needle slipped carefully through the fragile architecture of your ribs.

Your hands fidgeted in your lap.

“About that...” you started weakly, your nails picking at the skin beside your thumb until a quick, bright sting answered you. “I need another week.”

Silence stretched between you.

Not empty silence, either. It had shape. Weight. It gathered itself in the room until even the faint hum of the apartment seemed to recede beneath it.

You picked harder at the ragged skin around your nail until blood welled dark and sudden at the edge of it. You curled your fingers quickly, hiding the mess in your palm before any of it could stain the cream of the rug beneath you.

“You think hell is free?”

The firmness in his voice struck harder than if he had raised it.

You folded in on yourself at once. There was no bark to his tone. Only disappointment. Flat, measured, and somehow far more humiliating than fury ever could have been.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, one finger tapping once against the smooth curve of a tusk.

“I suppose,” he said at last, after you had sat there long enough to feel your own pulse fluttering in your throat, “there are other ways for you to pay.”

For one foolish moment, you didn't understand him.

Then came the soft metallic sound of his belt being undone.

Your head snapped up so quickly your neck nearly protested.

His gaze had not left you. If anything, it had softened, though only just. Not into kindness. Never that. Pity, perhaps. Or patience. The sort reserved for frightened things too small to understand the shape of what was being asked of them.

“I will only do this once,” he said evenly, and there it was again, that unbearable note of pity beneath the words. “I’m saving myself for someone who’s still living.”

How thoughtful.

Apparently, less respectable methods had arrived.

You moved closer in one unsteady shift, rising onto your knees. One hand came to rest against the solid breadth of his thigh, the muscle beneath his slacks firm and warm beneath your palm, while the other crept hesitantly toward the hard, heavy outline straining against the fabric and, oh.

That was...

You swallowed.

Could that even fit in your mouth?

He had to be at least ten, perhaps eleven inches. The sheer girth of him had your hand moving in slow, uncertain strokes, feeling each heavy vein and strange ridge of orc flesh through the thin fabric of his briefs.

You peeled them down by degrees, and his mossy-green cock sprang free, revealing the coarse blond patch at the base and a flushed, leaking tip that drew your tongue out almost on instinct. The taste of him was thick, almost creamy, touched through with salt and something muskier, that made your thighs press together before you could help it. You gathered what you could with slow, circling strokes of your tongue, both hands working along the hot, weighty length as you tried to slick him well enough to take more of him.

His broad hand came to rest at the back of your head.

He pushed your lips farther past the mauve tip, heedless of the sharp scrape of your teeth against him, and a low, rough sound broke from his chest in answer.

“Haa... it’s been years,” he sighed, nails pressing into your scalp as he began to guide you more insistently. “Haven’t done this since my, fuck... don’t bite now.”

You tried to loosen your jaw enough to accommodate the thick weight of him on your tongue, forcing yourself to take him deeper with every wet gag and muffled little whimper that never quite made it free.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said, the words frayed with strain.

You did.

He pushed all the way down until your hands were slapping weakly at his thighs for air, and still you obeyed, dragging shallow breaths through your nose as panic bloomed hot beneath your ribs. His cock pressed at the back of your throat before he drew you back to the tip, only to thrust you down again. Tears blurred your vision, spilling hot over your lashes as your tongue dragged helplessly along every bump and ridge of his heavy length.

It could only have been a matter of minutes.

It felt an awful lot like dying all over again.

When he finally came down your throat, hot, sudden, and far too messy, your body pitched forward of its own accord, his hand still resting and patting the crown of your head. Your throat spasmed around what he forced down your throat, chest hitching as you struggled to swallow, to breathe, to do anything other than sit there and choke on the ruin of him. Your eyes watered afresh, vision blurring as you pressed one trembling hand to his thigh for balance.

Nanami watched you for a moment.

Not with concern, exactly. More as if he were waiting for the obvious to pass.

Then his hand returned to your jaw, firm as ever, tilting your face back up toward the blunt head of his cock still aimed at your mouth.

Nanami Kento Has Earned One Day!

An overexcited plush employee announced it from absolutely nowhere.

And then came the rest.

He squeezed your jaw until your lips parted once more, still coughing, still trying to catch your breath, your tongue fallen helplessly from your mouth as the golden warmth of his piss struck it. The stream spread hot over what already sat heavy in your stomach, the heat of it thinning some of the thickness lodged at the back of your throat and forcing the rest of his seed down to your belly.

“Don’t cough any of it up,” he said, voice low and distant, as though remarking upon some minor inconvenience. “You’ve already made enough of a mess. And you can't imagine how difficult it is to get the smell of orc out.”

You swallowed with effort, throat raw, forcing everything down between gags from smells and conflicting tastes before taking the towel he handed you and pressing the plush fibers to your damp face.

Should you say thank you?

For the towel, perhaps.

For not letting you choke... debatable.

You coughed weakly into your sleeve, still trying to gather breath, and watched as he tucked himself back into his trousers with the same composure one might use to straighten a cuff. When he sat again, one brow arched very slightly.

“You alright?” he asked calmly, though it was plain enough he regarded the whole affair as transactional.

“I would’ve given you water,” he continued, “but I know you wouldn’t be able to pay me back for something like that.”

Right.

Water was a high commodity, and he was a stingy orc.

Apparently, not even tap water was considered worth wasting on someone like you.

“Right...” you breathed, your voice coming out hoarse and thin. You still remained on the floor, trying to gather yourself back into something resembling a person. “What... brought you here?”

The question slipped free before you could stop it.

Above you, Nanami leaned his head into one hand and looked down at you for a long, quiet moment.

“You almost remind me of my wife,” he said softly.

One hand reached out. His fingers caught a strand of your hair and wound it slowly around his meaty digit. The gesture ought to have felt absent, almost gentle. Instead, it was cold and something dreadful unfurled low in your stomach.

“I kept her in a basement for most of my life,” he continued, his tone as level as ever. “I suppose I earned all this through that.”

Silence followed between you.

The candle in the corner gave a faint little pop. Somewhere in the kitchen, water dripped once into the sink. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds by. Every small sound became suddenly, horribly distinct, as though his words had sharpened the apartment itself.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Because he had said it so casually.

Not like some shameful thing unearthed against his will.

You wanted to stand, to move, to put some distance between yourself and him that still fiddled with your hair, but something inside you begged you not to. Instead, your eyes moved over the apartment. The perfect order of how everything had a place. The locked door.

You could only imagine how much order had once gone into a windowless basement.

Your stomach turned.

Ah.

So he was not nearly as innocent as he had once seemed.

And judging by the way his thumb still idly stroked that strand of your hair, he had not entirely broken himself of the habit of keeping someone within reach.

“So you’re waiting?” you asked softly.

His eyes softened in a way that made your heart kick hard against your sternum, not from affection so much as dread.

“Mhm.”

That was all. No attempt to soften the meaning. Just that low little hum, as though of course he was waiting. As though patience had always come naturally to him.

Then, after a pause, his fingers loosened from your hair only to smooth once over the side of your head in a touch so domestic, it made your stomach dip.

“I keep my apartments the cheapest in the district,” he said.

The words took a moment to settle.

“She was always impulsive when she ran,” he continued. “Stubborn. Emotional. Never very good at thinking long-term.”

The words were not spoken cruelly. If anything, they carried the mild indulgence of someone remarking on an old and tiresome habit.

“So I figured,” he said, “if I kept the rent low enough, eventually she would have nowhere else to go.”

Your throat tightened. The room felt colder somehow, though you could hear the heater stir to life with a soft mechanical groan. His broad shoulders shifted as he leaned back in the chair, and for one awful second, all you could think was that this whole apartment building had all been part of one long, patient design.

One trap.

Laid carefully over years.

Waiting for the right person to stumble back into it.

“It’s the least she could do,” he added after a moment, his voice dropping into something quieter. “Considering she killed me.”

You coughed into your arm, whether to ease the tension or clear the last of him from your throat, you could not say. You watched the fondness drain from his hazel eyes before he finally said, coldly, “Rent is due on the twentieth.”

He gestured toward the door.

You didn't need to be told twice.

You rose too quickly, your legs uncertain beneath you. Something deep in your gut, dread, or some final scrap of common sense, told you that if you stayed there even a second longer, you wouldn't be leaving again.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You somehow managed to clean yourself up just enough before your shift, standing in the employee-only bathroom with one hand smoothing down your hair while the other braced against the sink. You wiped away the tears that threatened to push past the corners of your eyes, then dragged your toothbrush back through your mouth, trying your best to scrub away the taste of him.

How could you have stooped so low just to keep a roof over your head?

You spat into the sink.

The white foam blooming there was enough to make your stomach twist. It looked too much like the thick mess that had sat at the back of your throat, enough that bile threatened to rise again with the memory of what still seemed to cling stubbornly to your tongue, your teeth, the sour lining of your stomach.

The bell at the front chimed.

You jerked from your own pity party, then called out a hurried, “Coming!”

Sukuna had left you alone tonight, for which you were grateful. You didn't need him looking you up and down and somehow guessing exactly what you'd done to make rent. He seemed the type who would know on sight. Worse, the type to laugh.

Still, the thought of Mr. Nanami lingered.

Not for yourself, strangely enough.

For the poor girl.

The one he had spoken of so mildly. He seemed so certain his wife would eventually return to him, as though years, death, and distance were all very minor inconveniences before the weight of his patience. You couldn't stop picturing her now. Some frightened creature dragged back into those gentle, waiting hands, into whatever basement had once held her.

The thought sat ugly inside you.

You stepped back into the main part of the store and slid behind the register just in time to see two men by the snack aisle, one with bright white hair piling armfuls of junk food into the hold of a darker-haired companion who appeared to be chastising him for taking too much.

You recognized them at once.

You did your best not to visibly lose your mind, or worse, ask for an autograph. Instead, your first thought was whether there might still be toothpaste foam, or something even more humiliating, at the corner of your mouth by the time Geto Suguru made his way to the counter.

He dropped a small assortment of items onto it with graceful care.

Blood bags. Sweets. Condoms.

You began scanning.

Geto began talking.

You kept your eyes lowered, trying to remember the rules.

Don’t look a vampire in the eye for too long.

Which Geto certainly was. His hand brushed yours as he passed over the next item. His fingers were cool, the rings he wore colder still, and something about the symbols worked into the metal felt oddly familiar. Religious, perhaps. Or cultish. Which, honestly, wouldn't have surprised you.

“Old man Sukuna left you here alone?” he asked softly.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The scanner kept up its cheerful little chirp. You didn't answer beyond a small nod.

From somewhere behind him, Gojo called out, “Want coffee?”

Geto ignored him entirely.

Instead, he bent just enough to catch your face, and you, being the fool that you were, glanced up at exactly the wrong moment and found his violet eyes waiting for yours.

You nearly dropped a can of soda.

His hands closed over yours before it could fall, long fingers caging yours lightly around the dented aluminum.

“Careful now.”

His smile was pretty in a way that made your skin prickle. Feline. Far too familiar with itself.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He laughed softly, but the sound did nothing to settle the unease winding tighter in your stomach.

Then Gojo appeared at his shoulder in a rush of white hair and brightness, bumping into him hard enough to jostle the various items on the counter as he dropped even more items into the pile. His tail swept out behind him, knocking a few lollipops from the stand beside the register before he stooped to gather them with a delighted little hum and placed them directly into your hand.

“Oh, you do look familiar,” he said brightly, cheerful in the exact practiced way he always was on television. “You almost remind me of a pet we had.”

He snapped his fingers and nodded toward Suguru as though inviting confirmation.

Suguru only laughed under his breath and leaned in to murmur something too low for you to catch into Satoru’s ear.

Then Gojo turned back to you, smiling as though you were all in on the same joke.

“Give me your number.”

Geto's eyes settled on you. Whatever protest might have formed dissolved before the words could ever reach your tongue. Your hand had already found a receipt slip and a pen. By the time your mind caught up, you were scribbling your number down in your neatest handwriting, as obediently as if you had been asked for the total.

This is normal, your therapist said, writing something down on her clipboard. They were your first relationship and the only one you've ever had. It'll be a while before you feel fully separate from them. It'll go away after a while.

And, to an extent, you resonated with her words. However, you mostly felt like you'd either die an old spinster or go back to Uraume within a few months, dealing with whatever spiteful behavior they'd send your way in the meantime.

It was your fault for bringing that up to Izumi, who had gasped like you just told her you had sex with her boyfriend. She slapped a hand on her chest so hard it echoed through the fairly-empty cafe you were in. "Absolutely not! You will not go back to that sad excuse of a person!" she halfway-shrieked, shaking her head violently. "I will personally ruin your life if you do!"

Izumi proceeded to tell the rest of your friends and, tonight, for the past two-and-a-half hours, they'd made you two different profiles on two different dating apps and had been swiping through them endlessly. Somewhere during that time, Asahi suggested that you screen mirror your phone to the TV, forcing you to partake in the process.

"This guy is suspicious," Shiori says, scrolling through a random guy's profile on Hinge. His name was Jiro, and he liked working out, going to new restaurants, and true crime documentaries.

"He's just boring," Izumi replies, tapping her chin. You shrink deeper into your spot on the couch as Asahi looked over at you.

"What's your opinion, [Name]?"

All you can muster is a non-committal shrug, pulling your blanket further up your body until it covered everything but your eyes. You just can't shake the guilt, the absolute terror of having to consider dating. When you started dating Uraume, you were barely 16. Dating wasn't even a thought in your mind. Now, you were 27 and hopeless.

Asahi frowns at your answer and looks back to the screen, chewing on her bottom lip. "Okay, okay, next. Clearly this guy isn't the one."

Shiori clicks the little 'X' next to Asahi's profile. Hinge takes a second to load the next profile, probably from the sheer amount of people you've swiped past at this point, and—

The room goes silent. You're so shocked by what's on your screen that you perk up from your blanket a bit, your mouth forming a small 'O' shape.

"Now, hold on a minute," Izumi chokes out, covering her mouth. "What in the world am I looking at?"

"God incarnate, perhaps," Shiori says, and you can't help but agree. On your screen is the most beautiful man you've ever seen in your life, with shaggy white hair and a pair of frighteningly blue eyes. He's dressed in a black compression shirt and a pair of baggy, white sweatpants, holding up a peace-sign to the camera.

Your eyes flit up to the top of the screen, and your blood runs cold. The silence continues as you all take in what you're looking at.

Satoru and Suguru.

"They're looking…for a third," Asahi finally says, the words sounding like a death chant more than anything. "Just our luck. God and he's looking for a third."

"Well, let's just see who the girl is. Scroll, Shiori. Maybe she's really hot too and [Name] can just be hot with them."

"I'm afraid to scroll. I won't be able to bear it if she's hot too."

"Not that it'll matter," you finally speak, and everyone's head whips towards you at lightening speed. "It's not like I can go from intense, decade-long monogamy to relaxed polygamy."

Shiori scrolls slowly, like she can't handle seeing who's waiting for her below the cut-off. Slowly, but surely, the second person is revealed: long black hair, thin, catlike eyes, and the most elegant smile you've ever seen in your life. It's a shot of them at the beach, sitting on a blue towel underneath the shade of a generic beach umbrella.

And, also, they're clearly a man. Satoru and Suguru are two men.

"If you don't like them, [Name], you're dead to me," Shiori says, scrolling farther down the page. There's several pictures of them, clearly from multiple different years. One of them holding up a big, fluffy, white cat, one of Satoru looking at Suguru so lovingly it makes you sick. Somewhat disapointingly, you wonder if Uraume ever looked at you like that.

You wonder if these two would look at you like that, too.

The room waits in baited breath as Shiori scrolls to the bottom of the page and you assess all of the pictures. You feel a million different ways, none of the feelings very good or welcoming. The image of Uraume lingers in your mind from the very moment you broke up with them; tears forming in their eyes, anger filling their expression.

"Sure," you say, clearing your throat. "Why the hell not."

Shiori wastes no time sending a like on one of the pictures, making a comment on their cat. She sends it off, and you swear you might feel a little more detached from Uraume than you ever have before.

—

You stand outside of a fancy Italian restaurant downtown, hugging yourself for comfort while you try to hype yourself up enough to walk inside.

It had taken less than a week for you to end up on a date with Satoru and Suguru, thanks to the excessive meddling of your friends. When you matched with them, Izumi had screamed so loudly it worried your neighbors. She forced you to message them back, staring over your shoulder while you texted them.

It didn't take you long to figure out which one was which. Satoru was, to put it lightly, bad at typing, his messages filled with typos and an utter lack of capitalization or punctuation. Suguru was the complete opposite, ending most of his messages with a period (which was scary) and using far less emojis in his speak.

For the most part, you enjoyed texting with them. However, standing outside this restaurant, you couldn't imagine this date going well. You were so nervous you could barely breathe, fingers trembling against your phone. You had already half-drafted a text to Asahi, begging her to come pick you up.

You'd arrived at 7:59, right on time, but now it was 8:08 and you were eight minutes late to your date because you were too much of a wimp to go inside. You repeat Shiori's fighting words in your mind over and over again, desperate to force yourself to go inside.

Were you going to let Uraume and their reign of terror on your life win? Were you that weak so as to pass up on a date with Gorgeous #1 and Gorgeous #2?

Your feet are moving before your mind catches up with it. You can't let Uraume win, you can't go back to them. You can't go back to never hanging out with your friends and being tracked 24/7.

The restaurant is quiet and calm, which is surprising given the sheer size of it. You're immediately stopped by a hostess, who offers you a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "What's the name on your reservation?"

"It should be under Gojo," you say, hoping she doesn't notice the shake in your voice. Her eyes widen and she perks up instantly, smiling much wider.

"Oh, of course! Right this way, ma'am," she says, taking you into the depths of the restaurant. The farther back you go, the more you feel like you're marching towards your death. You spot them in a booth in the corner, smiling and giggling with each other like a couple of lovesick schoolgirls, and you consider turning around.

Satoru spots you before he can. He raises an eyebrow and waves, causing Suguru to look over at you as well. You struggle to believe they're real people, seeing them in person. They're far too perfect to be truly alive.

The host bids you goodbye and you slide into the U-shaped booth, keeping a decent amount of room between you and Suguru. "Sorry I'm late," you say, looking down at your trembling hands. "Um, I just got into a little bit of traffic. Didn't think I'd be this late, so I didn't text."

"For a second there, I thought you were standing us up," Satoru jokes, and Suguru immediately digs an elbow into his side, causing the former to yelp in pain.

"You're not funny, Satoru," Suguru speaks, and his voice is like honey on your ears. "He didn't mean that. We didn't think you were going to stand us up."

"Well, I'm glad. That would've made things awkward," you say, finding hard to look either one of them in the eye. "Did you guys make it here okay?"

"Satoru's a terrible driver, so I wouldn't say we made it here okay."

"Well, if you get your driver's license, maybe you wouldn't have to deal with my terrible driving anymore."

You watch them go back and forth contently, somewhat enjoying listening to them bicker. It helps you get rid of the nerves that plague your entire body, and coming down from the adrenaline rush makes you feel a little more excited to be there. Satoru looks over at you, going as far to put his hand in Suguru's face to shut him up.

"So, how've you been? Anything new pop up in your life? Is your neighbor still being annoying?"

You chuckle, endeared at the fact that he remembers anything about you. You make up some half-baked answer, trying to make yourself seem as interesting as possible. Suguru is much better at asking you questions, avoiding anything about your personal life.

The two of them are clearly very nice, at least from what you're seeing. They make you feel comfortable and relaxed, a stark difference to how you were feeling before coming in. Satoru insists on ordering your food, because "it's what guys do on the first date," and Suguru tells him that it's not 1805 anymore. There's no underhanded insults or vague accusations that make you feel like throwing up, no scrutiny of your outfits or the way you talk.

The two of them are just…them. It's refreshing.

Of course, you should've expected it couldn't be fun and surface level all the time. As the waitress takes away your plates, Suguru clears his throat, leaning back into his seat. At some point throughout the night, you'd moved a little closer to him, so close you could see the little details of his face.

"Not to make this terribly serious," he starts, and a sinking feeling appears in your stomach. "But I just wanted to check in with you about what Satoru and I are looking for, which is something fairly serious."

You nod, glancing over at Satoru. For the first time tonight, he actually looks nervous, like he's expecting you to reject them, or something. If you were to reject them, you think your friends would eat you whole.

"Yeah, like, not a hook-up thing, you know. If that's not what you were looking for, well, then…"

Truthfully, it's not. You weren't really sure if you wanted anything serious ever again, not after the last decade of your life being miserable. At the same time, you enjoyed their presence and the way they made you feel, so you didn't want to reject them.

Perhaps you would just feel it out, see where it went, and go from there. Casual dating is normal, Shiori insisted while rummaging through your closet. One date doesn't equal committed relationship.

"If you'll have me, I'd love to keep hanging out with you guys. In a non-hook-up-y way." You smile, twiddling your thumbs in your lap.

The anxiety on Satoru's face melts into pure joy, and, for a moment, you think you could get used to them.

—

Two months later, you hang out with Satoru and Suguru once or twice a week, and you spend the rest of your time looking forward to seeing them again. It's nice to have a little schoolgirl crush again, to not be so settled with your life and the people in it.

However, you just can't seem to get past the guilty feeling in your chest. It lingers all the time, growing when Suguru smiles at you or Satoru forces his way to the edge of the sidewalk when you're walking. It gets even worse when one of them touches you, even if it's something innocent like holding your hand or an arm around your shoulder.

Your therapist suggests being honest with them, about Uraume and the trauma you have, but every time you think you're close to letting it spill out, you can't do it. The thought of bringing them into your sweet, drama-less relationship makes you feel sick.

So, you deal with the guilt. You give them vague stories about your life and your earlier years, avoiding mention of your ex entirely. You dodge questions about your dating history and attempt to flip it back around on them, to no avail; they've only dated each other, too.

At some point, they stop asking, which you appreciate, but you can't help but think about what they say to each other when you're not there. It makes hanging out with them worse, and it makes you freak out about your life at random times.

Which is why you ended up at a 7/11 down the street from your apartment at midnight, staring at the ice cream with red eyes and a stuffy nose. Everything looks disgusting to you, but you know it'll make you feel better, so you force yourself to consider your options. Milk and cookies, chocolate chip cookie dough, cannoli—

"[Name]?"

You freeze. You haven't heard that voice in a long time; it's always reminded you of high school mean girls, tainted with a mocking lilt that you've always hated. You hated everyone in Uraume's life.

You slowly turn to the side, making eye contact with Yorozu. She's dressed far too fancy to be in a 7/11 at midnight, in a form-fitting, red dress as opposed to your bright-pink sweatpants and stained sweatshirt. "Yorozu," you huff, praying for this moment to end quickly.

"I haven't seen you in a while. You look worse for wear," she scoffs with a slight tilt of her head, looking you up and down. "Honestly, I thought you'd be back with Uraume by now. Seems your tantrum's running longer than they'd hoped."

Shivers roll down your spine at her words, chilling your entire body in a second. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. "What do you mean tantrum? I broke up with them for good. I don't want them in my life anymore."

"Sure, sure. We certainly missed having you tonight, though. You were always very personable with our guests," Yorozu smiles. You're about to ask her what she meant, but then Sukuna comes rounding the corner, and you wonder if this is a divine punishment sent to you from God himself.

He grunts when he sees you, his face contorting into an expression mixed with anger and disgust. You're sure you're number one on his hit list right now, as your break up with Uraume apparently had them calling out of work for weeks (as according to what Izumi had told you).

Yorozu's face lights up the moment she sees him, and she immediately grabs hold of his arm, leaning her head on his bicep. "Mr. Sukuna here had his book launch tonight. It was a long time coming…we were sad to not have you on the project."

Every word that comes out of Yorozu's mouth is a lie. It was more like you were sad to not be on the project anymore, given the fact that being the Sukuna's book editor was the biggest gig you'd ever gotten, but it was a small price to pay to be free from Uraume.

"Yes. The door is always open for you, [Name], assuming…"

You cringe. Were things on Uraume's end that bad? So much so that his mentor-turned-father-figure who hated your guts wanted you to come back? Maybe you weren't doing as badly as you thought.

You open your mouth to reply, but are quickly cut off by Satoru Gojo, who looks angrier than you've ever seen him before. Dressed in a suit and tie, he strolls over to you with conviction, his usual smile plastered on his face so tightly you wonder if it hurts.

"[Name]," Satoru calls, his voice dripping with venom. "Fancy seeing you here!"

He walks behind you, locking his arm around your waist. Suguru follows behind him, a scowl pressed onto his features. It's unlike him—the Suguru you know always has a light smile on his face, or an inquisitive expression. He rounds to your other side, standing uncomfortably close to you.

"Sukuna, Yorozu," Suguru greets, interlacing his fingers with yours. "Interesting to see you've left your own party early."

"I'm even more shocked to see you seem to know [Name]," Yorozu comments, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Are you three…a thing?"

"She's our girlfriend, yes," Satoru announces, and you do your best to not grimace at the words. That certainly wasn't true, and it would also likely lead to your demise.

Both Sukuna and Yorozu take pause at that, and you can see Sukuna's Adam's apple bob as he swallows, perhaps annoyed that he'll have to leave and go tell Uraume his ex-fiancée is in a relationship with two people he apparently already knows.

"Wow. I didn't take you the type to move on so quickly," Yorozu says, and you begin to prepare yourself for the end of the secret you've kept so carefully. Perhaps it was better for her to reveal it against your will, you cope, so at least they'd find out relatively early on.

"Move on?" Satoru questions, furrowing his brows. Yorozu's smile turns impish, and you close your eyes, waiting for the bomb to drop.

"Don't you know?" she asks. "[Name] and Uraume were in a relationship for 11 years and broke up, like, half-a-year ago. She even ghost-wrote half the book Sukuna released tonight."

Satoru's grip on your waist tightens while Suguru lets go of your hand, and there's a slight pause. You look over at Suguru's face, which goes through about a thousand emotions in a second. Finally, it lands on a calm, unbothered expression, with one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, right. I forgot about that," Suguru hums. "She doesn't talk about them much. Guess she did move on."

The silence between you all is so thick that you feel like you're suffocating. While you sit there, you make some rudimentary connections in your mind; you suppose it wouldn't be wrong to assume that the Gojo in Satoru's name comes from the Gojo Conglomerate, which has lost more than a couple of court cases to the almighty defense lawyer Sukuna in the past. Maybe you were stupid to think you'd come across a beautiful, blue-eyed Gojo that wasn't a part of the Gojo family, but you thought the likelihood of that was slim to none either way.

"Right, well," Sukuna says after a moment, his voice grating on your ears. "We should leave. Good luck with her."

Sukuna practically drags Yorozu out of the building and, once they're gone, you immediately detach yourself from Satoru's grip. The silence continues between the three of you, though both of the boys have their eyes on you now. You stare at your shoes, wishing you could go back in time and refuse making a Hinge profile at all.

Suguru grabs your chin and raises it up, forcing you to look at him. His touch is soft and kind, which you weren't expecting given the exchange you'd just had. He doesn't look particularly angry, which you appreciate. Satoru, on the other hand, looks like he'd just withstood the betrayal of a lifetime, staring at you with those harrowing blue eyes.

You feel the tears from earlier returning, though you do your best to hold them in. Your life sucked so bad and you weren't even 30 yet.

Suguru sighs, dropping your chin and shaking his head. "I suppose we need to talk. Would you like to come eat some ice cream at our apartment?"

You don't really want to at all, but you nod, following the two outside to a fancy, black car parked on the curb. You sit in the back like a child, rapidly tapping your fingers on your knees and trying to keep your nausea at bay. The ride is fairly silent, save for Satoru and Suguru debriefing their time at Sukuna's book launch. You learn that your hunch was right: Sukuna had forced the Gojo family to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars in lawsuits, and had likely invited Satoru just to piss them off.

How had you managed to be so unlucky? Maybe you needed to visit a psychic to cleanse your bad energy, or something. Or maybe you'd been hexed. You didn't know.

After a short drive, the three of you pull into the parking garage below one of the fanciest apartment buildings in the city, which doesn't shock you one bit. "Welcome to Casa de Satoru," Suguru mumbles under his breath, a slightly-joking tone in his voice. They park in spot number 25, and, despite it all, Satoru opens the car door for you, grabbing your hand to help you out of the car.

You ride the elevator up to the 54th floor, which opens into a small hallway with two doors on opposite sides. Satoru and Suguru's apartment is, fittingly, 2254, and, when you walk in, you allow yourself a moment to ogle at the space. It's beautiful, filled with art and color and everything you would've hoped for in an apartment like this. Everything has a blue tint, which fits Satoru's overall vibe perfectly.

"Do you like it?" Suguru asks, patting your back as you look around. "It was way worse before I moved in. Took a while to make it this nice."

"It's beautiful in here. Fit for a couple like you two," you say, watching as Satoru drags his feet into the living room and collapses onto the couch. He loosens his tie and leans his head back on the top of the couch, letting out a loud sigh.

You quickly slip your shoes off and scuttle inside, taking a seat on the very edge. Suguru chooses to sit next to Satoru, and you swear you're having flashbacks to the many times Uraume sat you down and berated you for hours.

For a couple seconds it's quiet, and you decide they're probably expecting you to talk. "Listen, I was going to tell you at some point," you start, swallowing thickly. Every word that comes out of your mouth feels like glass ripping down your throat. "As you can probably imagine, despite the fact that it lasted so long, my relationship with Uraume wasn't the greatest, and it's still a tough subject for me."

Suguru nods slowly, and you assume he's going to speak. Instead, Satoru rapidly sits up, a look of deep hurt on his face. It makes you cringe.

"I don't know the half of it, clearly," he starts, voice strained and upset. "But it obviously sucks bad for me that I didn't know. I guess I didn't really bring up the whole family lineage thing, but, still, it sucks. It sucks really bad."

"I know, and I do feel sorry. But I can barely even talk about it with my friends, who knew me the entire time we were together," you defend, taking a long, shakey breath. "And I want to be able to talk about it more. I want to believe that it doesn't affect me anymore, but it does, you know? It just does."

Satoru is about to reply, but Suguru places a hand on his thigh, shutting him up like someone would shut up a dog. Satoru leans back instead, returning to staring at the ceiling.

"You don't need to tell us anything you don't want to," he insists, rubbing Satoru's thigh. "But it would be nice to have at least some context. Given our prior connections."

You bring your knees up to your chest, leaning your head on them. "They were my class president in high school. Asked me out first year, and we were together ever since. They controlled just about every facet of my life, from where I went to college to how often I hung out with my friends. I finally got the courage to break up with them in April. That's pretty much the gist of it."

You hear some rustling and then the feeling of the couch dipping next to you. Suguru's arms wrap around your curled-up figure, a welcome weight amongst your anxiety. There's a couple more seconds of nothing before you watch Satoru sit down next to you, leaning against your shoulder. The three of you sit there for a moment, unmoving.

"We're serious about you," Suguru says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. "If you'll have us."

"You promise?"

"We could show you," Satoru says.

"If you'd like that, of course," Suguru adds.

You look up from your curled-up position, making eye contact with Satoru. He looks primal, almost, staring at you like you're his prey. In a momentary lapse of judgment, you bask in the feeling of being wanted. Realistically, you know it's probably not smart to have sex with them when you're emotional and generally gross, but part of you feels like it'll be good for you to stick it to the man.

You could move on, you knew you could. You weren't having a tantrum, you were getting on with your life.

"Yeah…I would like that. I guess."

Satoru's mouth hungrily crashes into yours, pushing you back into Suguru's chest. You kiss him back with a fervor you haven't had in a long time, soaking up the want oozing off of him. You haven't felt this way in years.

Suguru dips his head down, pressing light kisses up and down your neck, slipping his hands under your shirt and massaging your hips. Satoru puts his hands over Suguru's, pushing his palms harder into your body.

Suguru adjusts so that you are leaning up against his chest, tapping Satoru on the back of his head. Satoru pulls away from you, giving Suguru a look of confusion that quickly melts into recognition.

Satoru leans back for a moment, if only to let Suguru tug your sweatshirt off, revealing nothing but the three-year-old bra you put on that morning. Satoru leans back down and leaves light kisses down your stomach, only detaching his hands from Suguru's to wrap his fingers around the edge of your waistband.

In a moment of panic, you squeak out a short "wait," causing Satoru to pause and look up at you. His eyes, the color of sapphires, bore into yours like sunlight, and you struggle to keep eye contact.

"Hm?" Suguru hums in your ear, dragging his nails up and down your sides. Goosebumps spread over your skin, causing a shiver to run across your body.

"Um, I haven't shaved in a while," you choke out, anxiety running through your body. "And I didn't shower today."

Satoru snorts, rolling his eyes. "I'm a grown man," he says. "Do you think I care about a little hair? Suguru hasn't shaved in years."

You feel your cheeks grow warm as Satoru waits for you to give him the go ahead. "Well, if you're sure," you approve, shrinking into Suguru's chest. Satoru wastes no time getting back to work, lifting your hips and taking off your sweatpants and underwear in one fluid motion. His breath is cold on your dripping pussy as he stares at your core, eyes dark. You prepare yourself for contact, but nothing ever comes.

Instead, Satoru looks up past you, presumably at Suguru, like he's asking for permission.

"Well, go on, Satoru," Suguru says calmly, as he removes your boobs from your bra, massaging them tenderly. "She's waiting so patiently for you."

Without further hesitation, Satoru dives in, warm tongue running up and down your soaking folds. His skillful tongue finds your clit with ease, licking it just right. Pleasure builds in you like it never has before—Uraume was never this good, not even with 10 years of practice.

Of course Satoru was perfect at this, as he was perfect at everything. Soft mewls escape your lips, no matter how hard you try to hold them in, and you writhe against Suguru's chest. You throw your head back over his shoulder, giving him easy access to your neck.

While Satoru continues to attack your clit, Suguru kneads at your breasts, nipping at your neck and shoulders. Every so often, Satoru moans against your clit, sending shockwaves up your body. It's too much—both of them are too much. You're putty in their hands, completely at their disposal for however long they'd like.

"Look how much she likes this, Satoru." Suguru sings, resting his chin on your shoulder. You look back down at Satoru, who looks like he's in heaven. "Tell him how much you like it, hm?"

"It's so good," you whine. Pressure begins to build up in your core, and you push yourself back into Suguru's chest. "I think—I'm about to—"

In one fell swoop, Suguru runs his hand through Satoru's hair and pulls him away from your cunt, dangling his head in front of you. You let out a cry of displeasure, your hips chasing Satoru's mouth.

"I don't think you've earned it yet, baby," Suguru says, pushing Satoru's head fully away from you. He looks upset, too, eyebrows furrowed and cheeks flushed pink.

"I think she's earned it," he quips, but he doesn't move, as if he won't do anything against Suguru's word. You nod eagerly, turning to look at Suguru. His cheeks are flushed, too, from just watching the two of you.

You can feel his cock pressing against your back through his dress pants, and, in retaliation, you jerk backwards, causing a hiss to escape Suguru's lips. "Resourceful, now, are we?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Satoru, switch with me."

Suguru gets up from behind you, and you can barely comprehend what's happening as Satoru quickly meets him in the middle, smashing his lips against Suguru. They quickly begin undressing each other while you watch, ripping buttons off shirts and throwing ties across the room. Sitting awkwardly, you decide to just take your bra off, unclipping it and throwing it on top of Satoru's discarded tie.

Moments later, Satoru slots himself behind you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. He puts his chin on top of your head before leaning down to place a kiss on your head. "Y'know, [Name], your ex being my mortal enemy aside, I'm a pretty big fan of 'ya."

"Oh, great to know," you reply, watching Suguru kneel on the cushion in front of you. His cock is huge, girthy, and, for a moment, you'll wonder if it'll even fit inside you.

He runs the head through your slick folds. You moan at the contact, overstimulated by the whole experience. Your clit aches with the memory of Satoru's mouth, and all you want is for Suguru to make you cum.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" Suguru asks, eyes serious. Immediately, embarrassment blooms in your chest, and all you can do is nod, hoping that will be enough.

"No can do, babe," Satoru says, his voice reverberating through his chest. "Gotta use your words, 'kay? It's what Suguru likes."

You gulp, taking a deep breath and swallowing your pride. "I want you to fuck me, Suguru, please."

With a satisfied smile, Suguru slowly pushes inside your cunt, cushiony walls enveloping him until he's all the way in to the base. He's big, and you knew that, but the feeling of fullness is overwhelming and every slight movement sends electricity running through you.

Suguru begins at a steady pace, reaching down to rub your clit in the process. Your back arches and pushes against Satoru; you try to pull away from the pleasure, but Satoru holds you there, making you take everything Suguru has to give you.

Soon, even Suguru can't control himself, rolling his hips against yours. Every thrust draws an unwilling sob from your lips, and you do anything to relieve the pressure building in you. You lift your arms and place them on the back of Satoru's head, squeezing your eyes shut.

You'd never had sex like this before, not once. You don't know what to do with yourself, with this, and all you can do is try to hold on for dear life.

"Don't kill her, Sugu. She looks like she's going to pass out."

A slow moan escapes Suguru's lips. "Shut the fuck up, Satoru."

It's not long before that familiar coil begins to build in your lower half. You begin to whine, "Suguru, I..I.." you barely stutter out as white hot pleasure rips through your body. Suguru works you through it, now lightly drawing circles on your swollen clit. Despite reaching your climax, he doesn't stop, snapping his hips back and forth.

You're barely lucid by the time Suguru reaches his high, pulling out with just enough time to cum all over your stomach. He lets his cock rest against your cunt, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips and Satoru's.

"Come on, man," Satoru whines, pulling away from Suguru's kiss. "You got it on my arms. Where the hell did your aim go?"

"You're acting like you haven't swallowed it before," Suguru laughs, turning his attention back to you. "You okay, honey?"

As you pant from the come down, Satoru whines from behind you, reaching down to palm himself. "Aw, Suguru tired you out, huh? Are you too sleepy to let me have a turn too?"

"Surely she's not that mean," Suguru insists, cupping your cheek with his hands. For the first time, you notice the deep purple in his eyes, boring down at you. "Maybe we move her to the bedroom, first."

Suguru's quick to sweep you up into his arms, leaving Satoru behind in the living room. You have no idea what to say as you lay limp in Suguru's arms, struggling to process the past fifteen minutes.

Suguru lays you down in their bed, plush and soft under your body. "Seriously, are you okay to keep going, babe? We can let you sleep and finish up out there."

Satoru juts out his bottom lip into a pout, waiting for you to respond. You chew on the inside of your cheek—you weren't sure if you'd survive anything else. Nevertheless, you nod. "Yeah, I'll—I'll be okay."

Satoru pounces on you immediately, settling between your thighs and lining himself up with your hole. "What a good girl," Suguru muses, laying himself down next to you. "Just a little bit longer, yeah?"

Whatever that meant. The night goes on with you being passed back and forth between the two, who are eager to have their way with you. By the time they're done, leading you into the bathroom to have a bath, your body aches in ten different places and your mind is foggy with pleasure.

You end up sat on Satoru's lap in the bathtub, soaking up epsom salts and the smell of the vanilla scented candle Suguru lit. They do all the work for you, rubbing soap into your skin and drying you off and putting you in some of their clothes, as they do the same for each other.

For a moment, jealousy rips through you. They started dating around the same time as you and Uraume had, and they were so secure in their relationship they could let someone else in. Meanwhile, you couldn't even have friends while you were with Uraume.

You try to force them out of your mind, to free yourself from their shackles, but you can't. Even when you're laid down in between the two of them, wrapped up in their embraces as they whisper to each other about their days, you can't stop thinking about them.

"Girlfriend?" Suguru whispers in your ear, placing a soft kiss on your earlobe. Feigning your sleep, all you can do is let out an agreeing hum, which seems to be enough for them.

Satoru gives you a chaste kiss on the cheek, and then on your nose, and then on your lips. "Pretty girl," he says, curling his arms around your hips. "Our pretty girl."

You squeeze your eyes shut and let sleep take you as quickly as it can.

—

Time passes, and you fall into their routine. At the same time, you pull back, unable to get your past out of your mind.

As far as you're aware, your boyfriends aren't necessarily aware of your regression, with them being so focused on each other all the time. They don't mind when you sleep on the edge of their bed, curled up into yourself rather than with them. They don't mind when you sit on the other side of the couch, away from their touch. They don't mind when you blow them off to go hang out with your friends.

At some point, you admit to yourself that what you're doing is wrong. You talk to your friends about it, who insist that this is all part of getting past Uraume and the trauma that came with them.

And then, you see Uraume at the grocery store.

They look worse for wear, as you've been told, their hair grown out almost to their shoulders and their face devoid of their usual makeup. They're staring at all the various types of freshly made jams, tapping their chin lightly as they think. They look as beautiful as always, and you begin to realize that the guilt you feel might actually just be you still being in love with them.

Stockholm syndrome, your friends had called it, an unhealthy attachment to someone who only ever hurt you. And yet, it takes everything in you to not walk up to them, to the point where you abandon your cart in the middle of the store and walk out.

Later that night, you're sitting on Satoru and Suguru's couch, flipping through a book that Suguru had recommended you. The two of them are deep into some anime Satoru loves, with Suguru's arm lazily dangled over Satoru's shoulder.

All night, Satoru has been staring at you instead of watching his show. Usually that's his sign that he wants to have sex, but he makes no moves on you, just watching.

In between episodes, he finally decides to speak.

"Will you come over here, [Name]?" he asks, catching both yours and Suguru's attention. "I feel so far away from you."

Both of them look expectantly at you, so you stand, ignoring the way your stomach churns at the thought. You miss the way Uraume would hold your hand while you watched Law & Order, running their fingers across your knuckles, not the way Satoru and Suguru held you like an object.

Nonetheless, you attempt to sit down next to Satoru, but he drags you into his lap before you can even reach the couch. His hands wrap around you and dig into your waist almost painfully, up until Suguru pinches his arm and he loosens up.

The next episode starts without another word, and you go back to reading your book.

—

The next day, you talk to Asahi, because she's the only one who would listen to you. You word vomit about how much you miss Uraume to the point where you start crying, sobbing about the way they loved you.

You tell her that Satoru and Suguru's love is too intense, that it feels more possessive than Uraume's ever did. That you feel like an object more than a partner.

Asahi listen and nods, holding your hands in hers as you speak. At some point, you let out a distraught wail and drop your head against the table, ending your tangent. Asahi thinks for a moment before speaking, trying to find the words to say.

"…This is what Uraume wants, probably," she finally says, and you look up at her, teary-eyed and miserable. "For you to miss them like this, to compare them to your next partners. But, to be honest, you look better now than you ever did with them."

Asahi does not tell you the words you want to hear, so you repeat the same process with your therapist. She gives you almost the same exact answer, so you go home and cry into your pillow.

You know they're right, objectively. You know that Uraume would bask in the glory of you crawling back to them, teary-eyed and apologetic, and they'd pretend like taking you back was some valiant act of love. They'd hold it over your head for months.

You ignore Suguru and Satoru's texts about having a movie night and you go to bed at 8:30, wanting to escape your feelings. You wake up the next morning to a frowny-face emoji from Satoru and a simple good night text from Suguru, so you force yourself to text them good morning and an apology for your early bedtime.

Shortly after that, while you're brushing your teeth, you get a call from Satoru.

"How's my beautiful girl doing?" he asks jubilantly, more excited than you'd ever heard him.

"Good," you say through your teeth brushing, your words barely comprehensible. "How are you?"

"Well rested and excited for the day. You work from home, right, babe?"

You spit your toothpaste out and time the mint taste from your mouth. "Yeah. Didn't you know that already? Why'd you ask?"

"I have an important all-day thing today and Suguru is taking his students on a field trip, so neither of us will be home until late," Satoru sing-songs. "Would ya mind comin' over and watching Maru?"

Maru, their cat, was the best part about dating them. She was a fat, old, fluffy white cat who loved to cuddle and watch TV, perfect to sit with all the time. The request was innocent enough to you, and you could spend more time pretending to be content with your relationship. You were hoping it would trick you into actually being content with it.

"Of course I'll come watch Miss Maru," you say in your baby voice, a smile blooming on your face. "I can be there in 30?"

"I'll come pick you up in 20."

Satoru, who is very famously late all the time, stays true to his word, picking you up 20 minutes later with a breakfast sandwich for you in hand. He yaps about how much he doesn't want to go to his meeting, how he'd rather stay at home with you and Maru, lazing about all day. You entertain his conversation as best you can, insisting he could do it another day, that you were never busy on weekends.

He raises an eyebrow at that, glancing over at you instead of paying attention to the road. You wait for him to speak, feeling a bit anxious when he laughs instead.

"You always have to hang out with your friends on the weekends," he utters, and you don't like the way he says 'friends.' "I feel like I never get to see you."

You frown. "We have a pretty normal schedule going on, no? I see you three or four times a week. We've only been dating for a few months."

Satoru lets out a long, breathy hum, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. Suddenly, the car feels stuffy, and the lack of music makes you feel uncomfortable. He seems like he doesn't know what to say, eyes darting back and forth from you, the rearview mirror, and the road over and over again.

"I guess I'm just greedy," he says, and you know that spells the end of the conversation. Any prying you do will be shut down almost instantly, as if he's not at will to say what he wants. "Did you see the Emmys last night?"

Satoru drops you off outside of his apartment building and tells you to head up, handing you his keys with barely any hesitation. He demands a kiss on the cheek and then bids you adieu, leaving you to your own devices.

When you arrive at the apartment, Maru is sleeping on the couch spread-eagle. She looks as innocent as ever, and you rush over to sit with her. On the way, you notice something you've never seen before—a camera set up to watch the couch.

You try not to stare at it, preferring to stare at the kitty purring against your hands. You're sure it's just to watch Maru and nothing else, so you ignore it and the way it makes you feel sick.

—

Suguru gets home first, walking through the door at 4:30. He looks exhausted, running his hand through his hair as he drops his bookbag in the foyer and slips his shoes off.

"Welcome home," you say absentmindedly, keeping your focus on your computer screen. You've spent the whole day reading through submissions to the publishing house you work at, sifting through hundreds of terribly written romantasy novels and bad memoirs. "How's your day?"

Suguru sighs like the question is offensive to him. "High schoolers," he says, and that's about all you need to know. He comes over and stands behind you, snuggled up on the couch next to Maru. He leans over and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pressing kisses to your neck. "Maru didn't cause you any trouble?"

The feeling of his lips brushing against your neck makes you flinch. "She did nothing but lay there. She moved back and forth between right there and her tree," you say, opening your email and typing out yet another rejection letter. For a moment, Suguru lingers, watching you type out your classic better luck next time message, his breath hot on your neck.

"What do you want for dinner?" he finally asks, standing up. The question finally makes you break your focus on your laptop, and you turn to look at him.

"After I finish up my list for today I was planning on heading back to my place," you reply, and Suguru tilts his head as if to ask why. "Me and my friends watch the new Drag Race episode together every Thursday."

Suguru's lips dip into a frown. "Can't you just stay for dinner?" he asks, tilting his head. "Right after, you can leave."

You look back at your laptop, staring at the time. "Satoru will be back when?"

"Half an hour or so. He always leaves work a bit early."

Okay, so you'd easily be back by 7. "Sure, then. Sounds good to me. Make whatever you want."

Suguru disappears into a different area of the apartment and, a few minutes later, you hear the shower turn on. You finish looking through your last proposal at 5 on the dot, slamming your computer shut and pushing it off your lap. Maru is quick to climb into its spot, making herself at home in between your criss-crossed legs.

"Silly baby," you whisper, scratching behind her ears. The moment she gets comfortable, though, the front door swings open and scares her away. Satoru walks in holding a bag of takeout and donning a big smile, waving his other arm around excitedly.

"I'm home!" he sings, padding into the living room the moment he takes his shoes off. He's quick to discard the takeout bag onto the coffee table, turning and collapsing on top off you. You can't help but let out an oomph as Satoru lays his full weight on you, wrapping his arms around you excitedly.

You give him a couple of awkward pats on the back as he peppers your face with kisses, causing you to scrunch up your nose in discomfort. "Did'ya miss me, babe? You think about me all day?"

You draw in a sharp breath. "Of course. What else would I be doing?"

He pouts at your answer, shaking his head. "You're a terrible liar, y'know that?"

Satoru seems like he's going to say something else, but someone catches his eye behind you, and he's quick to get off of you and run towards him too. You turn around and watch Satoru slam into Suguru, giving him a big kiss on the lips. "Ahh, this is the best," he exclaims, turning back to you. "Both of my princesses waiting for me when I get home from work. Could things get any better than this?"

"If you showered and got the smell of office off of you," Suguru suggests, looking towards you. "Did you pick up dinner?"

"Obviously. All I want is to sit on the couch and eat food and watch a movie with you two, not watch you cut onions for an hour and a half," Satoru jests, slipping away from Suguru and skipping into his room.

Suguru comes over and picks your laptop up, slipping it into your bag before sitting down next to you and draping an arm around your shoulders. He's put on his usual baggy sweatshirt and sweatpants duo, so you decide to make yourself comfortable and lay on him. He's soft and comfortable, especially after a day of nonstop reading.

Suguru turns the TV on and begins flipping through streaming services, clicking through movie after movie. You watch quietly until Satoru comes back in, insisting he put on Titanic. Satoru sits on the other side of you, shoving himself into your side. Suguru puts on The Godfather instead, and you listen to the two of them bicker as usual.

Satoru passes out all the various food he got, and you settle for a box of plain noodles. At some point, Suguru gets you water, and you eat to your hearts content before snuggling back up to Suguru. "Are you playing favorites right now?" Satoru asks, and Suguru tells him to shut up in response. So, he settles for laying his head on your shoulder, mimicking the way you lay on Suguru.

It's a wonder you don't fall asleep faster. You're not even done eating for 20 minutes before you're passed out, and, when you wake up, Satoru and Suguru are watching Sex and the City, long done with the movie. You shoot up in a panic, feeling around for your phone.

"Good morning," Satoru chuckles, pulling you back into his chest. "Your friends said you can reschedule Drag Race. Seemed pretty thrilled to postpone, if you asked me."

You blink a couple of times, not loving the idea that they talked to your friends. Suguru is quick to hand you your phone—you'd slept until nine. You almost get angry, ask why Suguru didn't wake you up, but the slew of text messages prevents you from speaking. It's your friends, cheering for you and saying they hope you got laid.

You bite your tongue, relaxing into Satoru's chest as best you can. By ten, you're dismissing yourself into their room, rummaging through their drawers to find your things. You were suddenly glad they asked you to bring some stuff over after the first time you spent the night, though they "loved seeing you in their clothes." You're in bed by eleven—as you are every night—curled up on Satoru's side of the bed.

You don't know what time it is when they come in. They move about the room quietly, whispering to each other loud enough that they wake you up. You keep your eyes shut, hoping they'll quiet down once they realize that you're asleep asleep.

"The guy is absolutely unreasonable. I guess his daughter lives in the building, so he doesn't want to sell it," Satoru whispers, rolling his eyes. "I told Ichiji to dig something up on him, we'll see if he can even manage that. If not, I'll ask Megumi."

"Don't put too much of your energy into it," Suguru replies, and you can feel him sit on the other side of the bed. "There's other ways we can deal with it. We just need to be patient."

"I don't want to be patient," Satoru replies. You feel his hands curl under you as he moves you over a bit, like you're a ragdoll in his bed. "I like having a pretty girl in my bed."

—

You wake up the next morning, earlier than Suguru and Satoru as per usual, and Tokyo is covered in a thick blanket of snow. You spend at least five minutes staring out the kitchen window, distraught at the sight.

Your phone confirms your worst fears—insane train delays and cancellations, road closures, everything you don't to hear. At the same time, this event is sort of freeing, because it confirms to you that you probably need to break things off with Satoru and Suguru. You're terrified of being trapped here, forced to spend the whole day with their obnoxious doting.

The idea makes you laugh at yourself. You would spend hours sulking about Uraume's scarce attention, but, apparently, that was perfect for you. Or, maybe you'd grown too used to it. Whatever it may be, you probably just needed to spend the better part of the next two years single.

Suguru comes out shortly after your revelation, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. You prepare for him to come to you, rightfully so as he his arms around your middle and rests his head on your chin. "School's cancelled," he says, and the news has you hoping he'll still spend the day grading.

Satoru whines the whole morning about how he still has to go to work and how the corporate world is his worst nightmare. Suguru makes a comment about how that was his fault, and all he can do is march out the door while mumbling about how his life sucks.

The day is, surprisingly, pretty okay, despite the fact that the snow just won't stop coming down. Suguru teaches you how to play chess and watches you play Zelda on Satoru's Switch, content to just be in the same space as you. At some point during the day, Satoru talks to you through the camera on the mantle, whining about how jealous he was of the two of you.

You make peace with the fact that you'll probably spend another night there, and, when the snow stops around 4, you hope that the city can fix things up in time for you to go home early the next day. Then, you'll start planning your break-up speech, which will most likely be you blubbering about how you're just not ready for another relationship yet and how it's not fair to them that you still think about Uraume all the time.

Then, Satoru gets home and immediately starts undressing you, and you spend the evening in bed, being used between the two of them like a sex toy. It doesn't make you feel good mentally, though, physically, you might as well have been in heaven. Satoru babbles about how much he loves you, how good you make him feel, how perfect you fit into his and Suguru's relationship, while Suguru watches you with that foggy glint in his eyes, like his mind is elsewhere.

You go to bed and are gone before they wake up.

—

The next few days are excruciating. Satoru gets upset with you for leaving before saying goodbye, insisting it was dangerous for you to take the train when it was still so gross outside. You smooth it over as best you can, insisting that you just wanted to get home and use up the rest of your groceries before they went bad. You'd spent a lot of money on your breakfast bread (and Satoru tells you that he could buy ten more loaves for you next time).

You sit down with your friends, telling them your reasoning behind your choices and insisting you aren't going to go back to Uraume. You tell them you aren't really a person, just someone's other, and you don't like that. They have varying reactions—Izumi's upset, Shiori's indifferent, and Asahi is supportive—but, at the end of the night, they all understand.

After a few more hectic days at work, you go over to Satoru and Suguru's house for dinner. They clearly know something is up, as Suguru is dead silent while he makes chicken and Satoru is bent over his computer, agonizing about some work thing driving him crazy.

Dinner is delicious, and eating it makes you feel guilty. So, about halfway through, you clear your throat, looking up from your plate.

Satoru is already staring at you, and Suguru doesn't bother to pay attention to you, focusing on his food. "Listen, I—we need to talk," you start, tripping over your words.

"About what?" Satoru asks, and you don't like the desperate look in his eyes. "Did we do something wrong?"

"No, um, I just…don't think I'm ready for another relationship yet," you say, swallowing hard. "I mean, I was with Uraume for all of my young adult years, and I don't really feel like my own person yet. And I don't think it's fair to you guys to still be so hung up on my ex when you're giving me your all."

Suguru puts his silverware down neatly, finally looking up at you. Their attention is even more than usual right now, filling your lungs and sinking into your skin. Neither of them speak, so you're forced to keep rambling.

"You're both so sweet, and the best thing I could've asked for, but I'm clearly not ready enough. I just need more time. Maybe after I sort myself out, we can try again, or something. But, for now, I think it's best we break up."

There's barely a reaction to your words. Maybe you thought they liked you more than they actually do, from the way Satoru cracks a smile and Suguru just stares. You wait, mentally begging for one of them to say something.

And, of course, Suguru's the one to speak.

"I think that's sweet, dear."

You grimace. "What?"

"I think it's sweet that you think you have a choice," Suguru repeats, and the words almost make your jaw drop. Panic flares through your body, and all you can think is of course you dated a couple of psychos right after a sociopath. "But, if I recall, we told you we were in this for the long run, not a hook-up situation."

"Yes, obviously I remember," you say, curling your hands into fists on your lap. "But that wasn't a legally binding contract, or something. I'm a person, I have free will, and I'm breaking up with you right now."

"No, you're not," Satoru says, shaking his head. "We get a little possessive, you know? You can't just walk out on us like that without even trying to work on it."

Suguru nods in agreement, leaning his head on his hands. You can't find the words to say, failing to comprehend the situation you're in. "Okay, so you still think about Uraume. Whatever. After a while, once we've got you comfortable here, they'll barely be an after thought," Satoru continues, and his voice sounds….off. "You'll be too focused on loving us."

You stand abruptly from your chair, almost knocking it over in the process. "I think I need to go home," you state, stepping away from the table. Both of them just watch you, with Suguru's arrogant expression sending waves of anxiety through your body. "We can revisit this tomorrow, maybe, after you've both thought about it some more. We can sort it out."

You trip over yourself trying to get to the foyer, slipping on your tennis shoes instead of bending down to untie and retie them, like you usually do. You practically rip your bag off the usual hook, grabbing the doorknob and turning it as hard as you can.

You pause. You turn the doorknob some more, and you pause again. You look up at the door and come face to face with a lock you've never noticed before, the keyhole staring right back at you. You hear footsteps behind you, so you spin around, pressing your back against the door.

"Did you lock me in here?" you shriek, holding your bag to your chest. Suguru stands there with his arms crossed, looking like this is somehow inconveniencing him.

"We can revisit your privileges in a little bit. But, for now, it's best we spend some time sorting all this out," Suguru replies like he's your parent, holding his arm out to you sternly. "Give me the bag and take your shoes off, dear. We've set up a room for you that you can use to calm down and gather your bearings."

"What the fuck are you saying to me right now?" A million thoughts race through your head as you speak, and you begin rummaging through your bag for your phone. Sighing, like he expected you to do this, Suguru pulls it out of his pocket, holding it up. "Give that back, Suguru. You're don't own me, you can't do this. You need to let me leave."

"We don't need to let you do anything," comes Satoru's voice as he rounds the corner, leaning back on the couch behind him. "If you had just been good, you wouldn't be in this situation right now—this is your fault. Not ours."

"My fault? My fault?"

"Don't make this difficult, please," Suguru says, and, suddenly, they look scarier than they ever have before. Scarier than Uraume ever did before. You imagine their face right now, laughing at you as you fail worse than you ever have before. You can hear their voice saying you should've never left, and you wish they were here to drag you out of this situation like they always used to. "Go spend some time in your room, calm down a bit. I'll put your dinner in the fridge so you can finish it later."

You end at a standstill. The door is locked behind you, they stand like a wall in front of you. You can't think of anything, a solution for you to get yourself out of this. So, you just stand there, unmoving.

After a few moments, Suguru sighs, shaking his head. "Okay, okay. I guess we really can't be nice. We tried. Go ahead, Satoru."

Satoru, who is bigger and taller than the both of you, takes a step forward, and you open your mouth to scream. He's faster than you, though, and picks you up before you can, throwing you over his shoulder.

You punch and claw at his back, squirming to try and get him to drop you. Satoru's hold on you is far to strong for you to even make a dent on him, but you refuse to stop trying, to give up so easily. Suguru watches as he follows behind, looking almost disappointed in you.