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i just love fantasizing about dottoreâs segments and how they would enjoy their time with you !! With permission from the original of course !
warnings: mentions of blood, knife play, degradation, Dacryphilia (lmk if there are others you see !!) || heavily unedited
characters: segments 18 and 25 || part 2 || part 3
18
The youngest of the adult segments. Often others would taunt him and say he has no idea what heâs doing⌠which is not far from the truth. Poor 18 who was too obsessed with school that he was unable to form any sort of relationship or friendship with his peers.
He definitely has the most obvious wandering eyes compared to the others. Eyes laced with hunger and desire drink your appearance in the lab whenever you stood closer to the original. Sometimes he wouldnât even notice the way his tongue came out to lick his lower lip or the hardening bulge in his pants when you bent over to pick something up. Sometimes you did notice his staring but brushed it off as him being⌠well himself.
When Zandik gives 18 permission to use you (for an experiment of course â to see how much you could handle, what else would it be?), he goes wild. All those nights having to jerk off alone with a pair of your panties pumping his aching cock where he had to use his imagination. Imagining you on your knees, one hand gripping his balls and the other holding the shaft as you run your tongue from the tip to his balls and back up, or you on your hands and knees on his bed, back arched so deliciously that your ass is enhanced even more. Oh yeah, he was gonna devour you.
His movements are definitely rushed. Poor baby doesnât know what heâs doing. His grabbing at your breasts quite roughly and sucking so much. Your entire neck is covered with adoring bites. When he goes down on you, he can hardly contain his excitement. At first he gives experimental kitten licks on your clit, red hues gazing up from blue eyelashes as if waiting for your approval. Your soft moans is all he needs before he eats you like you are his last meal.
He hooks your thighs over his shoulders with a firm grip to keep you from moving. His tongue moves frantically, from your clit and down your folds before slipping inside your cunt, moaning against your pussy. Heâs so messy but it feels so good !! He replaces his tongue with two fingers and pumps in and out and attacks your clit, sucking and nibbling just enough and loves how you writhe from his touch alone. It makes him feel proud and he wishes the other segments can see this act.
Heâs so desperate itâs almost pathetic. His hips grind against the mattress in a weak attempt to pleasure himself and small whimpers emit from his lips. His moans alone as he devours you is enough to send you over the edge.
When it comes to the official act and he finally gets what heâs been longing for, he almost finished on the spot. Choked gasps leave his pretty mouth as he stares down at you in almost disbelief. He can hardy contain himself at this point. Your cunt squeezes around him graciously and continues to swallow him until he bottoms out, his flesh against yours. A small âZandikâ leaves your lips and its enough for him.
His thrusts are fast pace, his hands are roaming everywhere on your body, from circling your overstimulated clit that causes you to cry underneath him, to your breasts where he rolls the mounds between his fingers, to your neck where slender fingers grip the sides in attempt to cut off some air.
Your pussy is so warm and welcoming, as if you were designed perfectly just for his cock, a complete opposite of his hand and a spare panties that barely had your scent on them. You just take him so well and he lets you know how much of a good girl you are, and oh donât forget he thinks youâre the prettiest woman he has ever seen in his life, especially when youâre begging for him to fuck into you harder. Despite being inexperienced and fast with his movements, he will make sure he tastes every inch of you before its the next segments turn.
25
Probably the most stuck up one besides Omega. In fact, he was probably the meanest one who thought he knew everything. This was the stage of Zandikâs life after being expelled from the Akademiya and pursuing other research with the Fatui, so it would make sense in some twisted way that he was mean and stuck up.
Unlike 18, this segment was more sneaky with his gestures. Youâd often come and help inside the lab with the other segments or Zandik and 25 would be incredibly jealous. If you were beside him, he might accidentally knock over vials near you, and of course he would immediately blame you for being so careless and stupid, heâs just so mean to you. But as planned, youâd get on your hands and knees to clean it and would never notice the way this segment would stare you down.
Like 18, he would desperately jerk off but this time to the thought of you crying and it turned him on so much. He wondered if you would cry from physical pain or emotional pain (which he could do both) and that would make his desire for you grow. Sometimes he would sneak into your room when you are sleeping and just watch. He wanted nothing more than to strap you down and use you there but even he knew his limits with Zandik around.
After 18 had his fun with you and it was 25âs turn, you were definitely in for some form of torture (or pleasure)
Instead of the comfortable setting in 18âs room, this segment takes you to the lab as if you were his patient. At first he does a general assessment but donât mind his wandering hands in between your thighs that graze against your cunt and flick at your clothed clit. The doctor is working of course ;)
He definitely loves to tie you down to the table completely naked. Itâs so humiliating to be the only one nude while he is still dressed, but the way he looks at you behind glasses is enough to slightly wash away that shame.
At first he teases you. He blows hot air on your pussy and watches you squeeze around nothing. âWow, youâre practically begging for me already and I havenât done anything. Arenât you a slut?â
He looms over you and leaves so many marks on your skin, sometimes even drawing blood but would lick it clean as some sort of apology. Heâd stare at you and lick his lower lip to wipe off the little but of blood.
Besides his fingers, his scalpel is probably his tool of choice when playing with you. The sharp tip drags ever so slowly against your skin and the coolness of the blade causes your breath to hitch. Excitement or fear, you werenât sure what you were feeling. Occasionally he might accidentally dig in ever so slightly to see the beautiful crimson color you produce and enjoys the face of pain you make. But donât worry, the doctor will make you feel all better !!
Whenever he was satisfied from examining you, he fucks you without care. This segment really only cares for his own pleasure and doesnât care about yours. He could go about his day even if you didnât finish. He just wanted to use you to his heartâs desire.
He still remains fully clothed while fucking you. This gives him some sort of ego boost, that he was the one in charge and you were just something below him (figuratively and literally). He taunts you and degrades you and his hands are quite rough. You cry and tell him its too much, but oh dear you really shouldnât disrupt the doctor while heâs at work. He stuffs two fingers in your mouth, practically almost all the way until he touches the back of your throat and you gag. 25 fucks you like the whore he calls you. Heâs just so mean but you canât deny the amount of pleasure flowing through your veins.
ËĘâĄÉË THAT ONE TIME I STARTED READING A BUNCH OF STORIES FILLED WITH CLICHE TROPES, BUT WAIT... WHY ARE THEY ACTING WEIRD !? - DIZ-EAZE FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION EVENT MASTERLIST ËĘâĄÉË
; in which cliche wattpad tropes are taken with a lovesick twist.
; yandere, all fem reader this time, specific warnings will be listed in each oneshot itself, updates are sporadic.
âËâĄâĄ DISCLAIMER; the characters in the following works are not indicative of their canon personalities whatsoever. it revolves around wattpad tropes and yandere, OOC behavior is bound to happen.
đš.á Mirror. (Best friends with Columbina)
; columbina, your best friend, is practically a copy of you. she wears the clothes you have in your closet, she eats the same food you love, and she likes the shows you watch. you don't see anything wrong with it for the most part.
đš.á Abhorrently. (Marriage of Convenience with Flins)
; the man you were promised to since you were both children turns out to be a bit of a creep. it's in your hands if you want to sever this marriage through divorce, or lean into his all-consuming obsession.
đš.á Gameboy. (Brother's best friend with Dan Heng)
; you've known dan heng growing up, watched as he protected you from mean boys with his imposing presence. he's always one call away or just outside the living room playing another competitive game with your brother. in a way, dan heng's like another brother, too.
đš.á Petticoat. (Not like other girls with Furina)
; many consider you to be an outlier. while other girls go out to clubs and get their faces done with immaculate makeup, you stay cooped up in your room blasting your favorite tv shows. boys your age don't go after girls like you. but furina does.
đš.á Moneybags. (Billionaire boss with Arlecchino)
; working as a secretary for a strict CEO takes years off your lifespan at the end of every shift. you go home with unfinished work, you're required to attend to her out of shift, and she always needs her morning coffee at 7:30 AM sharp. at the very least, the pay is good.
đš.á Springtime. (Push-and-Pull with Phainon)
; becoming enamoured with phainon is an inevitability that you had no chance of ever resisting. but it stings how he'll never see you beyond a dear friend from kindergarten. the moment you move on, however, begins a shift in your dynamic with him -- he wants you back, desperately so.
đš.á Propellant. (Bad boy with Scaramouche)
; resident campus troublemaker scaramouche is bad news, everyone knows that, including you. but a drunken shared conversation with him starts to tempt you into getting involved in his life. there is something deeply wrong with him, but maybe you can be the cure to that. your father always taught you to fix rather than discard, after all.
summary: You had always heard a weird, mocking voice in the back of your head telling you that the things were going to end just like that between you and Satoru. The Prince and the Pauper. You were destined to eventually drift apart.
Or not?
tags: AU, angst to fluff, breaking and making up, classical disparities, insecurities, gojo is a certified loverboy and a yearner as usual. mdni! eventual smut, p in v sex, soft emotional sex. nobamaki cameo!
MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT! PLEASE HAVE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BLOG!
word count: 13.9k
author's note: hi everyone!! this is not the oneshot i wanted to finish in may, but i had some ideas brewing for quite a long time, though the concept is not really original. happy ending won, soooo enjoy and let me know your thoughts! art in the banner by @/yamada_souko. dividers are mine.
Looking back, you realised you had never got it easy for Satoru.
The tale as old as time: the Princess and the Pauper. Or, in your case, the Prince and the Pauper.
And you couldn't put it in a better way.
Satoru Gojo â the Prince of the campus, the heir to the Gojo Enterprises, the man who would get the business world in the palm of his hand, the captain of the university basketball team, whose face was plastered all across the campus, the president of the Alpha Delta Nu, so on and so forth. You got the gist. The crowd parted before him, the Universe shifted itself to accommodate his presence: he walked in every room as if he owned it, which he pretty much did â ruling every place with a charming grin and a quick wit. Guys were wishing to be like him. Girls were dying to be beside him. He barely granted anyone more attention than needed â keeping people at arm's length, except for a couple of his friends. Of course, you didn't belong to them. Not like you desperately wanted to. You were well aware of the hierarchy of the university: people like Satoru Gojo rested at the top, eyeing the crowd down. People like you? Scrambling to get to the middle. If you were lucky enough.
One spring day, you realised that either Satoru Gojo didn't know about those unspoken rules or couldn't care less about them. Because you couldn't come up with a plausible explanation for why he suddenly started pestering you. Or, in his eyes, flirting.
It began rather innocent: him accidentally bumping into you, flashing an apologetic grin; asking for a vacant place at the cafetery at your usual table in the corner, the one where the noise cut down a little and you had a better view on the students â naturally, that place become the center of everyone's attention, because wherever Gojo was, the crowd followed; helping you to get a book from the highest shelves in the library and then crushing your study sessions; waiting for you after the classes just to walk you out to the next campus with an excuse that it was on his way (it didn't. Business majors classes were hold in the corpus 20 minutes away from yours).
At first, you politely declined every single invitation to a frat party or a match. Then you tried to ignore him, but your disinterest would even more pique Gojo's attention. After this, it turned into clipped, gritted-out "no's". You even attempted to talk to his friend, Shoko Ieiri, the girl you shared the Advanced Chemistry class with.
"I don't think there's something I can do," she would murmur, eyes firmly set on some sample through the microscope, when you turned to her as a last resort. The sigh that left your lips was truly desperate. Shoko's gaze softened a tad as she looked up finally, since your presence kept looming over her like a tiny, grumpy cloud. "Satoru can be pretty stubborn, unfortunately. Especially, when he's pretty set on something."
"Yeah," scoffing under your breath, you crossed your arms, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest. "Unfortunately for me. Am I another check mark on his to-do list? I just don't get it." The pencil in your hand almost snapped from the strength of your grip.
"Listen, I am not in a position to advice your something or anything," Shoko's lab chair screeched â the sound annoyingly loud in the tense silence of the lab â as she turned to face you fully. The irritation at her words flared up in you, but you forced yourself to listen to her. If not her, then who?! "But you might try to hear him out. He's not that bad of a guy."
Grimacing at her, you turned to return to your own table. "If he's not that bad, he would've taken a hint long ago."
An indifferent shrug was the only response you got.
After talking to Shoko, Gojo's pitiable attempts at "courting" you had weakened severely until coming to a complete halt. You couldn't believe your luck. But what annoyed you even more than Gojo himself was the way you would jump at seeing the familiar spark of frosty white hair in the crowd; the way your heart would do a little flip at the sound of his distant chuckles. The way the loneliness would engulf your usual table in the corner of the cafeteria without his company: you subconsciously craned your neck to see him, for all his persona and the impossible height were impossible to miss, and slumped in your seat, when he didn't happen to stroll in with a familiar effortless grace in his stride. In the quietness of the library, after the countless hours of studying, you could basically hear the grin in his voice as he handed you a couple of blueberry muffins and the bergamot tea from your favourite bakery â you didn't have the slightest idea how he managed to find out your usual order â and tapped on your nose, remarking that you actually should eat.
Somehow, Satoru Gojo annoyed you enough to...like him. Managed to creep under your skin like an itch you couldn't get rid of.
Or⌠didn't want to?
***
One basketball match changed everything.
"Sorry, sorry, ohâ sorry again," you mumbled awkwardly, navigating through the crowd and somehow managing to balance two beer cups on your way to your seats.
"Geez, finally, where have you been?"
Rolling your eyes at Nobara, your bestie slash roommate slash the only person who made your university life not so miserable, you handed her the cup and tried to shout through the cheerladers' voices, the endless roaring of the crowd and the music coming loud from the speakers.
"There was a line!"
"Huh? What?"
"THERE WAS A FUCKING LINE!"
She took a sip from her cup with a satisfied nod and grimaced at you. "Don't scream at me."
Her audacity stole your voice, and you slumped down in your seat, huffing rather indignantly.
"Hey, don't pout. Sorry for that." Nobara lightly elbowed your side and opened a pack of salted peanuts, offering you a truce.
"Can't believe I agreed to go with you," a light grumpiness coloured your voice as you drank from your own cup.
"Aw, that's because I am awesome and you love me so, so much," she chirped gleefully and planted a kiss on your cheek. With her head on your shoulder, Nobara sighed dreamily at the sight of Maki Zenin â the manager of the university's basketball team. "She's so cute, isn't she?"
Meanwhile, Maki gestured widely, screaming something at her phone (not very pleasant as you might assume from your seat) and threw her bag at a guy in front of her. The guy followed her figure with puppy eyes.
Your lips twitched with a barely concealed smile that you hid behind another swig. "An angel, truly."
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"
Her words fell on deaf ears because at that moment, some airy melody rang from the speakers, followed by the joyful voice of the commentators to finally announce the start of the match.
Swallowing nervously, your eyes darted across the court, and the moment your gaze landed on the tall figure with stark white hair, your heart galloped at a racing speed.
"Who are you gawking at, huh?"
Gojo might've really had the eyes on the back of his head â he wasn't called Six Eyes for nothing, some weird sixth sense that you assumed related only to the basketball court â because that very moment he turned around and briefly scanned the audience. His eyes widened in surprise as he spotted you: the bright blue of his gaze and the joyous smile that broke on his face caught you so off guard you nearly dropped the cup. Like he was happy to see you there. Actually happy.
You offered Gojo a shy wave â a subtle move of your fingers â that only made his grin wider. Then, Suguru Geto tapped on his shoulder, and he quickly turned back.
Your hand fell limply to your side.
"Babe, what the hell was that?" Nobara hissed, jerking her chin towards the players gathered around for the last guides from the coach Yaga. "Have you just casually flirted with Satoru Gojo? Don't you hate his lungs?"
The next words came in a breathy voice. "I don't know anymore."
Your knowledge of basketball was rather... limited, but you dutifully roared along with the crowd the moment your university scored yet another point. The people's excitement was contagious, seeping right into you as well and lacing your voice with joy. You booed at the judge when he gave advantages to the rivals, screamed at the top of your lungs and held your breath at the last quarter. Your team went neck-and-neck with the other, and every point was crucial. You could see it in the way the player's uniform was drenched in sweat, their hair stuck to their temples, and laboured breathing. The stakes were too high.
The scorebox showed the fifteen seconds left â mere moments for you and the whole eternity for those at the court. Your eyes drifted to Gojo, as driven to him by some unknown force. His sharp gaze quickly darted from one teammate to another, calculating the last opportunities to score. And then...it found you amidst the sea of spectators. Cheeks flushed, hair a total mess, chest expanding with deep breaths. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he took you in. Adorable.
But for you, the moment Gojo's gaze landed on you felt completely different â resembling more of a bolt of lightning that sent every nerve in your body on fire. You couldn't hear your own thoughts with the blood pounding at your temples.
Gojo barely tilted his head, nodding towards the basket and mouthed.
"This is for you."
He dodged one guy, then the other with perfect dribbling â you barely saw anyone in their element as much as Gojo was at the basketball court â and finally went for a shot.
Time seemed to stop moving in the gym of the Jujutsu University. The hundreds of eyes watched the ball cutting through the air with an impeccable trajectory.
Until it went through the net without hitting the rim and sealed the win.
You barely released a shuddering breath when Nobara crushed you in a hug, her beer mercilessly spilling on you both, but no one gave a damn. The crowd erupted with an ecstatic cheer and rose to their feet right then and there. The commentators were on the verge of crying, judging by their voices, but your world narrowed to one particular person. Gojo's teammates ruffled his hair, patted his back, and hugged him by the shoulders; someone even put him in a playful headlock, to which he responded with a wide grin.
A tight knot in your chest slowly seemed to loosen a bit.
Gojo found you later, at the party.
You stood a little away from the crowd, watching Nobara laughing with Maki Zenin near the bonfire. The light painted her auburn hair in copper tints every time she tilted her head, and judging by the way Maki's gaze lingered on her form, she noticed that too. A little smile curled your lips at the sight of lovey-doveys.
"Your friend has a crush on Maki, huh?"
Putting a can to your lips, you mumbled absent-mindedly, "She's pretty obvious."
"They both are, actually."
A light brush against your shoulder finally caught your attention. You lazily shifted your gaze, only to gulp at the sudden proximity to Satoru Gojo.
He stood beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, watching the rest of the party unfold with a faint smirk on his face. Standing there, existing, like he wasn't the one who flipped your world upside down a couple of hours earlier.
A forced smile made your cheeks hurt as you tumbled out nervously, hastily wiping your mouth, "I amâ I, I mean, congratulations! You did so great! I don't understand much about basketball, but youâ," your worried your bottom lip for a second before breathing out, "you were magnificent."
At your words, Gojo finally turned around. His grin softened into a gentle smile that showcased a pair of dimples on his pale cheeks. The firelight danced on his hair strands that seemed more ivory tinged now.
"You think so?"
"I do!" A sudden feeling of boldness flooded you as you stepped forward and reached for his arm to show how sincere you were. Or maybe it was just a beer.
Gojo immediately cast his gaze down and slowly wrapped his long fingers around your wrist. You gulped, but didn't look away from his face. The gods clearly spared nothing in sculpting it, otherwise you couldn't explain the sharpness of his jaw, the plumpness of his lips and the prominence of his cheekbones.
No one had a right to be that beautiful. Satoru Gojo wasn't aware of it.
His thumb pressed just a tad against your soft skin to feel an erratic pulse beneath it, but you did not attempt to pull your hand away. On the contrary, it felt strangely...natural.
"I am glad you were there." A gentle murmur hit you harder than expected.
Breath bated, you searched Gojo's face for any hint of the usual theatrics and grandeur until you saw none.
"You are?"
"Yeah".
The words about the last shot were on the tip of your tongue already, but they quickly died at the sight of shimmering blue in his eyes as Gojo finally looked up and released your hand from his grip.
You already missed its warmth.
"Listen, I knew I was a jerk towards you. Crowding and flirting and so on. I know, I know," a self-deprecating chuckle left his lips as the ironic roll of his eyes followed. You watched every expression, soaked it like Gojo was about to disappear again from your life. "I am not proud of this, I admit. I want to apologise to you for this."
You parted your lips to answer, but Gojo cut you off with a slight shake of his head.
"But I am not going to apologise for my feelings," his voice grew stronger, rising from the gentle murmur to the steady tone, eyes boring into you with an unsettling intensity that left you speechless. The people's cheerings fade into the background, and that chilly evening, thick with emotions so deep you couldn't name them, enveloped both of you in its bubble.
"I meant everything. I do like you. I like the way you smile when you finally grasp the concept you've been studying. The way your voice goes all that animated when you talk about the book you were reading. That little sparkle in your eyes when you saw the last cherry pie in the cafeteria...I love it all. And that shot was for you. I really meant it."
"I am gonna ask you just this once, and if you reject me, I will step back and never bother you again. You have my word," the weight of Gojo's promise would almost physically pin you to the ground, if not for the desperation lurking behind his gaze, darting between your eyes and your lips. He forcefully tore it away to glance right into your face. "Will you go out with me?"
You didn't believe what you were about to say. But hey, that day was already weird enough. You offered Gojo a crooked smile. "Yeah."
"Just one date, you won't â ", he blinked in surprise, a light frown crossing his handsome face. "Wait, what?"
You stifled a laugh and nodded, stepping closer, until you felt the hard planes of his chest. "I will go out with you."
A slow, almost dopey in its joy, grin curled Gojo's lips, until a small disbelieving chuckle left him. "You will? Just like that?"
Now you couldn't contain a smile either. "Just like that, Gojo."
A whoop full of happiness cut through the air and the noise of the party that slowly came to its eventual end as Gojo swept you off your feet and twirled you in a bone-crushing embrace. Your laugh was the prettiest sound Gojo had ever heard.
"Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I swear you won't regret it!"
Satoru Gojo kept his promise. And many others he whispered in the dead of the night to you beneath the star-spilt sky. His hand was a steady anchor amidst the stormy life that awaited both of you. His voice offered you peace of mind when the world was a little too harsh for you. His fingers traced reverently the silk of your skin every time he shared a night with you. His gaze was the first you searched for in every crowded room. His arms had become the safest place in the world.
Satoru memorised the way you organised your life, but you were more than happy when he eventually disrupted your usual order. Not because he was doing that on purpose. Rather, since that was Satoru: he was too big for your world, and you didn't want him to shrink himself into someone he wasn't. Dimming Satoru's light was the last thing you wished.
He had learnt by heart the things that even you didn't pay attention to: for example, your toothbrush always had to face the door â Satoru wordlessly turned it the way you preferred; your favourite plant was Zamioculcas that he made sure was always watered visiting you; you usually carried a few packs of wet cat food for the stray babies in your enormous bag â he ordered large boxes, so you wouldn't run out of them; your drink of choice was Margarita that you shared only while hanging with Nobara â Satoru learned on his way to pick you up; you hated the loud harsh sounds, and Satoru was the first one to whisper sweet nothings to you and rub soothing circles against the small of your back until you calm down. In other words, he made your life easier.
You, on the other hand, only added more difficulties to his. Satoru never told you that, not even mentioned in any way that you were somehow different from him. But some things didn't have to be pointed out to catch your eye.
Like his Prada glasses, which cost like your monthly rent or two. Satoru could leave them somewhere without batting an eye. Or the luxurious gifts he would get you out of nowhere just because you barely glanced at something while strolling. That warmed your heart, yes, but the cheque that Satoru couldn't care less about startled you. You stayed in the lab until you almost fainted from fatigue just to finish the project before the deadline to get an extra payment to spend on the gift, since you were adamant that the relationships were about taking and giving in equal measure. Not to mention the one social gathering he invited you to, just off-handedly, before the day it actually happened; you drained your bank account to look presentable by his side, and lived on the instant ramen the entire month after. Maybe if you had accepted Satoru's offer to live together, none of that would have happened, but you learned the hard way to rely only on yourself. Luckily, the iron argument sealed the deal: your tight schedules at the lab and his as a pro basketball player didn't match well.
The Gojo family was another... topic. While no one said anything directly to your face, you noticed the way their brows knitted in confusion for a fleeting second, eyeing you up and down. Sensed the baffled glances and fake, saccharine sweet smiles behind your back, questioning the fact of your presence. No. Your existence. The mere raise of the brow from one of Satoru's distant cousins at the sight of your shoes â the ones you borrowed from Nobara, who got them after the Fashion Week in Paris, albeit last year's Dior collection â had you doubting your entire life.
Complaining had never been on your list, though some thoughts did cross your mind. You made sure not to voice them, stoically listening to all the hushed whispers. Not once did your smile falter in front of them. It was the least you could do for Satoru. You knew he didn't have a lot of joy in standing up for you every single time, so, eventually, the gatherings got shorter, the invitations came rather rarely, and the calls, already small in number, would always leave him in a bad mood. The sound of your name appeared quite frankly between the gritted words and heated yells.
"Don't worry, baby," Satoru's lips always found the crown of your head in the reassuring kiss when you asked him what was going on. The bitterness in his voice poisoned your already tired, insecure mind even more. He was a master at hiding his emotions, but never from you. "I got this."
A strained smile â the corners of your lips lifting just barely â was your usual answer.
"Of course."
Satoru then offered you a quick grin that never reached his eyes. His large hands cradled your face in the gentle, trembling grip, and the faint murmur would twist yet another knife between your ribs. "I love you. I love you so much. You know that, right?"
Leaning into Satoru's palm like a kitten, seeking warmth, you bit inside of your cheek not to cry. Your hand came up to cradle his hand against your cheek just to memorise the way it perfectly engulfed your face.
"I love you."
Not to dwell on the way you voice cracked, akin to ice beneath one's feet, you simply moved forward to capture his lips in a kiss, until all you could taste were tears. Yours, his... Did it matter anymore?
And then, under the pale moonlight coming from the lone crescent peering right into the bedroom of his large penthouse, your gaze drifted unabashedly over Satoru's face, taking in every flutter of the long, snowy eyelashes. Every breath that left his lips. Every faint twitch in his expression, and even every tiny snore. Your finger tenderly traced the bridge of Satoru's nose, making its way to the perfectly sculpted mouth and down to the sharp cut of his collarbones. Committing each pale freckle and beauty mark to memory.
For you knew that night would be your last one.
Satoru loved you, and you loved him. He loved you fiercely, with the force so burning it could rival the Sun itself. It was only fair for you to step back and let him shine. Not to drive another wedge between him and his family. You loved Satoru enough not to burden him with your presence. He should soar up in the sky, not stay chained on the ground by the dead weight of you and waste his time knocking some sense into his parents.
A muffled sob escaped your throat as you pressed a small kiss between his collarbones. The next thing you felt was Satoru's strong arm curling around your waist to pull you against his strong chest. The faint smell of musk still clung to his skin, but you had never revelled in it as you did now.
"Why aren't you asleep, baby? Something's wrong?" Satoru's voice came in a deep, throaty tone that would usually have your toes curling.
The edge of the blade dug deeper into your heart, drawing blood.
"Nothing, love. Just some weird thoughts, that's all."
A boyish grin adorned his face â so handsome even in the middle of the night â as he lightly flicked your forehead.
"Your head will hurt from all the overthinking. Head so tiny, yet so many thoughts. Come here," Satoru let a shuddering yawn and tucked your head under his chin, nuzzling gently against your hair. "Better?"
Biting on your lip, you prayed to all the gods that Satoru wouldn't hear the tremble in your voice. The steady beat of his heart lulled you to sleep, but you knew you wouldn't close an eye that night. "Yes."
"Try to sleep, okay?" Satoru's finger came to play with a lone strand of your hair. The smile in his voice was evident. "And if you don't, just wake me up. We can talk or watch that documentary you mentioned earlier. I mean, did Tyra really not take any accountability?"
You gathered any ounce of your strength not to fall apart right then and there.
"Of course, Toru. Go to sleep now."
He sighed in mock exaggeration. "Always so bossy."
His chest rose steadily under your cheek. His skin felt warm under the weight of your palm. You registered it all subconsciously, clinging to every part of Satoru.
And only when his breath fully evened, you allowed yourself to whisper to the night.
"I love you. And I am so sorry."
***
You sincerely thought you were a nice girlfriend for scheduling your breakup over the weekend. Waited until Satoru finished showering and emerged all smiley and happy from the bathroom. Waited until he recalled all the TikToks he sent to you in the early morning, not even knowing you already had blocked him on all the socials. Waited until he dug in the last breakfast you cooked for him â fluffy pancakes with strawberry jam.
"Babe, this is so delicious," Satoru hummed, pointing a fork at you. "Are you sure you didn't wanna become a chief? I mean, this is the gift from the heavens."
"I think we should break up."
Satoru paused mid-way, mouth still open. He slowly closed it and heaved a hollowed chuckle, chewing on the pancake with more force than necessary. "Very funny, sweets. An excellent joke."
Straightening in the seat, you furrowed your brows in confusion. Weren't you clear enough?
"I said we should break up."
That time, Satoru finally stopped chewing and slowly lifted his gaze at you. The electric blue pierced deep in your soul as he pressed again, "And I said it was an excellent joke."
"Satoru," the movement of your throat was sharp as you fumbled with words. "I am not joking."
The desperate flex of his fingers caught your attention immediately when Satoru curled them into a fist before taking a deep breath. The smile that carved into his lips was as sharp as the knife.
"Care to explain why?"
A thousand thoughts twirled in your mind those days like a restless whirlpool, each of them seemingly worse than the previous: "I don't love you anymore", or "You suffocate me with your love", and the traitorous "I cheated on you."
All of them lie, of course.
So, you settled on offering Satoru the least you could do â the truth.
"We just don't work out, Satoru. It's better to break up before â "your voice was so tiny and fragile, Satoru thought he was hallucinating: his worst nightmare coming to reality, " â things get more serious."
The loud, screeching sound of the chair being pushed away, followed by a self-deprecating, disbelieving laugh, filled the room. You glanced up at Satoru only to find him pacing around like a caged animal. Your words punched him right in the gut.
"We don't 'work out?' Before 'things get too serious', huh? Sweets, that's gotta be a joke. The most shitty, not funny and cruel joke you have ever pulled on me, but okay," he nervously carded his fingers through the white hair, before walking to you. "Tell me this is it. Please."
You cast your gaze down, not able to see the way his eyes frantically searched your face for any hint of a joke and hear the crack in his voice, usually so steady and certain. A rock, a lighthouse in your stormy ocean.
The shake of his hands was violent as they came up to frame your face. You choked on a heavy sob, trembling like a leaf with the tears blurring your eyes so hard you couldn't see anything.
"But we were â, are working just fine. Have I done something wrong? Is it because of me? Just tell me what to do, I swear I'll fix everything!"
"It's not about you, Satoru. Never has been. It's about me."
His white brows furrowed in confusion. "You? What about you? But you are perfect for me," he chuckled almost tenderly â a small sound frayed around the edges â that only ripped your heart out. "You listen to all my stupid jokes, know how many sugar cubes I put in my coffee, and put the curtains down because you know how sensitive my eyes are. You stayed with me at the hospital after the injury and cheered for me the loudest." His voice rose just a tad to coax a smile from you. "You have never told me how to be someone I am not. Always seen me, not the Gojo heir. Not the star player. How can it be about you? No one in the world knows me as well as you do. Like â," his gaze swept across the room like something might've helped him to talk you out, "like your last Christmas gift, huh? That premium card you swore you just stumbled upon in the store, but I knew better how much it â Wait."
Satoru's smile slowly died as the realisation downed at him like a wicked joke of fate. "No, no, no, no. That can't be it. Is that because of money? My status? I told you countless times that it doesn't matter to me! What I have is yours." His voice dipped into the fragile, almost sacred warmth that he reserved only for you. "All I have is yours."
You couldn't do that anymore. Not even in the wildest thoughts did it occur to you that breaking up with Satoru would hurt that badly. It rather resembled a never-ending torture.
He never understood it. Growing up in a family that barely made ends meet. Pouring your blood, sweat and tears into studies to get a tuition fee waiver, because there wasn't any other option for you to get into the university. Scraping by taking double shifts at the cafe. Fighting tooth and nail over the place in the chemistry lab.
And never would.
Pushing Satoru away, you closed your eyes in defeat before forcing yourself to look back at him. He didn't dare to mutter a word, watching your face twist with pain as you shouted.
"It matters to me! It matters to me, Satoru, how fucking inferior I feel next to you!"
Something in his gaze faded away. He didn't recognise his voice when it came in a short, fractured breath, devoid of all strength.
"What?"
A violent sob rattled your frame as you hid your face in your palms. You cried and cried and cried until your chest tightened with pain, and you managed to utter hoarsely. "Every time I get into your home, or every time someone sees me besides you, I want to run and disappear into the cave. Don't you see that, To â Satoru?" No. He wasn't your Toru anymore. "I am like, dunno, a disastrous glob of ink on Monet's painting. A patch of dirt on the Versace gown. A bling-bling amidst Graff's and Harry Winston's. Well, you get it. Something to wipe away or hide in the closet. Someone who doesn't deserve to stand by your side."
"I don't get it," Satoru dragged his hands over his face and shook his head, letting out a humourless laugh. His eyes flashed with a weird gleam. "Did my parents or anyone at that point say something to you? Because if they did, I fucking swear â"
"No one said anything to me, Satoru! It doesn't matter. Because they say it to you â"
"And as I said, I don't care â "
"BUT I DO!" The rise of your voice to a frenzied cry startled both of you. Satoru stared at you with a gaze so desperate that a kiss of the gun would've been more merciful. You fiercely wiped your snotty nose â hell, you must've looked so ugly â and walked over to cup his face. He watched your every move as if you were about to disappear. In a way, you were going to.
"I do not want anyone to say something about me to you. I do not want you to fight with your family over me. I want you to be happy. Do not be torn between me and the world you belonged to."
Satoru wanted to shake you by the shoulders just to knock some sense into your head, scream and shout what a total bullshit your words were, but instead, he got rooted to the spot by your doe eyes. His stomach twisted at your next words.
"You'll meet a beautiful, smart, and kind girl, who wears pearls that cost more than I will ever be able to make, plays Brahms at the family gatherings, and who doesn't turn red in the face, while asked about favourite Japanese modern artists. Well, now I know plenty." You couldn't help but huff a tiny chuckle. Nothing twitched in Satoru's face. "And you will fall in love with her, and your whole family will like her. Everything will be just fine."
Satoru couldn't believe what was happening. Nothing in his life could ever prepare him for the pain that would follow with your leaving him. It didn't feel real. Probably, never would.
He slowly tilted his head down and rested his forehead against yours, whispering, barely audible. Like every word cost him a fortune. "Please, baby, please. I swear on my life, I will do everything. Just don't leave me. I don't â," Satoru's hands slip up your face as well, but you closed your eyes in defeat. Any ounce of strength left in your body evaporated. His arms fell to his sides as he croaked out helplessly. "I don't know who I am without you."
"You are you, Satoru. Always have been and always will be. A brilliant, wonderful, kind boy with a golden heart. And I..I am just me," you pressed your lips in a thin line before forcing a smile. "But I will work on it. As I said, it's all because of me."
"You don't get it." Somehow, Satoru's lifeless whisper hit you harder than any scream would. Because Satoru never raised his voice at you. Even now. There was a hunch to his shoulders that you rarely saw, if ever, as he turned from you and gripped the edge of the table. "I want to marry you. To become your family. But guess that doesn't matter anymore. Before things get too serious, huh?"
The room spun around you as you knitted your brows together, slumping in the nearest chair. Marrying⌠you?
But, on the other hand, it didn't change anything. You were still miles away from each other, standing on opposite sides of the societal hierarchy.
"I am so sorry, Satoru," words clawed up your throat as you shook your head.
Satoru finally turned around, and the dimmed, utterly devastated blue of his gaze tore you apart at the seams. "You are not sorry. If you were, you won't be leaving me now."
You didn't have enough in you to counter this. Words seemed meaningless, slipping like sand through your fingers.
"Please, Satoru. Let us go. It is for the better."
You had never seen an expression that hopeless and defeated on his handsome face.
"Is that what you want?"
"No," you wanted to scream, to shout, to cry out loud. "How can I possibly want to leave you? I have to. For both of us."
The silence stretched thin between you for so long, Satoru sincerely thought you didn't hear him. He stepped forward only to see you giving a short nod, almost cruel in its curtness.
After all, he never denied you everything. Even that. Even if it killed him from the inside.
Standing by the door with your bag, you couldn't help but steal a last glance at him. You parted your lips to say goodbye, but nothing even remotely plausible came to your mind. Satoru sat on the couch, shoulders slumped and gaze fixed on the floor. His name left your lips for the last time.
"Satoru."
His head snapped up as if he had been waiting for it that entire time. Maybe you changed your mind?
"Yes?"
That fragile hope in his tone twisted your insides.
"I love you."
Before he could answer, you slipped out of his apartments. And his life.
***
These months, the four agonising months, marked by Satoru's absence in your life, had sucked. Mildly put.
You sincerely thought you were doing the right thing â well, still were â breaking up, sparing his life from your presence, but it didn't mean it hurt any less. In a way, it was the opposite.
Pushing the love of your life away and then grovelling in the silence of your small apartment after putting on a brave face and assuring everyone that you were okay sucked. Crying yourself to sleep sucked. Feeling your heart breaking to pieces each time your gaze stumbled upon something that instantly reminded you of Satoru â like a photo on the fridge, his note with a smiley, kissy face between the pages of your comfort book and the tome of the manga he was reading â sucked. Walking around the places you used to hang out sucked.
What sucked even more was the fact that Satoru's presence seemed to linger everywhere. His laugh haunted you while you were lounging on the couch. The look of pure happiness on his face was ingrained in your mind while you were walking in a familiar park. And when your eye caught sight of a ball? Didn't even mention it. Perhaps that was your punishment. Now you were subjected to a lifetime of loneliness.
Still, you tried to do the thing you promised Satoru the final time you saw him. Attempted to go out of your shell. Took on some hobbies. Had a lot, a lot of time for self-reflection (given that you were free most of the evenings when you didn't throw yourself into work). And took small steps to discover what made you whole.
What and not who. That realisation sank on you with the force of a tidal wave. Kept you awake in three of the morning. Occupied all your thoughts until you finally, finally, were getting used to it. Still, there was a lot to be done. You only wished for Satoru by your side, though. Were you allowed to think about him, after all?
The revelation, of course, only made your mind drift to Satoru even more. How was he? Was his injury getting better? Did his father officially appoint him as the next CEO?
Gods. You sure had no right to worry about him anymore. Not after breaking both of your hearts. An utterly desperate and lifeless look on his face flashed every time before your eyes when you closed them.
You dragged your feet back from the nearest combini: Friday had finally marked the end of a long, exhausting week (not like you had many left, huh) and you treated yourself with sushi and a bottle of wine. There was nothing you wanted more than to run a bath and put Sex and the City on, rotting under the blanket. It would've been thousands of times better if Satoru were there, but alas...
A few raindrops fell on the asphalt, successfully putting the train of your miserable thoughts to a halt, and you hurried to the entrance of your block. Quickly fishing a pair of keys, you glanced up from your bag as something caught your attention in the periphery, and you got immediately rooted to the spot.
You would recognise the set of those shoulders, now slightly hunched, everywhere. A grey hoodie did nothing to hide his figure. White tufts fell over his forehead under the hood, and something twisted viciously in your chest at the sight. Your fingers twitched with the urge to feel the silk of that hair under your touch.
You took a deep breath, trying to take a rein over your hammering heart, and stepped closer, calling the man out softly. Rather hesitantly.
"Satoru? What are you doing here?"
Satoru went rigid for a moment at your voice. His shoulders tensed even more. Your throat clogged up.
But then he turned around and smiled. A tiny, almost pathetic lift of his lips, and he offered you a small wave. Just like the one you gave him at that basketball match.
"Hi, ba â" Satoru immediately corrected himself, wincing just for a second. His smile wavered, as did your composure. "Hi."
The effort that took you not to drop your things right then and run into his arms was only between you and the gods.
"Hello to you too." Swallowing the lump in your throat, you stepped forward. That totally wasn't the way you imagined that meeting would go.
"What are you doing here?" You prompted again, trying not to sound either harsh or desperate. Desperate to hear his voice. See his eyes. Look at his face.
"Just... was going around. Stumbled at your place. You still live here." Satoru lifted one shoulder in a nervous shrug, and his little smile morphed into a quick, uneasy grimace.
You didn't question those stalker-ish tendencies, but the doubt was clearly evident in an arch of your brow, because Satoru instantly raised his hands in surrender.
"No, really. I guess my legs just carried me there. Some memory, you know," he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, but then sighed, seeing your suspicion. "Come on, sweets. If I had been stalking you all that time, I would've done it way more discreetly."
That brought you some relief. "Guess you would've."
His Adam's apple bobbed with an effort. "Can we, uhm, talk?"
Something in your guts was telling you had a pretty good sense of the way this talk would go. You weren't sure it was the right time and way.
Casting your gaze down, you worried on your bottom lip before breathing out, "I'm â I'm not sure this is a good idea, Satoru."
"Please", his voice took on a pleading edge. You closed your eyes for a brief moment. "I just want to know how you are. That's all."
He was lying. And he knew you were well aware of it.
But, in the end, wasn't that what you wanted? To see him, at least? Well, here Satoru was.
Thunder roared somewhere in the distance, and you were pretty sure that soon you both would be drenched to the bone.
"Besides, you don't want to get me standing under the rain, do you?" An amusement curled Satoru's lips before he let a humourless chuckle. "Have some mercy on your ex-boyfriend."
That sounded like a slur coming from Satoru. You glared at him. His smile turned even sharper.
Torn between the current state of your... relationship, and the fact that Satoru was standing right in front of you, you completely didn't know what to do. You didn't part your ways that badly. And you had never wanted to be that person who would resent his ex and scowl at every mention of them.
Because that was never true. You loved Satoru. And, judging by the yearning lacing his gaze and the nervous flex of his hands as he awaited your response, he still loved you, too.
After minutes of debating, with the rain intensifying, you finally gave in and nodded towards the entrance.
"Get in."
Satoru's wide smile now resembled more of a child's on Christmas.
"Yes, ma'am."
The weight of Satoru's gaze, burning a hole in your back, felt rather physical. The tension in your kitchen threatened to suffocate you both, while you busied yourself with making tea and a gigantic cup of hot cocoa for Satoru.
You placed the drink in front of him, and Satoru shot you a small, curious grin.
"Whoa, marshmallows."
"Yeah," you still absent-mindedly bought them at the grocery store. Habit. "You know, three years of always getting your marshmallows weren't in vain."
Satoru looked at you as if he seriously considered offering himself as a sacrifice at your altar.
Damn those puppy eyes.
Rubbing your palms up and down your thighs, you cleared your throat and offered an awkward smile. God, you wanted the ground to swallow you. "So, uhm, how have you been, To â Satoru?"
He pressed his lips together and leaned back in his seat, right hand on the back of it, like he was incapable of sitting straight. Well, some things never changed.
Satoru didn't look at you, instead glancing out of the window at the heavy rain, drumming against the windows.
"Not so good."
You immediately dropped your gaze, hugging the cup with sea ââbuckthorn tea. The scorching liquid might've burnt your hands a little, but it was nothing in comparison with the sharp pain in your chest.
Licking your lips, you forced yourself to look up at Satoru. He was still staring at the rain like it held something only visible to him. The muscle in his jaw jumped.
"I am sorry, but â"
Satoru released a long sigh and turned to you. You almost flinched at the sight of his eyes â usually so bright blue, flashing with mirth and charm, now reduced to the lifeless, dull grey. Under the better light, you also noticed the dark bags under Satoru's eyes, the hollow in his cheeks and even the light stubble. You had never seen him like it. Like he aged ten years or more in those months.
That was all because of you, right?
Tears filled your eyes so fast you couldn't even blink them away, when you felt salt on your lips.
You wanted to apologise once again, but then Satoru leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, feverishly running his fingers through the white strands. Were you a little crazy, or even his hair seemed moreâŚashy?
"I am not gonna lie, I have never felt more awful and pathetic and miserable â well, you get it, in my entire fucking life," he waved his hand dismissively, and you closed your eyes just for a fleeting second, because you couldn't afford even a moment of not looking at him. That talk went even worse than you imagined. "But after you left, something hasâŚchanged."
You sat upright and drawled hesitantly, "LikeâŚwhat?"
He huffed a humourless chuckle, and his eyes flashed with a weird, almost malicious glint. Your insides went cold.
"Well, I just told my father that he can suck my dick â"
You slowly covered your face with one hand. That was not good. Very, very bad, actually.
" â if he even for a moment thinks I was going to marry one of the girls he and my grandfather suggested. And then he started threatening to cut my trust fund off, blah blah, blah. Like I've ever given a single fuck about it."
Something in his tone was telling you that wasn't everything that had changed.
Satoru's voice sharpened in a way that could cut even the hardest steel.
"That was okay. Nothing I've heard before. But when he started talking about you," his voice dropped to a whisper and dangerously cracked. You couldn't hear it anymore. "That's where I draw the line. He knows that. Now everyone knows that."
A loud groan left you as you dropped your head in your hands.
"What have you done, Satoru?"
He just rolled his eyes. Harsh and sharp. "What I should have done, obviously. A long time ago. Tell all of them to fuck off."
"Oh â"
"Mildly put," Satoru scratched his head with a mild grimace. "And then got kicked out of the house. Trust fund cut off, obviously."
You couldn't believe what you had just heard. Satoru might've thought that his words would somehow soften you, so you could coo at him or whatever. But never did he expect you to slam your fist against the table and grit throught your teeth.
"Have you fucking lost your mind?"
Satoru blinked in shock, watching you suddenly stand up and turn from him, your hands curled into fists by your sides.
"What?"
Taking a deep breath, you tore your gaze from the windows and threw your hands in the air.
"Are you an idiot?"
Well, that kind of hurt. "I don't understand."
"Satoru." Oh no, he knew that tone. That only meant you were seething with rage. There were no means of escape, especially as you loomed over him. "So let me get it straight. You fought with your entire family, they kicked you out of the house and left you with no money."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"All because of me!?"
Satoru didn't like the way you said "me". As if you were something not even worth mentioning. The dirt beneath his feet.
"Satoru, we are not together! I am not your girlfriend anymore, I am not even in your life! We don't even talk! You can't throw your life away because of me! That's stupid!"
"Well, maybe I am stupid, hasn't it occurred to you?"
"Satoru," your voice trembled on the edge of tears. Why didn't he understand you?! "I am serious. This is serious. This is your life! This is all you haveâ had, especially given you can't damn play with your injury now!"
Satoru didn't answer you. You only saw the way he swallowed with effort, and the look of utter longing on his face told you everything.
You helplessly slumped back in your chair and hid your face in your palms for a small eternity. Satoru didn't dare to interrupt. He just watched you, soaking up every feature as if you were about to kick him out of your apartment forever. That was an option. You were pretty pissed.
He attempted to soothe you, "But there's something good."
You slowly glanced up, and Satoru almost snorted at the look of total disbelief in your eyes. "Such as?"
Satoru quickly stood up and kneeled between your chair, taking your hands in his. Cold as usual. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed your palms with his thumbs. As usual.
"I mean, you said it yourself, sweets. That is all I have known for my whole life. Rich kid, golden youth, spoilt guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth, all that stuff. I thought maybe it was it? My chance to find myself, huh? I don't want to be their toy to boss around all because of money."
Something crawled up your skin and twisted sharply in your chest as you breathed out, "What do you mean?"
Was he serious? So you both were doing the same thing all that time?
Satoru squeezed your hand harder and gave you a crooked smile.
"Just been here and there. DoingâŚsome stuff."
You tilted your head in a silent question. He chuckled breathlessly and shook his head.
"Don't laugh, okay? I am teaching some kids basketball at school."
"Oh," your lips curled up in a tender smile as something warm bloomed in your chest. "That's really nice. You like it?"
"Yeah," Satoru's answer was immediate. And for the first time that evening, you saw a familiar spark in his eyes. "Kids can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but they are really cute. Listen to me, call me Gojo-sensei. Kinda gets in your head, you know."
A small snort escaped you, and the wide grin broke on his face. Oh, how he missed that precious sound.
"Where do you live now?"
"Crashing Suguru. He's not particularly happy when I drown my misery in another pint of strawberry ice-cream â "
Your smile slowly disappeared.
" â when he brings in some girl, but I bribe him with dark chocolate. You know he can't live without it."
"That he can," you uttered in a strained voice. Satoru's grin wavered as well, and he hesitantly reached to tuck the lone strand of your hair behind your ear. His hand trembled a little.
"What about you? There are boxes everywhere," he leaned back with a soft murmur, glancing around your apartment with packed staff around. "Moving out?"
Your heart suddenly felt twice its size, thumping violently against your ribs. "Uhm, yeah. Moving out."
"Where?"
Well, that was it. You squirmed in your seat, and Satoru's hand slowly fell to his side. He just waited.
"EhâŚFrance."
He pinched his brows together with a slight frown and repeated incredulously, "You are moving to France?"
Satoru's sharp blue gaze seemed to pierce through you. Unable to meet it, you looked away.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Sighing deeply, you stood up and leaned against a kitchen counter, hugging yourself. Satoru immediately rose to his feet.
"That was a pretty much hard time for me too. Not delving into details, butâŚyeah. I felt like shit. Everyone was dating someone, or building a successful career, or, I don't know, just doing something meaningful," you gestured vaguely and combed your hair with a shaky hand. Satoru just stared at you like a lone, kicked puppy. "While I willingly kept fucking my own life over. Cooped yourself in that place. Left the love of my life."
Something in your face softened at the last words. Satoru forgot how to breathe.
"And that certainly shouldn't beâŚin vain, whatever. I told you I was going to work on myself, and I kind of do. Step by step, but I am going there."
"I still don't understand. I am happy for you, really am, but why are you leaving Japan? What about your mother, your job?"
What about me?
"My department's had its financing cut. My presence is not required anymore, as they said. I am just working the last two weeks, and that's it."
"Oh. I am..I am sorry to hear it."
"As for my mom," you didn't seem to hear Satoru's words at all, staring somewhere past him. "You know, she's never really cared that much about me anyway. She'll survive."
As cruel as your words might've seemed, you were right. Your mother was anâŚinteresting woman indeed.
Satoru desperately cling to anything that could make you stay here like a lifeline.
"What about Nobara?"
Surely, you couldn't leave her. You two had been together from the first time he saw you at the university campus.
"Actually, she was the one who offered me that."
"Huh?!"
"She's recently been promoted at her job to the French edition of their magazine. Fashion weeks, runways, photoshoots⌠You know her, she's been ecstatic about it. So, when she asked me about itâŚI said I would give it a thought. I mean, it will be a nice fresh start, won't it? I don't have anything left here, soâŚwhy not? Gotta take risks, something like that."
Satoru couldn't believe his own ears. That would've been his nightmare coming true, if not for the fact that his worst one already was real. No. He wouldn't let you go that time. That was the stupidest thing he had done in his life, and if he had to begâŚwell.
The worst thing that you seemed pretty confident about it. But looking closely, he saw your hands trembled a little by your side, and your gaze darted nervously around. So, there still was some chance.
He ran his fingers through his hair. The gears seemed to work nonstop in his mind as he glanced around for any clue or sight for support. UntilâŚ
He weakly breathed out, "I am going with you."
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "You what!?"
Satisfied with your reaction and his genius mind, Satoru smirked lazily, "I am going to France with you."
Did you stare in The Office or something? Was there a hidden camera to look at?
Helplessly blinking, you finally managed to utter, "Excuse me? You going to France? With me?"
"I know, I know what you are thinking. He's crazy, an idiot, proper name, last name, backstory stuff, but hear me out!" Satoru walked to you and squeezed your shoulders, his eyes frantically searching your face for a hint of understanding. You still stared at him as if he had just announced he was going to fly to the Moon, no less. "You broke up with me because, citing "you felt inferior to me," right?
Pressing your lips into a thin line, you gave him a flat look. "Correct."
"But I am not superior in any way to you now! You're discovering yourself, me too, so why don't we do that together? Start everything from scratch? Including," his Adam's apple bobbed with effort as his hands slowly slid down your figure to rest on the dip of your waist. Your skin tingled at the contact. "Including us."
Blood defeaningly roared at your temples, and your heart jumped right into your throat. Wouldn't it be strange and weird? Getting back together after you pushed him away? After breaking both of you?
One of Satoru's hands drifted upwards to cradle your face, while the other pulled your figure closer to him. Your head spun at the sudden proximity. His thumb delicately traced the line of your jaw and settled on the apple of your cheek.
"How is that stupid and weird, if I love you?" Shit, had you been musing aloud? "And you love me."
You parted your lips to answer, but then Satoru tilted his head down just a bit, and it was enough to feel the faintest brush of his lips against yours. With knees slightly trembling, your hand flew up and twisted the fabric of his hoodie for support. Your tongue darted out to lick your lip for a mere second; it was enough for Satoru's gaze to flick there and stare at your mouth as if hypnotised.
"Or you don't?" You almost leaned in for a kiss when he suddenly pulled away, despite being a breath away from devouring you. You gulped and lifted a pleading gaze at him â and not like the look on Satoru's face was any better. A strange kind of bitterness settled in your chest at the shakiness of his voice: he really doubted it. Well, you gave him a good reason to, didn't you?
It baffled you. No. Weirded out in the worst way possible.
So, instead of answering, you simply stood on your tiptoes and pressed your lips against his. A feathery, almost invisible, but it was enough for Satoru to release a groan and kiss your back.
You forgot how to breathe. The room spun around you, and if not for Satoru's hand holding at your waist, you would've collapsed for sure. The familiar sense of heat shot through you as you boldly slid your hand up Satoru's toned shoulder, grazed his undercut â wait, did he actually whimper at that or what â and ran your fingers through the silky white hair. The months of raw longing, poured in that kiss, laced every brush of your tongues, stifled moan and impatient tug with desperate want. Damn, you almost forgot his lips slotting perfectly against yours, his gently nipping at your bottom lip, and his hot, raspy breath fanning over your cheek when you pulled away before delving in again and again.
Blinking away dizziness, you managed to gather your bearings together just to mumble, "Does it count as an answer?"
Satoru's chest rose up and down as if he had just run a marathon, and he slowly shook his hand in response before tilting your chin up. His eyes resembled more of a stormy ocean than a breezy sea, but his hold was as tender as always.
"I love you, Satoru. Still am and always have been. I told you the same when â," you swallowed the lump in your throat, "â when I left you." Voice sinking into a small, almost miserable whisper, you went on, "And I am sorry for that, so damn sorry, you didn't deserve it."
"No, no, no, baby, stop it," now both his hands cradled your face as his gaze gently caressed every twitch in it, every shift, every freckle and mole. "You did what you felt right to. I accepted that, even though it was the hardest thing in my life. Believe me or not, I felt so stupid and shitty and miserable for letting you go, but I had to respect that. I only wish I had noticed you feeling that way sooner," he ended with a small, bitter smile, placing a kiss on the tip of your nose before gently nuzzling it. "Missed you so, so much."
As much as you wanted to lean into Satoru's touch again with no care in the world, you felt the need to apologise for once again, "No, Satoru, but â Maybe if I told you that instead of going away, we wouldn't be apart these months. I am sorry."
"Stop that," his voice cut you off, not firmly but enough to shut you up. "Really, stop. I am not mad at you. I could never be mad at you. And maybe I need that too. Shook me good to realise what things really mattered in life."
A sad sigh left your lips when you remembered what happened between Satoru and his family. Yes, they were jerks, but you never wanted to be the reason for the wedge between them.
"But hey, now we're two psychos together, trying to figure out what to do with their life! Together, right?" Satoru's gaze carefully searched yours, and as you nodded enthusiastically, his face broke into the brightest grin possible. Maybe only rivalling the one he gave you when you agreed to go out with him at that bonfire party.
"Love you, love you, love you," you murmured between kisses, nuzzling against his jaw, eliciting shaky moans. Your hands slid under his hoodie to feel the hot skin under your palms, but the sudden roaring of the thunder made you jump.
"Oh, fuck."
Satoru wanted to tease you at first, but he quickly bit his tongue, remembering that noises like that still scared you. You mindlessly gripped his hoodie tighter, pressing your frame against his for comfort. His hand cradled the back of your head, and he tucked it under his chin, whispering soothing words.
"Maybe you wanna lie down or something?" Whispering into your hair, Satoru pressed his lips against the crown of your head as another tremble shook your body at the particularly frightening sound. His gaze briefly flicked at the sky through the windows. "Yeah, not getting better soon."
Without further ado, you sighed in response and gripped his hand to walk to your bedroom. In every other situation, his hands would've been on you in a second, but not now. Especially given that you had just gotten back together.
Your bedroom hadn't really changed: your favourite stuffed plush bear sat over the sheets, guarding your sleep; a stupid lava lamp that Satoru once gifted you was still on the bedside table, not to mention the horde of houseplants (he sadly noticed the absence of some) at the windowsill. You hadn't packed the bedroom stuff yet, though a couple of boxes obediently waited in the corner.
After all those months, Satoru's presence felt kind of weird in your bedroom, but now, with his hands enveloping you in an embrace, you had never felt happier.
You both stayed up the whole night: gods, you almost forgot how easy it was to talk to Satoru. He told you more about the kids he was teaching, the school, and that he tried to do some modelling photoshoots. It turned out pretty good. "Might be a nice gig," he shrugged nonchalantly, but you noticed his eyes sparkling with mirth.
You filled him in on the work drama, places you visited in your attempts to go out of your shell, hobbies you tried â his eyes widened at the mention of drawing and pottery, and he demanded to see your works the first thing in the morning.
You snorted quietly. "I don't think they are anywhere as good as your photos."
Satoru huffed under his breath and lightly nudged your shoulder. You both lie face to face now, smiling and giggling like a pair of students you once were. You felt as if you were floating in happiness.
"Come on, baby, don't be shy. I am positive they are nice."
"No, Toru, they are not. Believe me, my first flowerpot was disastrous." You turned a bit and waved at the deformed blob of clay, hiding in the corner. Satoru followed your move: his lips pressed into a thin line at the sight of a poor thing.
"UhmâŚwell, it's not that bad." His shoulders shook with a barely suppressed laugh, and you rolled your eyes good-naturedly.
"It's okay, you can laugh."
The laugh he let was truly thunderous, and even you, the mighty creator, couldn't help but laugh alone.
"Babe, I am sorry, it's just looking at me like I have to end its suffering," after some time, Satoru finally wept some tears and breathed out weakly with his hand on his stomach. You both looked at the hopeless blob. "Why do you keep it, anyway?"
Sighing in response, you murmured, "Dunno. I can't bring myself to throw it away."
Satoru just hummed in response and settled back against the pillows. "Will you take it to France?"
Your heart skipped a beat at the mention, and you just shrugged indecisively. The light mood you had slowly evaporated. After some minutes, you rolled back to face Satoru again, only to find him already watching you closely.
"Were you serious?"
He tilted his head in question; his hand came up to brush a hair strand behind your ear. "About what?"
The next words came in a hesitant whisper.
"Moving with me to France."
Satoru's thumb traced your bottom lip before he dropped his arm to the side. Shrugging casually, he lifted a steady gaze on you. "Are you still thinking about moving there?"
You swallowed nervously before nodding. "Yeah."
"Then I was serious too. We're dating again, it's only logical then."
You couldn't fight with that argument.
"Guess it is. I justâŚ," you lifted one shoulder, still doubtful. "Can't believe you do that for me."
And he couldn't believe you questioned it. But instead, Satoru just blinked at you and muttered in the most serious tone possible.
"I told you I was going to marry you. Yes, I still want to. I wasn't joking and trying to hold you back in the heat of the moment â"
You wordlessly glanced at him.
" â okay, I did, but I was serious. And still am. Hell, baby," the mattress dipped under his weight as Satoru scooted closer. "You're the only thing â not a thing, person, I mean, you're the most serious I've ever been about anything and anyone in my life. I swear. Where you go, I follow."
His voice cracked at the last words, and you let a shuddering breath, cupping his face.
"Are you sure? What will your family say? Job? Suguru?"
Satoru lifted a corner of his lips in a small grin, recalling the same arguments he used to talk you out of moving.
"I am pretty sure I can find something there. Isn't this a part of discovering yourself, too? It could be pretty fun. Who knows, maybe I have some secret talent for pastries. Not just eating. Baking! Plus, I know French," he beamed at you like the Sun. You couldn't help but grin back. "It's a little rusty, though."
You both snorted, but then a frown crossed Satoru's face, and his tone turned more serious.
"SuguruâŚhe'll understand. We still will be talking, right? Not as we used to, butâŚhey, now I will have an excuse to send him even more stupid memes."
"I am sure he will be ecstatic about it."
"He won't have any choice, heh. And my familyâŚhonestly? I don't really care. We both said everything we wanted to each other. I do not see any sense in bowing and scraping."
Your face crumpled in a grimace as you recalled that you were one of the reasons that entire thing happened, and hunched your shoulders. "Still sorry about it."
"And I am still saying you shouldn't be."
Minutes passed between you in a relative silence, interrupted only by the car noises and distant humming of the refrigerator as you stared at the ceiling. Finally, you turned to look at Satoru. Moonlight painted his features in an even more breathtaking way, highlighting the sharp jawline and illuminating the blue of his eyes.
"SoâŚwe are really going to France."
Satoru smiled at you â the gentle one he saved only for you â and reached for your hand to interlace your fingers slowly.
"We really are."
***
The morning sun crept through the blinds, bathing a bedroom in a soft, ethereal light, and its beams lazily caressed your face in feathery kisses. As your nose twitched at the sensation, begrudgingly, very begrudgingly, you blinked and reached for your phone. It came to life with a faint buzz; you tried to focus your bleary gaze on the time and sighed in relief as you still had half an hour before the alarm.
A careful attempt to sink back into the sheets didn't go unnoticed by the whole mountain of heat and muscle beside you. Satoru's arm snaked around your waist with an energy too restless for a sleepy man.
"Where are you going to, huh?" His voice, still deep and thick with sleep, felt like a pure sin against your nape. A shudder ran through your body as he gently nuzzled the soft skin there and pressed his lips against the point that shouldn't drive you crazy like it did. "Morning, ma choute."
Amusement curled your tone as you breathed out a chuckle, "Your favourite word, huh?"
Instead of answering, Satoru hummed something unintelligible against the curve of your neck, nosing it, while his lips found your pulse point.
"Can't help it. Not my fault if it fits you perfectly. So sweet," his head went into a dizzy, hazy state at the whiff of your chocolate shower gel and something so uniquely yours. "So soft." The hand that rested leisurely on your belly lazily drifted upwards to cup the tender swell of your breasts. Your breath caught in your throat as you arched into Satoru's touch with a quiet, sleepy moan.
"Ah, SatoruâŚ"
When your voice dipped into that syrupy bedroom voice, laced with so much want, Satoru never could help himself. His hips bucked involuntarily, eliciting a surprised gasp from you, as you felt the throbbing of his length against your backside.
Your hair fanned over a pillow like a halo, catching the bright light, and Satoru's heart skipped a beat. He gently bit down on your pulse point, and as your gasp rose in a tone, he quickly soothed it with a lick of his tongue.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful. Can't believe you're mine." The heat crept up your body all the way to your cheeks, not only at the way Satoru rolled your nipple between his fingers, palming at the soft skin there, but at the bewilderment in his voice. As if he were actually shocked.
Another moan left your lips as you closed your eyes in the utter pleasure, coursing through your body and tightening your insides into the sweet knot. Subconsiously, you pushed your trembling thighs back against his front, to which Satoru responded with a low hiss.
"You're in a teasing mood today, huh?"
A sharp pang of disappointment shot through your body when his hand left your chest.
"SatoruâŚ"
"Shh, patience, baby. Good things come to those who wait, don't they?" You almost whined at the loss of the contact, but then his hand â god, that hand â wrapped around your throat with a light grip, just enough to turn your face and capture your lips in a lazy, unhurried kiss. He licked at the seam of your mouth, and you immediately opened it, granting Satoru access. Your tongues lazily tangled, exploring each other; you slid your free hand down his toned pecs, sharp abs and wrapped it around the already hard cock. Giving it a few unhurried pumps, you heard Satoru moaning unbashfully against your mouth.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, keep going, love. Just like â, oh, just like that."
You fondled his balls with a sly smirk, to which he responded with a sharp, almost desperate cry, andâŚstopped.
"Hey, baby," the pout was evident in his voice, "That's not fair. Like totally not fair."
With a smirk widening, you turned just a tad to see his half-lidded gaze darkening with lust. "Haven't you just preached to me about patience, Toru?"
Satoru's head hit your shoulder as he let a groan, followed by a disbelieving laugh. "Vixen. You drive me crazy, you know that?"
"Yeah, yeah, yet you're still not inside me." After rolling your eyes impatiently, you finally heard the sheets rustling. Your insides clenched in anticipation.
Laughing quietly, Satoru kissed your shoulder, pulling you closer against his front. His hand slid under your hip, lifting it for better access, and hoisted it over his own. You almost whimpered as the thick head of his cock nudged your already wet entrance.
"Look at tha-a-a-t," the heat flooded your body even more at the cocky tilt in his voice and the way his fingers lightly grazed your folds. "For someone so soaked, you have a pretty big mouth running, ma chĂŠrie."
You attempted to glare at Satoru, but it ended rather poorly with the way your eyes were glazed with desire. Giving you a smirk, not even trying to hide his arrogance and smugness, he hastily fisted his cock and aligned it with your entrance, slowly yet surely filling you up inch by inch.
"F-fuck, you're so tight," Satoru's hot whisper fanned over your jawline as he pressed heated kisses up to your mouth. "So warm, so good, so p-perfect â babe, don't clench me like that, f-for me."
Your lips parted, forming almost a perfect "O" in its shape at the burn of the stretch, and the first loud moan tore from your chest, when Satoru finally gave you a shallow roll of his hips.
"Sa-Satoru, yeahâŚ"
With no hesitation, you reached behind and tugged at the soft white tufts above Satoru's undercut, pressing his head into your nape to seek even more contact until your bodies fused in a messy, unintelligible tangle of limbs, needy touches and wanton moans. His hips built a slow, languid rhythm, moulding your insides into the shape of his cock; each thick vein and ridge of him against your velvet walls made your mind swim in pleasure, so overwhelming it drowned every coherent thought. One of his hands snaked up to squeeze your breasts, eliciting more shaky whimpers from you.
"Love you, love you so fucking much, you don't even, ngh, under-understand, shit, y-yes," Satoru slurred against your cheek after yet another sloppy kiss, his tongue darting to taste the salty skin as you literally cried in ecstasy when he hit that sweet spot inside. You were completely sure he would never let you forget this. His moves gradually lost their rhythm, giving in to a raw, primal desire. A string of desperate whimpers spilt from your lips, and you turned your head to muffle these cries in the pillow.
Wrong move.
Seeing it, Satoru's lips curled into a sharp smirk. He quickly wetted his fingers and dragged them down to press quick, tight circles on your clit, and with all the stimulation, your body jolted in pleasure. Heat, shameless and urgent, built at the base of your spine, coursed through your veins and lit every part on fire. His cock twitched inside you at the way you breathed out his name with such desperation that put all the prayers to shame.
"Give it to me, baby. Be a good girl, yeah? Cum for me."
Your thighs shook violently, which was a telling sign that you were close; he feverishly rutted against yours, rubbing your clit in quick motions, panting against the curve of your neck. His eyes rolled in pleasure as your cunt fluttered around him, coating his shaft in juices, and with a shameless guttural groan, he cummed too.
The sound of your name, spilling from Satoru's lips like it was the only word he knew, brought tears to your eyes. Of love, of longing, or devotion, you weren't even sure.
Satoru was still in you, behind you, wrapping you in his arms and scent, when you awkwardly tried to turn around. He lazily blinked at you â the blue of his eyes resembled the glimmering waves of the Mediterranean Sea, which lapped the shores of the city that had become your home. Swallowing a lump in your throat, you lean in to press a quick, almost chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. They twitched with a soft grin.
"Someone's awfully sweet. Good morning, I guess. Really good, that time. What if â "
Before Satoru finished, your hands framed his face, and you kissed him again, taking your time. He released a quiet, unexpected sigh and melted into it immediately, giving you all the reins. Sweet and soft, your tongue swept over his plump lips and explored his mouth, until you both pulled away to catch your breath. Resting your forehead against his, you muttered quietly.
"I love you."
Satoru didn't answer you right away; instead, he cupped your cheek, his thumb grazed the soft skin under your eyes, and he murmured back.
"I love you more."
You didn't want to delve into the endless fight of who loved whom more, so you just settled against his chest with a soft sigh. Satoru tucked your head under his chin and gently ran his fingers up and down your spine.
"How are you feeling? Wanna cuddle a little or go showering?"
"I wish we could cuddle more, but Nobara and Maki are coming inâŚvery soon, actually."
Satoru stilled for a moment and released a groan, reluctant to let you go and leave that bed, jutting his bottom lip in the biggest pout known to the Universe.
"Is it today? Do we have to go with them, baby?"
"Yes. Toru, we promised them to show the Fine Arts Museum. Maki didn't visit it last time they were in Marseille because it was shut for some renovation. Apparently."
"Geez, I was hoping for a round two. And maybe three in the shower. Besides, we were there with Suguru last summer." His hand slid down to squeeze your butt in the last attempt to persuade you, but you stood your ground. With great effort.
"Satoru, no. We don't see them often. Get up."
Saoru's hand that reached to pinch your side as you hopped off to get to the shower, limply fell to his side. He groaned as his head hit the pillow, but as the sounds of water running filled the space, he enthusiastically got up and padded to the bathroom. He could be prettyâŚconvincing when he wanted to.
Indeed, an hour later, Nobara suspiciously eyed both of you up and down â your hair told her everything she needed to know. Satoru didn't even try to hide a big dopey grin that screamed "I just got laid by the most gorgeous woman in the world". You elbowed him. Hard. His smile got even wider, so you sent him to help Maki with their suitcases.
"You know, I am so happy for you." You gave Nobara a cup of scorching latte, just the way she preferred. Her lips curled into an amusing yet soft grin. "No, really. You both look radiant."
She laughed heartily, nodding in gratitude; however, her gaze was fixed on your front yard. You followed the direction and chuckled as well, seeing Satoru and Maki trying to coax Nobara's cat â a fluffy, totally spoilt Persian named Lady â out of the carrier. She only hissed in response.
"Yeah. Me too. She'sâŚI don't know how to explain it. But I am so happy she agreed to move here. The same is for you, by the way. Provence does wonders for both of you. Even Gojo."
You rested your elbows on the table with a melancholic sigh. Yes, the start of your journey in France was quite turbulent: a total mess with language, documents, fighting with landlords over the rent, and taking up any gigs for moneyâŚIt only helped that you had some of it saved. Endless hours of work, tears and efforts poured into building your new life finally got its fruits: at one of the fashion shows, Nobara introduced you to the famous photographer, who instantly fell in love with your works. And SatoruâŚ
"Phew, finally," the front door opened, revealing beaming Satoru with Lady in his arms, whoâŚpurred in content. Nobara's eyes widened in shock.
"Lady, what? He's a man! Have some dignity!"
"Can't help it if I am that charming," he scratched the kitty under her chin. "Even cats know that."
"That's, unfortunately, true." You squeaked in delight at Maki's tired voice and jumped into her arms. After a few solid minutes of hugging, you finally released her as she begged you to show her the bathroom.
"So, Gojo," Nobara drawled in a voice too casual. Satoru exchanged brief yet pointed glances with you. Lady cracked one eye open and yawned, staring at her catmom. "Do you have, by any chance, some calissons left?"
In Nobara's language, that meant she had been dying to taste them, but she would never admit it to Satoru. "Don't tell him, or his ego would grow even bigger!"
So you just happened to drop that you wanted to have those candies, and of course, Satoru whipped some up: they just waited to be baked. Judging by his cocky smirk, he already figured both of you out.
"Why do you call me Gojo? She's a Gojo too, you know?" The oven beeped a couple of times when Satoru put the tray with callisons inside. Nobara only rolled her eyes and hugged you with a grin.
And Satoru once decided to try his hand at the things that he loved the most in the world (after you, of course): sweets. In particular, pastries. To put it concisely, baking. It took a lot, a lot of time and years of learning in culinary academies under the guidance of chiefs, before he could finally name himself the one.
Marseille greeted you with arms open, the fresh scent of pastries lingering in the air, mesmerising views and the centuries of history ingrained in its walls. You left Paris after you realised it was high time to move forward, and since you mentioned a couple of times that you wanted to live in Provence for some time, Satoru started to look for a home and a place for his own bakery. His own thing. That he built only by himself, with no family barking and ordering him around. He and you. And Satoru could've never been happier for it.
You indeed had never made it easy for him. But now, seeing you laugh with your friends, among the paintings, with the sun casting a soft, almost amber glow on your figure, Satoru realised he would rather have things difficult with you than easy with anyone else. Because you were worth it.
You were worth everything.
Š wiserion. do not modify my work in any way (copying, translating, ai feeding, etc.)
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there will never be anything as funny as the mutual disbelief between long form and short form fic writers about each other's style.
short form writers look at people writing 100k+ fics as though this is some sort of talent given as part of a fae bargain, that the commitment required shows some sort of ungodly mental fortitude.
meanwhile long form writers look at people writing 1000 word one shots like god I would cut off my left nipple to be able to say anything concisely. i would love to play with multiple ideas. free me from the shackles of this child I have birthed. i love them but I now must take them to t-ball and doctor's appointments and they're going to destroy everything I own.
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukunaâs jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukunaâs lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukunaâs dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rotâsomehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukunaâs attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lordâs table, and dismantled the manâs entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
oikawa who doesnât know what personal space is, and especially not yours.
he wonât even leave you alone if youâre showering.
youâre in the middle of washing your hair, and you hear the door creak open.
and you sigh, knowing itâs none other than your boyfriend who is glued to you all the time, any time of day. not an axe murderer, hopefully.
you donât say anything, and continue shampooing your hair. trying not to let the incoming annoyance get to you.
this was supposed to be your one moment of peace of the day, the one moment you had alone.
but of course, a moment alone doesnât exist when you live together with the one and only oikawa.
âbaby, are you ignoring me?â even if you canât exactly see him, the shower curtain blocking him from your view. if he isnât peeking through it that is, you can hear the pout he has on his face.
âno, iâm busy showering.â you roll your eyes, really not amused at his antics right now.
he was supposed to be home late, since he went out with his old friends from high school. so itâs certainly a surprise that he came home this early, and exactly when youâre showering.
âcan i join you?â of course he asks this, you didnât expect anything less from him. but youâre really not in the mood to wash your body in a cramped shower because you have a six foot two human being beside you.
knowing him, heâs probably already stripping his clothes off of him right now, even if you didnât give him an answer, heâll do it anyway.
giving him a response is futile, so you donât. heâll step in the shower no matter if your answer was a yes or no, or nothing.
so in the midst of reaching for the bottle of conditioner, you feel his arms snake around your waist. pulling you flush against him.
so yeah, personal space isnât a thing when youâve got oikawa around.
a/n: this is highkey bad but i had to post something
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osamu is such a teach me guy. teach me how to make that childhood dish of yours. teach me how your name is written. teach me that term of endearment in your language. teach me all those little habits of yours. teach me how to kiss you so your mouth will know no other name than mine. teach me where to touch you to make you feel so good. teach me where your body and your heart aches. teach me, teach me, teach me.
When you were sixteen, you thought Miya Atsumu held the world in his hands. Maybe that was what he liked about you: the wet moved eyes and the admiration that shone out of your features every time you looked at him; the facade of indifference you tried, and failed, to pass off every time he looked back at you; the way you spoke his name with reverence and awe. Maybe that's why he asked you to be his girlfriend.Â
You liked being Miya Atsumu's girlfriend. You liked when he threw his arm over your shoulder and walked with you like you were completely his. You liked bragging about it a lot. The jealousy of other girls almost fueled your ego entirely and it came with this odd sort of respect from the boys you knew. People knew Atsumu, so they knew you.Â
He asked you to come to his games and you did, and you cheered for him like a good girlfriend would. You learned about volleyball and you listened to him talk about it for hours and when you said things to him like, "That other team's setter was terrible" or, "It looked like Suna wasn't hitting a hundred percent today," Atsumu would kiss the top of your head and say, "I think you're my soulmate."Â
You felt like you were doing everything right, when it came to him. You brought him good luck charms before games and made him playlists and held his hand on the way to school and you would come over and help his mother make dinner and Osamu, at the very least, tolerated you and would make polite conversation with you whenever you were around.Â
Atsumu told you he loved you after a few months of dating. He said it in on a shaky bus ride, your hands interlocked and your head on his shoulder. You didn't say anything for a second, because you didn't want to cry on a bus that early in the morning. But when you found your voice, you eventually said it too.Â
It was perfect, Atsumu and you. He gave you a necklace with his initials, and you wore it every day.Â
You went and cheered him on during the Nationals in your second year. You wore his sweatshirt and you cried when they lost. You imagined him crying in your arms and you kissing the top of his head and telling him that it was okay, that he could come back again and get his revenge. By the time you found him, he did not look like he needed consoling.Â
The person he was talking to was tall and pretty, and wearing this terrible neon jacket. You couldn't hear what they were talking about as you approached, but Atsumu spotted you and his face brightened. His eyes were rimmed red like he had been crying, but he grinned. He grabbed you by the arm and pulled you into his side, arm over your shoulder and he said, "Omi, this is my girlfriend," like he was bragging.Â
Atsumu didn't look at you when he said it. He stared Omi directly in the eye, challenging him. Omi didn't look at you either. If it weren't for Atsumu's arm aorund you, it would be as if you weren't even there.Â
"Don't show her off like she's some kind of toy you won," Omi spat at Atsumu. And with that, he turned on his heel, hands stuffed in the pockets of his terrible jacket, and walked away. You blinked. You never even told him your name.Â
Later, you and Atsumu sat on the floor of his room, your back against the wall and your legs outstretched onto his lap. "I didn't like your friend," you said, quiet and unsure, like if you didn't know if you were allowed to or not.Â
"Hmm? Which one?" Atsumu asked. He had one hand on your ankle, fingers tapping rhythmically on your skin.Â
"The one you called Omi," you told him, looking at your entagled legs and not at him. "He was rude."Â
"Nah," Atsumu said easily and quickly. "He's just like that. You start to like him once you get used to him."Â
You didn't talk about him again. Sometimes you would see his name pop up on Atsumu's phone and he would turn his screen away from you to answer, but you didn't talk about it again.Â
You got older. Atsumu kept winning volleyball matches and you kept getting good grades to get into your dream university in Tokyo. Things stayed the same. Atsumu told you he loved you every night and you said the same. High school passed. Atsumu signed to MSBY. You got accepted. He left for Osaka, and you left for Tokyo.Â
It was hard, at first. There were a lot of times you felt like you wanted to give up, because the distance wasn't something you were used to and you were convinced it was something you could never get used to. Your studies were hard and it was harder being so lonely. But every time you felt like you were done, Atsumu was there. Taking the train to see you, calling you, being there in any way he could. Atsumu always did his best to be there.Â
It felt different than it did in high school. It felt more real, somehow. Like before what you were doing was just some kind of make-believe, just pretend. Now it felt like Atsumu was more than just a boyfriend - it felt like he was a partner. You started to take him and yourself more seriously. You started to take everything more seriously.Â
Atsumu would mention you in post-match interviews and post pictures of your visits together and he would talk about how proud of you he was and how much he loved you, like he wanted everyone to know. You wore his initials around your neck and told all your friends about him and when you called your mother every week she would ask when you two were finally going to get married.Â
"Atsumu," you whispered into his chest on one of your visits down to Osaka. You had just watched him win a match and instead of going out with his team, he laid in his bed with you and ran a hand down your spine. "Do you see a future with me?" you asked.Â
He made a humming noise that you felt rattle in his chest. "I can't see a future without you."Â
You moved to Osaka, when you graduated. You wanted to be with Atsumu and you wanted to start that future that he had spoke of, so you said goodbye to your friends and promised to visit and you got on the train.Â
If it was hard to be separated, it was harder to come back together. Things were odd at first, living together. You had gotten used to university life and Atsumu had grown accustomed to living alone. You felt like it was hard for him, at first, to make space for you.Â
You argued about stupid things. About where to put dishes and who was responsible for folding the laundry and who's turn it was to mop the floors. You argued about bigger things, too. Like how Atsumu thought you felt like you were too good for him and his career just because you went to university and got your degree. Like how you thought Atsumu didn't want to make space for you in his life and only wanted you when it was convenient. Things were hard.Â
But it was you and Atsumu. You two just made sense. You two were right for each other. So you worked things out. You made it okay. Atsumu adjusted, you adjusted. You made it okay.Â
It was around the time that you moved to Osaka that Sakusa Kiyoomi came back into the picture, joining MSBY as their new outside hitter. And you got the feeling, the same feeling that you got when you were sixteen, that Sakusa did not like you.Â
It was in the way his hard gaze lingered on you when you greeted Atsumu post match, watching carefully and critically as his arms went around your waist and yours around his neck. It was in the way he whispered something to himself and pulled his mask over his face whenever you spoke while you were out drinking with the team. It was in the way Sakusa Kiyoomi never once bothered to say your name; you weren't sure he ever bothered to learn it.Â
You didn't know what it was. Bokuto liked you. Hinata liked you. Meian and Inunaki liked you. Everyone liked you but him. And for a second you thought it was just Atsumu that Sakusa had a problem with, and he was taking it out on you. But Sakusa seemed to like Atsumu just fine. He looked Atsumu in the eyes when he spoke to him. He let Atsumu clap his shoulder and hold onto it while he laughed. Sometimes you would find them, bodies close to each other and whispering before pulling apart at the sight of you.Â
"I just don't know what the fuck his problem with me is," you had complained with muffled words to Atsumu as you brushed your teeth next to him, like you had probably hundreds of times before. "Like, why does he look at me like he wants me dead?"Â
"He doesn't baby," Atsumu said, spitting into the sink. "He's just like that. You gotta trust me."Â
Atsumu kissed your head before he turned to walk out of the bathroom. "Going to bed, love you."Â
You felt stupid when you realized it. Like you should've known this whole time.Â
Maybe there was some part of you that knew what you were doing when you arrived home from work early. Maybe you knew what you were doing when you quietly removed your shoes and crept towards the bedroom more carefully than usual. Maybe you already knew what was behind that closed door.Â
You opened it anyways.Â
It still shocked you.Â
It still made you feel like the world had dissolved under your feet. Like something horrible and painful was growing in your stomach and spreading up to your chest. It still made you feel sick.Â
Atsumu was hovering over him, blocking his body with his own bare back. But when he heard you enter, he jumped away, and revealed to you the naked and bare Sakusa Kiyoomi.Â
You don't know why, but you didn't look at Atsumu. You didn't look at Atsumu when he crawled out of that bed, your bed, and rushed towards you. You didn't look at Atsumu when he placed himself in front of you and put his hands on your shoulders and said, "Baby, it's not what it looks like, okay? Baby, please look at me. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. Please look at me. Can we talk about this? Can you talk to me?"Â
You just stared at Sakusa. You stared at him and his shocked, pained expression, like he had any right to be, and it clicked in your head. All the looks and the whispering and the tension. From the very first second he met you, Sakusa Kiyoomi has hated you, because you were taking Atsumu from him. You thought you might vomit.
Atsumu was still pleading, was still making his case like he wasn't standing in front of you, naked and reeking of sex, like there was any chance left to salvage this. Like there was anything left to salvage.Â
And as much as you wanted to scream and hit him and destroy the home you had built together, you just couldn't do it. You felt like you couldn't do anything. You took a deep breath, and without saying anything, you removed Atsumu's hands from your shoulders, and you turned around and left. You left the apartment and you left him behind and Atsumu made no effort to follow you.Â
You didn't cry until you were on the train back to Tokyo. You let out guttural, body-wrecking sobs and people looked at you and no one said anything and you just sat there and cried and you didn't know what you were going to do. You thought, you'd figure it out, once you got to Tokyo.Â
You would get there and you would cry some more and you would figure out how to live a life without Miya Atsumu. You ripped his initials off your neck, and left them on the floor of the train.
pairing â yandere gamer satoru x discord kitten reader
synopsis: you thought it was a simple cash grab, playing the perfect discord kitten for a lonely, generous gamer. but his devotion is more than you bargained for, an all-consuming obsession that feels as intoxicating as it is unnerving. the lines of your con begin to blur, and you find yourself tangled in a game where you are no longer sure who is manipulating whom. as he builds a beautiful, gilded cage around you, you're forced to question what will happen when he decides the game is finally over.
or: what starts as a simple con to bleed a lonely discord mod dry becomes a terrifying game of obsession when his generosity reveals itself to be a cage.
wc â 21.7k ࡠtags -> f!reader, porn with plot, really filthy and detailed smut, toxic online relationships, no one is innocent, everybody is mentally ill, satoru is neurotic, manipulation, obsessive behavior, stalking, misogynism (from satoru), sadism (from both sides), manipulator gets manipulated, power imbalance, codependency, psychological fuckery, isolation, coercion, moral ambiguity, dubcon elements (forced orgasms), satoru has a big dick, praise kink, degradation, that satoru brand of whiplash, humiliation kink, edging, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dacryphilia, missionary, belly bulge, doggy style, hair-pulling, cervix fucking, squirting, anal fingering, exhibitionism, creampie, loss of identity, art by @/rezi.jellyfish on ig
athy says, hi everyone, thank you for your patience with this! i promise there's a plot in here somewhere, but the smut-to-plot ratio got away from me. like, by a lot. apparently satoru had other plans. enjoy the filth <3 (yes the suguru slander and y/n pun was intended)
the discord notification sound has become pavlovian at this point. your fingers pause over the mechanical keyboardâhis gift, cherry mx blues because youâd mentioned once that you liked the soundâand that familiar warmth spreads through your chest. another message from your devoted little ATM, probably with another screenshot of his bank transfer.
satoru is typing...
youâve been bleeding this discord mod dry for exactly seven days now, and the rush hasnât dimmed. if anything, itâs gotten sharper. more intoxicating. thereâs something delicious about the way he hangs on your every word, the way his messages light up with barely contained excitement whenever you deign to respond.
youâd started this as a simple cash grabâfind some lonely loser, play girlfriend for a few weeks, disappear with whatever you could getâbut satoru gojo is turning out to be so much more entertaining than anticipated.
satoru: good morning beautiful ⥠i hope you slept wellÂ
satoru: i got us matching keycaps for our keyboards, yours should arrive todayÂ
satoru: also transferred money for that graphics card you wanted
the messages come in rapid succession, each one making your lips curl upward in something that isnât quite a smile. you let them sit for a few minutesânever respond immediately, thatâs amateur hourâwhile you examine your nails and bask in the knowledge that somewhere across the city, heâs probably staring at his phone waiting for those three dots to appear.
pathetic. beautiful, profitable pathetic.
why_en: aww satoru youâre so sweet 𼺠you really donât have to keep spending money on me
the lie tastes like honey on your tongue. you absolutely want him to keep spending money on you. the thrill isnât even about the cash anymoreâitâs about the power. the way he throws his apparently endless bank account at you like heâs trying to buy your affection, not knowing he already has it in the most twisted way possible. not love, never love, but something hungrier and more selfish.Â
you wonder what he looks like when he reads your messages. does he smile that dopey, grateful smile you can hear in his voice? does he screenshot them like the lovesick fool heâs proven himself to be? the mental image makes warmth pool low in your stomach, not arousal but something more intoxicatingâpure, undiluted control.
satoru: i want to!! seeing you happy makes everything worth itÂ
satoru: youâre the best thing thatâs ever happened to me
there it is. that desperate, clinging gratitude that makes your pulse quicken with something that definitely isnât guilt. you screenshot his message, adding it to the collection youâve been buildingâa gallery of his devotion that you scroll through when you need a reminder of your own power. each declaration of love, each promise of eternal devotion, each pathetic attempt to prove his worth to someone who sees him as nothing more than a particularly generous wallet with feelings.
the gaming setup around you is a shrine to his devotion. the monitor he bought youâcurved, 4k, some ridiculous size that takes up half your desk. the headset with noise cancellation so good you feel isolated from the world. the chair that cost more than your rent, ergonomic and perfect because youâd complained once about your back hurting. heâs building you a temple to worship in, and youâre the cruel goddess who accepts his offerings without giving anything real in return.
why_en: wanna hop on the game? i miss you
another lie wrapped in enough truth to taste sweet. you donât miss him exactly, but you miss the way he makes you feel. like youâre the center of someoneâs universe. like you matter more than anything else in existence. itâs addictive in the way that power always isâonce youâve tasted being someoneâs everything, settling for being anyoneâs something feels like starvation.
within seconds, your discord pings with an incoming call. you let it ring twiceâcanât seem too eagerâbefore accepting.
âhey gorgeous.â his voice comes through your headset, soft and warm and tinged with that barely contained excitement that makes your pulse quicken. thereâs something about his voice that doesnât match the image you have in your headâtoo smooth, too rich. youâve been picturing some stereotypical basement dweller, but he sounds like he could be reading poetry or ordering wine at expensive restaurants.
not that it matters. attractive or not, wealthy or not, heâs still just another mark. just one whoâs proving to be more generous and entertaining than most.
âhi satoru,â you let your voice go soft and affectionate, the way you know drives him crazy. âhow was your day?â
âbetter now that iâm talking to you.â the sincerity in his tone makes your chest tightenânot with emotion, but with satisfaction. he means it completely, and that level of devotion should be frightening but instead itâs intoxicating. âdid your package arrive?â
you glance at the unopened box on your desk, designer keycaps that probably cost more than most peopleâs cars. youâve been letting it sit there, unopened, because thereâs something delicious about making him wait for your gratitude. about knowing heâs probably been checking his phone all day for a thank you message that you havenât sent.
âyou spoil me too much,â you say instead of answering directly, voice pitched to sound guilty and grateful rather than calculating.
âimpossible.â thereâs a smile in his voice, genuine and warm. ânothingâs too much for you.â
nothingâs too much. the words settle into your chest like warm poison, feeding something hungry and dark thatâs been growing stronger every day. youâve had men spend money on you before, but never like this. never with this level of worship, this certainty that you deserve everything he can give and more.
the game loads and you fall into your routineâcomfortable banter, shared objectives, him carrying you through content while you provide commentary and attention. heâs good at this, stupidly good, and you find yourself actually enjoying the gameplay instead of just enduring it.Â
âyouâre incredible at this,â you breathe out after he pulls off some complicated combo that saves your virtual life. the praise isnât entirely fakeâhe is skilled, precise in a way that speaks to countless hours of practice. but you layer your voice with breathless admiration that you know will make him melt.
âiâve been playing since beta,â he says, and thereâs pride there but also something else. something that sounds almost vulnerable. âmost people think itâs a waste of time.â
âmost people are idiots.â the response comes out more vehement than you intended, protective in a way that surprises you. where did that come from? youâre not protective of himâyouâre protective of the source of your entertainment, your income, your daily dose of worship. âtheyâre just jealous they donât have your talent.â
silence stretches between you for a moment, and you can hear his breathing through the headset. when he speaks again, his voice is rougher around the edges.
âyou always know exactly what to say.â
do you? or have you just gotten good at reading the hunger in his responses, learned to feed the need you can hear lurking beneath every word he speaks? youâve turned manipulation into an art form, and heâs your willing canvas.
âmaybe i just really believe in you,â you say softly, and listen to the sharp intake of breath on the other end. hook, line, sinker. every. single. time.
the session stretches longer than usualâthree hours of shared gameplay punctuated by increasingly intimate conversation. he tells you about his day, his work (something with coding that pays obscenely well), his thoughts on everything from philosophy to his favorite foods. you file away every detail, building a psychological profile that youâll use to maximize your impact on his wallet and his heart.
but somewhere in the third hour, something shifts. his voice goes quieter, more vulnerable, and you find yourself leaning closer to the headset despite yourself.
âcan i tell you something?â he asks.
âalways.â
âiâve never... i mean, i donât usually connect with people like this.â thereâs a pause, and you can hear him adjusting what sounds like glasses. âyouâre different. special.â
special. the word hits different than all his other praise, settles deeper. you are special, arenât you? special enough to have ensnared someone who sounds like he doesnât fall easily, someone whoâs probably had plenty of options but chose to fixate on you.
âyouâre special too,â you say, and for the first time in seven days, youâre not entirely sure if youâre lying.
the thought should disturb you. instead, it sends heat rushing through your veins like recognition, like coming home to something dark and familiar.
by the time you log off, itâs past midnight and your head is swimming with more than just the late hour. thereâs something happening here, something beyond the simple con youâd planned. satoru gojo is getting under your skin in ways you hadnât anticipated, and the smart thing would be to extract whatever you can and disappear before it gets complicated.
but youâve never been particularly smart about walking away from things that make you feel powerful.
your phone buzzes.
satoru: thank you for tonightÂ
satoru: talking to you is the best part of my dayÂ
satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful
you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, that hungry warmth in your chest growing stronger. tomorrow youâll push a little harder, ask for a little more, see just how far his devotion extends. tomorrow youâll test the boundaries of his worship and bask in the results.
tonight, you fall asleep to the sound of notification after notification, each one a small prayer offered at the altar of your manufactured perfection.
the second week is when you truly hit your stride.
youâve learned his patterns nowâwhen he wakes up (6 AM sharp), when he takes lunch (12:30, always at his desk), when heâs most vulnerable to suggestion (late evening, after heâs been working all day and craving human connection). you time your messages accordingly, each one calculated for maximum impact.
why_en: i had the weirdest dream about you last night...
sent at 6:15 AM, just late enough that heâs had time to check his phone and early enough to derail his entire morning routine.
satoru: tell me everything
the response comes within thirty seconds, and you can practically feel his desperation bleeding through the screen. you let him wait fifteen minutes before responding.
why_en: itâs kind of embarrassing...Â
why_en: we were together, like really togetherÂ
why_en: you made me feel so safe
three messages, perfectly spaced to build anticipation and plant ideas. youâre not just selling him fantasy anymoreâyouâre selling him dreams, literal dreams where heâs your protector and lover and everything he wants to be.
his response is immediate and exactly what you expected.
satoru: i want to make you feel safeÂ
satoru: i want to be everything you needÂ
satoru: god, i wish i could hold you right now
perfect. absolutely perfect. you screenshot the conversation and add it to your collection, your gallery of psychological victories. thereâs something deeply satisfying about watching someone unravel themselves for you, about knowing exactly which strings to pull to get the response you want.
why_en: maybe someday we can make that dream real
the maybe is crucialânever promise anything concrete, always leave room for interpretation. let him build the fantasy himself while you provide just enough encouragement to keep him invested.
satoru: someday soon, i hopeÂ
satoru: iâm falling for youÂ
satoru: is that crazy?
is that crazy? you almost laugh out loud at the question. of course itâs crazy. heâs falling for someone who doesnât exist, someone youâve constructed specifically to exploit his weaknesses and extract his resources. but crazy is profitable, and his particular brand of crazy is more entertaining than anything youâve experienced in years.
why_en: not crazy at allÂ
why_en: iâm falling too
another lie that tastes suspiciously like truth. not falling in loveâyouâre not capable of that kind of clean emotionâbut falling into something. falling into the rhythm of his worship, the daily hit of being someoneâs everything, the intoxicating knowledge that youâve become necessary to his happiness.
the week continues like this, each day bringing new messages, new gifts, new declarations of devotion. your bank account swells like a tumor, fed by his desperate need to prove his worth through material offerings. but itâs not just about the money anymore, hasnât been for days.
itâs about the control. the way he asks permission before making plans, the way he checks in constantly to make sure youâre happy, the way his entire emotional state seems to revolve around your approval. youâve become the sun in his solar system, and the gravitational pull of that much influence is addictive.
satoru: iâve been thinkingÂ
satoru: we should meet
the message arrives on a wednesday afternoon, and you stare at it for a full minute before responding. youâd known this was comingâit always comesâbut youâve been living in this perfect bubble where he existed only as a voice in your headset and numbers in your bank account.
meeting means risk. means maintaining the facade in real time, with no delete button, no time to craft the perfect response. means looking into the eyes of someone whose life youâve systematically infiltrated and pretending to care about what you see there.
but it also means seeing the devotion made flesh. means watching his face light up when he sees you, means being the physical manifestation of his digital goddess made real. the thought sends heat coursing through your veins, anticipation mixed with something darker.
why_en: meet?
play dumb. make him work for it, explain why he needs this, needs you. make him convince you even though youâve already decided.
satoru: i know we said weâd take it slow but i canât stop thinking about youÂ
satoru: i need to see you
need. not want, need. the desperation in that word choice makes your pulse spike with satisfaction. youâve done this to him, created this need, built yourself into something essential to his existence.
why_en: i want to see you tooÂ
why_en: but what if...
satoru: what if what, beautiful?
why_en: what if iâm not what youâre expecting?Â
why_en: what if youâre disappointed?
itâs a calculated vulnerability, designed to make him rush to reassure you, to pile on more worship and devotion. but underneath the calculation, thereâs a tiny seed of something that might be genuine anxiety. not about your appearanceâyou know youâre attractive enough to maintain the illusionâbut about everything else. about keeping up the performance, about being worthy of the pedestal heâs built for you.
satoru: impossibleÂ
satoru: youâre perfectÂ
satoru: nothing could disappoint me about you
perfect. thereâs that word again, the one that sits heavy in your chest like a promise and a threat. heâs built you up so high that the only direction left is down, and some twisted part of you is curious to see what happens when the inevitable fall comes.
satoru: tomorrow? iâll pick you up
and because the alternative is admitting that this has all been an elaborate lie, because youâre in too deep to back out now, because some twisted part of you wants to see the devotion in his eyes when he looks at youâ
why_en: okayÂ
why_en: i canât wait
you spend the night in a state of restless energy. trying on outfits, practicing expressions in the mirror, rehearsing conversations. you need to be the girl from the game tomorrow, the one who thinks his jokes are hilarious and his interests are fascinating. the one whoâs falling just as hard as he is.
but more than that, you need to be perfect. need to live up to the impossible standard youâve set, need to be worth every dollar heâs spent and every prayer heâs offered at the altar of your digital presence.
your phone buzzes at exactly 2 PM.
satoru: here
you check your reflection one more timeâcarefully applied makeup that looks effortless, outfit chosen to hit the sweet spot between approachable and untouchable, smile practiced until it looks naturalâand head downstairs.
the car waiting outside is not what you expected. sleek, expensive, the kind of vehicle that whispers wealth instead of shouting it. and behind the wheelâ
oh.
oh fuck.
satoru gojo is not the basement dweller of your imagination. heâs tall, unfairly tall, unfolding from the driverâs seat like heâs been poured into existence by some artist with a preference for impossible proportions. white hair that catches the sunlight and holds it, pale skin that should look sickly but instead looks ethereal, andâ
glasses. wire-rimmed and slightly askew, like heâs pushed them up his nose a thousand times while concentrating on code or game mechanics or whatever it is thatâs made him wealthy enough to treat you like a luxury purchase.
but itâs his eyes that stop your breath. blue like winter sky, like deep water, like something beautiful and dangerous. and the way heâs looking at youâ
like youâre a miracle heâs not quite sure he deserves.
for a moment, just a moment, your carefully constructed confidence wavers. heâs beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight, beautiful enough that you understand why he has options, why he could choose anyone. and heâs chosen to fixate on you, chosen to pour his attention and resources into someone whoâs been systematically deceiving him for two weeks.
the thought should make you feel guilty. instead, it makes you feel powerful.
âyouâreââ his voice catches, and he pushes his glasses up with one long finger. âyouâre so beautiful.â
the reverence in his tone makes your chest constrict with satisfaction. youâve been complimented before, but never like this. never like youâre something precious and fragile and worth protecting. never by someone who looks like a fallen angel asking for permission to worship at your feet.
âhi satoru.â you duck your head, letting manufactured shyness bleed into your expression because you can see how it affects him. the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten on the car keys. heâs even more responsive in person, every micro-expression a testament to your power over him.
âhi.â heâs smiling now, soft and genuine and so different from what youâd imagined. âready?â
the dateâbecause thatâs what this is, even though neither of you have called it thatâunfolds like a fever dream. he takes you to places that exist in a different tax bracket than your usual haunts. art galleries where the price tags make your eyes water, restaurants where the waiters treat him like royalty and you like his precious companion.
and heâs... charming. actually charming, not just wealthy enough to fake it. he tells stories that make you laugh despite yourself, asks questions that suggest he actually listens to your answers, touches your hand across restaurant tables with a reverence that makes your skin burn.
but more than charming, heâs generous. not just financiallyâthough the black card that appears every time a check arrives is certainly impressiveâbut emotionally. he gives you his complete attention, hangs on your every word like youâre delivering divine revelation, treats every opinion you offer like itâs the most insightful thing heâs ever heard.
itâs intoxicating. addictive in a way you hadnât anticipated. youâve had men try to impress you before, but this feels different. this feels like worship, and youâre discovering that being worshipped is a high unlike anything youâve ever experienced.
âtell me about your childhood,â he says over appetizers that cost more than your weekly groceries, chin propped on his hand as he gazes at you with those impossible blue eyes.
the question should panic youâyou havenât prepared a backstory, havenât thought about how to make your real life sound interesting enough to hold his attention. instead, you find yourself telling him the truth. or at least, a version of it.
ânot much to tell,â you say, twirling expensive pasta around your fork. âgrew up middle class, normal family, normal problems. nothing as interesting as your life, iâm sure.â
âeverything about you is interesting to me.â the response is immediate and sincere, and you have to hide your smile behind your wine glass. he means it completely, and that level of fascination is better than any drug youâve ever tried.
âwhat about you?â you turn the conversation back to him, partly because youâre genuinely curious and partly because you know heâll love having your undivided attention. âwhat made you so successful so young?â
his smile turns self-deprecating, and he pushes his glasses up again. âluck, mostly. right place, right time, right skill set for what the market needed. nothing special.â
but the way he talks about his workâthe passion in his voice when he describes complex problems and elegant solutionsâsuggests otherwise. heâs brilliant, genuinely brilliant, and probably used to being the smartest person in any room. the fact that heâs choosing to spend his time and attention on you feels like a victory worth savoring.
âi think youâre being modest,â you say, reaching across the table to touch his hand. his fingers are long and elegant, surprisingly soft for someone who spends his days typing code. âsuccess like yours doesnât happen by accident.â
the touch is calculatedâskin contact always is, with men like himâbut the warmth that spreads up your arm when he turns his hand to capture your fingers is entirely unexpected. his thumb traces across your knuckles, and you have to fight the urge to shiver.
âyou give me too much credit.â but heâs looking at your joined hands like theyâre something precious, something worth protecting. âhonestly, work used to be everything. before you.â
before you. two words that carry the weight of complete life reorganization, of someone whoâs restructured their priorities around your existence. the power of it is dizzying.
âbefore me?â you pitch your voice to sound curious rather than satisfied.
âbefore you, i worked sixteen hour days because i didnât have anything else worth coming home to. now...â he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that makes your breath catch. ânow i leave the office at five because i canât stand being away from you any longer than necessary.â
the gesture should feel possessive, controlling. instead, it feels like devotion made flesh, like being precious enough to reorganize someoneâs entire world around. youâre drunk on it, higher than youâve ever been on any substance.
âsatoru,â you whisper, and watch his pupils dilate at the sound of his name from your lips.
âi know itâs crazy,â he says, voice rough around the edges. âi know itâs too much too fast, but i canât help it. you do something to me.â
you do something to him. the admission sends heat racing through your veins, confirms what youâve suspected for daysâthat your power over him goes beyond simple attraction or even infatuation. youâve gotten into his head, rewired his brain chemistry, made yourself essential to his happiness.
itâs the most intoxicating feeling in the world.
âyou do something to me too,â you admit, and itâs not entirely a lie. he does do something to youâmakes you feel powerful and desired and important in ways youâve never experienced before. makes you want to be worthy of the pedestal heâs built, even as youâre consciously manipulating your way to the top of it.
the rest of dinner passes in a haze of intimate conversation and lingering touches. he tells you things that feel like secretsâabout his loneliness before you, his fears about not being good enough, his dreams for the future that all seem to center around making you happy. you file away every confession, every vulnerability, adding them to your arsenal for future use.
but somewhere between the main course and dessert, something shifts. maybe itâs the wine, maybe itâs the way he keeps looking at you like youâre the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen, maybe itâs the sheer overwhelming force of his attentionâbut you start to lose track of whatâs performance and whatâs real.
when he reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your breath catches without any conscious decision to make it do so. when he smiles at something you say, warmth blooms in your chest that has nothing to do with strategy. when he asks about your dreams for the future, you find yourself giving answers you hadnât planned, hadnât practiced.
âwhat do you want most in the world?â he asks over dessert thatâs more art than food.
the question hangs between you like a challenge. what do you want most in the world? money? security? power? all of those things seemed like complete answers a few weeks ago, but sitting across from someone whoâs offering them all freely, they feel insufficient.
âto matter,â you say finally, the words escaping before you can stop them. âto be important to someone.â
itâs more honest than you meant to be, more vulnerable than your carefully constructed persona allows. but the way his eyes soften, the way he reaches for your hand again like itâs instinctiveâ
âyou matter to me,â he says simply. âyouâre the most important thing in my world.â
and god help you, you believe him. more than that, you want it to be true. want to be his most important thing, want to be worthy of the devotion heâs offering, want to deserve the life heâs clearly planning to build around you.
the realization should terrify you. instead, it feels like coming home.
he drives you back to your apartment as the sun sets, expensive car purring through streets that look different when viewed through the lens of his attention. everything seems prettier, more significant, like youâre seeing your own life through the eyes of someone who thinks youâre worth this level of effort.
âcan i see you again?â he asks as he walks you to your door, and thereâs vulnerability in the question that sits strangely on someone who looks like heâs never been denied anything in his life.
âtry to stop me,â you say, and watch his face light up like sunrise.
he kisses your forehead before he leavesâchaste and sweet and completely at odds with the heat in his eyesâand you spend the evening replaying every moment, every touch, every look. your phone buzzes constantly with messages from him, each one a small prayer of gratitude for your existence.
satoru: thank you for todayÂ
satoru: youâre even more incredible in personÂ
satoru: i canât stop thinking about youÂ
satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful
you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, some emotion you canât name clawing at your chest. tomorrow youâll go back to the performance, back to being the perfect girlfriend heâs constructed in his mind. but tonightâ
tonight you let yourself wonder what it would be like if this was real. if you were really the person he thinks you are, really worthy of the life heâs offering to build around you.
your reflection stares back at you from your darkened phone screen, and for a moment you donât recognize the face looking back. thereâs something soft there, something vulnerable that has no place in your carefully constructed armor.
you push the feeling down, bury it beneath layers of calculation and strategy. this is a job, a con, a means to an end. the fact that your mark happens to be beautiful and generous and completely devoted doesnât change what this is.
but as you fall asleep to the sound of your phone buzzing with message after message, each one a small offering at the altar of your manufactured perfection, you canât quite shake the feeling that youâre lying to yourself about more than just your feelings for him.
the second date becomes a third, then a fourth. he integrates himself into your life with the persistence of water finding cracks, filling spaces you didnât know were empty. your gaming sessions become longer, more intimate. your days start to revolve around his messages, his calls, his presence.
and the gifts keep coming. not just expensive things anymore, but thoughtful ones. a book by an author you mentioned liking, tea from a shop you walked past together, a playlist of songs that remind him of you. heâs building a detailed map of your preferences, real and performed, and using it to craft a reality where youâre the center of everything.
it should be suffocating. it should trigger every alarm bell you have about controlling men and possessive behavior. instead, itâs intoxicating in ways you never anticipated.
âyou donât have to keep buying me things,â you tell him one evening, though you make no move to return the designer bracelet heâs just fastened around your wrist. the weight of it feels like ownership, like being marked as his in the most luxurious way possible.
âi want to.â his fingers linger on your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how your heartbeat spikes at his touch. âyou deserve beautiful things.â
you deserve. not you want, not you likeâyou deserve. like your worth is something objective and measurable, like spoiling you is a moral imperative rather than a choice.
âwhat if i donât?â the question slips out before you can stop it, vulnerability bleeding through your carefully maintained facade.
he goes still, fingers pausing in their gentle exploration of your wrist. when you look up at him, his expression is soft and serious and utterly convinced.
âimpossible,â he says, and thereâs no doubt in his voice whatsoever. âyouâre perfect.â
perfect. that word again, the one that sits in your chest like a weight and a promise and a threat all at once. you want to be perfect for him, want to deserve the faith heâs placing in you, want to be worthy of the life heâs offering to build around your happiness.
but you also know, with crystal clarity, that youâre not. that everything he loves about you is a carefully constructed lie, that the person heâs falling for exists only in the digital space between truth and deception.
the contradiction should bother you more than it does.
instead, you lean into his touch and let him believe in your perfection a little longer.
youâre three weeks deep when the first crack appears.
it happens during a gaming sessionâsome pvp match thatâs going badly despite his usual skill. you can hear his frustration through the headset, sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses that sound nothing like the patient, adoring man youâve come to know.
âlook at this pathetic excuse for a human being,â he snarls after another failed engagement, and thereâs venom in his voice that makes your stomach drop like a stone. âCurseGuzzlerSGâprobably some mouth-breathing basement dweller who peaked in middle school and thinks button mashing counts as skill. bet his parents are ashamed they wasted eighteen years feeding this waste of oxygen.â
the transformation is jarring, like watching a mask slip off to reveal something predatory underneath. gone is the soft-spoken man who calls you beautiful every morning, replaced by someone whose voice drips with surgical cruelty.
you can hear the mechanical keyboardâthe one he bought to match with youâbeing punished under his fingers, each keystroke sharp and violent. then thereâs a crash, the sound of something being swept off his desk, followed by his ragged breathing.
âand this fucking reject with the anime profile picture,â he continues, his voice getting more unhinged with each word. âprobably jerks off to cartoon children and wonders why heâs never felt a womanâs touch. look at his gear, look at his rotationâhis brain must be smoother than a marble, absolutely no higher cognitive function happening in that empty skullââ
the specific, personal nature of his attacks makes ice form in your veins. these arenât just frustrated gamer insults. this is calculated character assassination of people heâs never met, detailed psychological profiles built from usernames and gameplay footage.
âhey,â you say softly, trying to recapture the gentle dynamic youâve built, trying to ignore the way your fight-or-flight response is screaming at you to hang up, to run. âitâs just a gameââ
âdonât.âÂ
the word cuts through your platitude like a blade, so sharp and cold you actually flinch away from your headset. the silence that follows is suffocatingâyou can hear him breathing heavily, each exhale controlled but violent, like heâs physically restraining himself from something worse.
ten seconds of silence. twenty. thirty.
when he speaks again, his voice has that careful control thatâs somehow more terrifying than his rage.
âdonât diminish this. you know how much time iâve put into perfecting my builds, my rotations, my team compositions. these... people... are ruining something i care about.â
people. the way he says it makes it clear theyâre barely that in his mind.
thereâs another stretch of silence, punctuated only by his measured breathing. you can picture him behind his setupâprobably pushing his glasses up, running his hands through his white hair, recalibrating his mask.
âsatoruââ
âi would never talk to you like that.â his voice is soft now, gentle, but thereâs something underneath it that makes your skin crawl. âyouâre different. youâre special. you understand quality, you appreciate effort, you have standards. unlike these degenerates who probably canât even tie their own shoes without their mothers helping them.â
the implication hangs in the air like smoke: this is how he talks about people who arenât special to him. this is the venom he reserves for anyone who doesnât meet his standards, who doesnât earn his carefully rationed respect.
âyouâre the only person worth my patience,â he continues, and you can hear his smile through the words. âthe only person who deserves my best self.â
your hands are shaking. you realize youâve been holding your breath.
âi could be raid leading for a world-first guild,â he continues, and you can hear him pacing now, his breathing heavy through the microphone. âi could be making guides that actually matter, teaching people who deserve to learn. instead iâm stuck carrying these worthlessââ
âsatoru.â you interrupt, your voice firm enough to cut through his spiral. âbreathe.â
silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. when he speaks again, his voice is differentâsmaller, almost frightened.
âsorry. i didnât mean to... youâre the only good thing in my life, i shouldnât take my frustration out onââ
âitâs okay,â you say quickly, but something cold has settled in your stomach. the only good thing in his life. not one of the good things, the only thing. the weight of that responsibility sits on your chest like lead, and youâre starting to understand why he treats you like something that might disappear if he doesnât hold tight enough.
the session ends early, with him apologizing repeatedlyâtoo much, too franticallyâand you reassuring him that everythingâs fine. but after you hang up, you sit in the darkness of your room and wonder what youâve built here. what kind of devotion requires this level of emotional maintenance. what kind of man puts all his happiness in one person and then expects that person to carry it gracefully.
your phone buzzes immediately.
satoru: iâm sorry for earlierÂ
satoru: you bring out the best in me and i never want to be anything less than perfect for youÂ
satoru: let me make it up to youÂ
satoru: please donât be upset with meÂ
satoru: i canât stand the thought of disappointing youÂ
satoru: youâre everything to me
the messages come in rapid succession, each one more desperate than the last. you can picture him on the other end, probably pacing his apartment, pushing his glasses up his nose over and over while anxiety eats him alive. the image should make you feel powerfulâand part of it doesâbut mostly it just makes you tired.
why_en: itâs really okay satoru, we all have bad days
satoru: not around youÂ
satoru: never around youÂ
satoru: you deserve perfect
the next morning, thereâs a package at your door. jewelry this time, delicate and expensive and exactly your taste. the note attached is written in his careful handwriting, and you can see places where he pressed too hard with the pen, where his hand probably shook: for the most perfect woman in the world. iâm sorry iâm not worthy of you yet.
not worthy yet. like his worthiness is something he can achieve through enough gifts, enough attention, enough complete subsumation of his identity into the idea of pleasing you.
you should feel guilty. you should feel something approaching shame for the way youâve constructed this relationship on a foundation of performance and manipulation. instead, you feel hungry. greedy. more addicted than ever to the way he sees you as something precious and irreplaceable.
but the cracks keep appearing, spreading like spider webs through the perfect facade heâs built.
it happens at a coffee shop two days later. youâre waiting in line together, his hand possessive on the small of your back, when the baristaâyoung, pretty, probably a college studentâsmiles at him while taking his order.
âwhat can i get started for you?â she asks, all customer service brightness and innocent friendliness.
you feel satoruâs hand tighten against your back. when he speaks, his voice is clipped, cold in a way youâve never heard directed at a stranger.
âlarge americano. black.â no please, no thank you, just barely controlled hostility toward someone whose only crime was existing while female in his presence.
the girlâs smile falters slightly. âand for you?â she asks, turning to you with visible relief.
âiâll have aââ
âsheâll have a vanilla latte with oat milk,â satoru interrupts, his voice still sharp. âand make sure the temperature is exactly 140 degrees. she has a sensitive palate.â
you stare at him. youâve never mentioned having a sensitive palate. you donât even particularly like vanilla lattes, but youâd ordered one once weeks ago and heâd apparently catalogued it as your permanent preference.
âuh, actuallyââ you start.
âthatâs what you always get,â he says, looking at you with those too-blue eyes. thereâs something desperate in his gaze, like your coffee order is a test of his devotion and getting it wrong would shatter something fundamental in his worldview.
âright,â you say weakly, watching the baristaâs expression grow more uncomfortable by the second.
âanything else?â she asks, clearly wanting this interaction to end.
satoruâs eyes narrow, scanning her name tag. âno, suzuru. just make sure you get it right. my girlfriend deserves the best service.â
the way he says âgirlfriendâ makes your skin crawlâpossessive, territorial, like heâs marking territory. suzuru nods quickly and moves to start the drinks, probably counting the minutes until her shift ends.
âyou didnât have to be rude to her,â you say quietly as you move to wait for your order.
ârude?â satoru looks genuinely confused. âi was protecting your experience. did you see the way she was looking at me? completely inappropriate when iâm obviously with someone.â
you glance back at suzuru, whoâs focused intently on the espresso machine and definitely not looking at anyone. âshe was just doing her job, satoru.â
âwas she?â his voice drops to a whisper, but thereâs venom in it. âor was she trying to get my attention? women like that are always testing boundaries, seeing if they can break up happy couples.â
women like that. you want to ask what he means exactlyâcollege students? service workers? people who dare to exist in his vicinity while female?âbut something in his expression warns you off. thereâs a paranoid intensity in his eyes that makes you think of conspiracy theorists and reddit manifestos.
âmaybe youâre reading too much intoââ
âi notice things other people miss,â he interrupts, straightening his glasses with sharp, jerky movements. âi see patterns. the way she tilted her head, the way she leaned forward when she talked to me, the way her voice got softer. classic manipulation tactics.â
your blood runs cold. classic manipulation tactics. you wonder if heâs catalogued your own behavior the same way, if he has mental files on every smile, every laugh, every carefully crafted moment of vulnerability youâve shown him.
âlarge americano and vanilla latte!â suzuru calls, setting the cups on the counter with obvious relief.
satoru inspects both drinks before accepting them, checking the foam art on your latte with the intensity of a forensic investigator. âtemperature?â he asks.
â140 degrees,â suzuru confirms, already turning away to help the next customer.
as you leave the coffee shop, satoruâs demeanor transforms back to the devoted boyfriend you know. he opens the door for you, asks if your drink is perfect, tells you how beautiful you look in the morning sunlight. but you canât stop thinking about the way he looked at that barista, like she was a threat to be neutralized.
âyouâre quiet,â he observes as you walk to his car.
âjust thinking.â
âabout what?â thereâs an edge of anxiety in the question, like heâs afraid you might be thinking about somethingâor someoneâother than him.
ânothing important,â you lie, and watch his shoulders relax slightly.
but it is important. the more time you spend with him, the more you realize that his devotion comes with a price: the complete elimination of any other people from your life. friends who text you less because youâre always busy with satoru. coworkers whoâve stopped inviting you to after-work drinks because you always decline. family members whoâve started asking if youâre okay because you only talk about your boyfriend now.
the isolation happened so gradually you barely noticed it. satoru never explicitly told you to stop seeing other peopleâheâs too smart for that. instead, he made himself irresistible.
why go out for mediocre drinks with friends when you could stay in with someone who treats you like a goddess? why maintain friendships that require effort when you have someone who gives you everything you want without asking for anything in return?
except he is asking for something in return. heâs asking for everything. your time, your attention, your entire existence reorganized around the maintenance of his happiness.
the revelation should horrify you. instead, as you settle into the passenger seat of his expensive car and let him fuss over your seatbelt, your comfort, your everything, you find yourself wondering why it feels so much like coming home.
a week later, youâre having dinner at another expensive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters know his name and treat you like visiting royalty. youâve learned to navigate these spaces now, learned to let him order wine that costs more than your monthly rent, learned to smile graciously when he explains the menu items like youâre a child who needs guidance.
the conversation flows easilyâit always does now, youâve learned to navigate his interests and opinions like a native speakerâuntil he mentions something that makes your blood freeze.
âiâve been thinking about taking a vacation,â he says, cutting into his steak with precise, almost surgical movements. âsomewhere tropical, just the two of us. i found this perfect resort in the maldivesâprivate villa, completely isolated from everything. just paradise.â
isolated. the word echoes in your head like a warning bell.Â
âthat sounds amazing,â you say automatically, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.
âi already booked it,â he continues, and thereâs excitement in his voice, genuine happiness that makes your stomach twist with guilt and terror in equal measure. âtwo weeks, starting next month. i know youâll have to request time off work, but i figured we could say itâs a family emergency or something. i donât want your boss asking too many questions about where weâre going.â
the casual suggestion of lying to your employer sits wrong in your chest, but itâs the other part that makes your pulse quicken with alarm.
âyou booked it?â the words come out sharper than intended, and you see his expression shift slightly, like a mask slipping. âwithout asking me?â
for just a moment, something flickers across his faceâsurprise, irritation, the look of someone whoâs been questioned when they expected gratitude. but itâs gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
âi wanted to surprise you.â his tone is still gentle, but thereâs something underneath it now. something watchful, calculating. âyou mentioned wanting to travel, and i thought... i wanted to give you something special. something no one else has ever given you.â
heâs right, of course. you had mentioned wanting to travel, weeks ago, back when you were still thinking of him as a mark instead of... whatever he is now. but the way heâs twisted that casual comment into justification for making major decisions about your life without consulting you feels like a trap closing around your throat.
âi canât just disappear for two weeks, satoru. i have responsibilities, commitmentsââ
âwhat commitments?â the question is quiet, but thereâs an edge to it that makes your pulse quicken. his blue eyes are studying you with uncomfortable intensity, like heâs dissecting your objections in real time. âyour job that makes you miserable? friends who barely text you anymore? family who only call when they need something?â
the accuracy of the statement hits like cold water. when was the last time you made plans that didnât involve him? when did your world become so small that he fills every corner of it? and more importantlyâwhen did he become so intimately familiar with the deterioration of all your other relationships?
âthatâs not the point,â you say, but your voice lacks conviction and you both know it. âyou canât just... decide things for me.â
his hand reaches across the table to cover yours, warm and possessive, and you notice the way his fingers completely engulf your smaller ones. âiâm not deciding for you, beautiful. iâm trying to give you everything you deserve. when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?â
the question lodges in your throat like a stone. when was the last time? before him, certainly. before this performance became so consuming that you forgot what happiness felt like when it wasnât reflected in his adoring gaze.
âthis is making me happy,â you whisper, and itâs not entirely a lie. thisâhis attention, his devotion, the way he treats you like something preciousâdoes make you happy. but itâs a hollow kind of happiness, built on a foundation thatâs starting to crack under its own weight.
âthen whatâs the problem?â his thumb traces across your knuckles, a gesture that should be comforting but feels like a shackle. thereâs something in his voice now, a careful patience that reminds you of someone talking to a frightened animal. âlet me take care of you. let me give you the life you deserve.â
the life you deserve. not the life you want, not the life you choose, but the life heâs decided you deserve based on his careful observation of your preferences and weaknesses. the distinction sits heavy in your chest as you look at him across the tableâbeautiful, devoted, dangerous in his certainty that he knows whatâs best for you.
âtwo weeks is a long time,â you say weakly, grasping for some kind of compromise that wonât shatter the careful dynamic youâve built.
âexactly.â his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love that feels more like ownership with each passing day. âtwo weeks where you donât have to think about anything except being happy. no work stress, no social obligations, no one elseâs needs to consider. just you and me and paradise.â
just you and me. the phrase echoes in your head with the weight of inevitability. no one else to perform for, no escape routes, no witnesses to whatever he becomes when he has you completely to himself.
âokay,â you say finally, because the alternative is a confrontation youâre not ready for, because part of you wants to see what happens when you stop running from this thing youâve created. âokay, we can go.â
his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love. âyouâre incredible,â he says, lifting your hand to his lips. his kiss is soft, reverent, and completely at odds with the triumph gleaming in his eyes. âi canât wait to have you all to myself.â
all to himself. the phrase echoes in your head as he pays the check without looking at the total, as he drives you home through streets that feel increasingly like a maze with no exit, as he kisses you goodnight with reverent tenderness that feels more like a brand than affection.
that night, alone in your apartment, you sit on your bathroom floor with your back against the locked door, trying to process what just happened.
the fear sits in your stomach like ice water, sharp and immediate. youâve seen behind his mask now, witnessed the calculating precision with which heâs been mapping your life. every conversation you thought was casual bonding was actually reconnaissance. every detail you thought you were sharing naturally was being filed away, catalogued, weaponized.
but underneath the fear is something else, something that makes you feel sick with self-recognition. youâre impressed.Â
the thoroughness of it, the dedication, the sheer amount of effort heâs put into knowing every facet of your existenceâitâs horrifying and flattering in equal measure. when was the last time someone paid attention to you with this level of intensity? when was the last time you felt this important to another person?
he knows your coworkersâ names, your salary, your daily frustrations. heâs been building a detailed psychological profile while you thought you were playing him. the realization that youâve been outmaneuvered by someone you considered a mark should terrify you.
instead, it makes you feel... special.
not just the object of desire, but the subject of obsession. worthy of this level of investigation, this depth of surveillance. he doesnât just want to possess youâhe wants to understand you completely, to anticipate your needs before you voice them, to become essential to your happiness.
your phone buzzes with a text, and you donât even need to look to know who itâs from.
satoru: thank you for saying yes to the tripÂ
satoru: i know itâs a big decisionÂ
satoru: i promise iâll make it perfect for youÂ
satoru: everything i do is for youÂ
satoru: youâre my whole world
his whole world. not part of his world, not an important piece of it, but the entire thing. the weight of being someoneâs everything sits on your chest like lead, but underneath the pressure is something that feels suspiciously like pride.
you type and delete a dozen responses before settling on something that feels true enough to pass for honesty:
why_en: i trust you
and you do trust him, in a way thatâs probably more dangerous than fear. you trust him to worship you, to structure his entire existence around your comfort and happiness. you trust him to protect what he sees as his with the same vicious intensity he showed that night gaming, the same paranoid vigilance he demonstrated with the coffee shop barista.
you trust him to love you the way a collector loves their most precious acquisitionâcompletely, obsessively, possessively.
the maldives trip looms like a beautiful nightmare on the horizon. two weeks alone with him, no escape routes, no distractions, no witnesses to whatever you become when you stop pretending this isnât exactly what you want.
tomorrow youâll put on the mask again. tomorrow youâll be his perfect girlfriend, grateful for his attention and excited about your romantic getaway. tomorrow youâll feed the monster youâve created and pretend you donât see your own reflection in his hungry eyes.
but tonight, in the darkness of your apartment, you let yourself grieve for the person you used to be before you learned to love the feeling of being devoured.
your phone lights up again.
satoru: goodnight, beautifulÂ
satoru: sweet dreamsÂ
satoru: i love you more than anything in this world
the words sit on your screen like a confession and a threat and a promise all at once. more than anything in this worldânot anyone, anything. like youâre not a person to him but a concept, an ideal, a perfect thing to be protected and possessed and worshipped from a distance thatâs growing smaller every day.
why_en: i love you too
and in the silence that follows, you finally understand that some hungers can only be satisfied by being consumed completely. the question isnât whether youâre ready for that consumptionâitâs whether youâre brave enough to admit how much you want it.
the villa is perfect, of course it is. satoru doesnât do anything halfway, especially when it comes to you. glass walls that dissolve the boundary between inside and outside, infinity pool that bleeds into the ocean horizon, bed the size of your entire apartment back home draped in white silk that catches the tropical breeze.
the air hums with salt and jasmine, the scent clinging to your skin, curling into your senses like a loverâs breath. the teak furniture, carved with razor-sharp precision, glows under the low light, each piece a silent testament to his control, his need to make this space an extension of his willâand of you.
youâve been here a week and you can feel yourself dissolving.
his presence is relentless: mornings with breakfast on a trayâmangoes sliced so thin theyâre translucent, their juice dripping down his fingers as he presses a piece to your lips, watching your tongue dart out to taste it, coffee brewed to the exact temperature you mentioned once, its bitter warmth coating your throat as he studies your reaction with narrowed eyes and a faint smirk.
afternoons on the deck with the sun searing your skin, his fingers tracing slow circles on your thigh, each touch pulling a hitch in your breath, a flush across your chest. nights where he watches you pretend to sleep, his gaze heavy, peeling back your defenses until youâre raw, exposed, your pulse quickening under the weight of his scrutiny.
âyouâre so beautiful when you think no oneâs watching,â he murmurs now, and you realize your pretense has failed again. his voice comes from too close, and when you open your eyes heâs propped on his elbow beside you, studying your face with those winter-blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that have become as familiar as your own reflection.Â
the sun has set while you dozed, painting the water in shades of amber and rose. the villaâs lighting system has activated automatically, casting everything in a warm glow that makes his white hair look spun from gold, makes his pale skin seem to glow from within. the light catches his glasses, glinting like a predatorâs eyes, and the ocean outside hums, a low murmur that fades against the pulse hammering in your ears.
âi wasnât sleeping,â you lie, stretching like a cat under his gaze. the movement makes the silk camisoleâanother gift, chosen perfectly for the climate and your coloringâride up, exposing the soft curve of your hip, and you watch his eyes darken as they track the exposed skin with predatory focus. the fabric clings to your breasts, outlining your nipples as they harden under his stare, and his jaw tightens, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate.
âi know.â his fingers ghost over your hip bone, light as butterfly wings but searing, tracing a slow arc that sends a shiver through you. âyou get this little crease between your eyebrows when youâre really asleep. right here.â he touches the spot with his index finger, gentle but possessive, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch, your lips part in a soft gasp. âand your breathing changes. gets deeper. more trusting.âÂ
the casual observation makes your stomach flip. heâs catalogued even your unconscious expressions, studied you with the dedication of a scientist documenting a new species. seven days of constant observation, constant attention, and heâs mapped every detail of your existence with the precision of a cartographer claiming new territory.
âyouâre staring too hard,â you whisper, but thereâs no real complaint in it. youâve grown addicted to the weight of his attention, the way he looks at you like youâre art in a museumâsomething precious and irreplaceable that he canât quite believe heâs allowed to possess.Â
âcanât help it.â his hand slides higher, palm flat against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through silk so thin it might as well not exist. the contact is deliberate, his thumb circling slowly, coaxing your nipple to peak harder, sending a jolt straight to your core. âespecially in that. itâs like you were designed specifically to drive me insane.âÂ
the camisole was waiting on the bed when you arrived, along with an entire wardrobe heâd selected with meticulous care. sundresses that tie at the shoulder with single ribbons that beg to be pulled, bikinis that somehow stay on despite being mostly string and wishful thinking, lingerie that makes you feel like something wrapped for his consumption. everything easy access, everything designed to come off at the slightest provocation.Â
âyou have good taste,â you manage, voice catching as his thumb traces the curve of your breast, feeling your nipple harden through the silk. the sound makes him smile, sharp and satisfied, his eyes glinting with triumph, his jaw tightening as he watches your lips part.
âi have you,â he says simply, leaning down to press his lips to your collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. his tongue is warm, wet, tracing a slow path along your collarbone, and the contact burns, soft yet laced with something feral, his teeth grazing lightly. âthatâs all the good taste i need.â
his breath is hot against your skin, his lips parting slightly as he lingers, savoring the salt of your sweat, the faint pulse under your skin. the kiss burns, soft and reverent but thereâs something darker lurking beneath the surface. something thatâs been growing stronger the longer youâre isolated together, the longer he has you completely to himself with no interruptions, no witnesses, no escape routes.
his mouth moves lower, teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you canât suppress the small gasp that escapes. the sound flips something in himâhis grip tightens on your ribs, fingers digging in just shy of painful, his nails biting into your skin, leaving faint crescents. his eyes flicker with dark satisfaction, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he feels you tremble.
âsatoru,â you breathe, and his name comes out needier than intended, almost broken, your voice trembling as your core aches with want.
âwhat do you want, beautiful?â his lips move against your throat, voice gone rough around the edges, a low growl that vibrates against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point again. âtell me exactly what you want and maybe iâll give it to you.âÂ
itâs a loaded question wrapped in silk, isnât it? what you want versus what you think you should want versus what he wants you to want. the lines have blurred beyond recognition, especially here in this paradise where the outside world feels like a half-remembered dream. the villa is a cage of glass and silk, the air thick with heat and desire, and every touch of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, pulls you deeper into his orbit.
âyou,â you say, and itâs the truest thing youâve said in weeks. not the performance version of want, not the careful calculation of what will keep him devoted, just pure need thatâs been building like pressure behind glass. âi want you.âÂ
something shifts in his expression, the careful mask of gentle devotion cracking to show the ravenous hunger underneath. his hand moves higher, cupping your breast properly now, thumb circling your nipple through silk with enough pressure to make you arch against him.
his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. his eyes darken, pupils dilating as he watches your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan, a flush spreading across your chest.
âhow much of me?â his voice is lower, darker, a growl vibrating in his chest as he leans closer, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot against your skin. âbecause i want to give you everything, but i need to know you can handle it. need to know you wonât break.âÂ
the question makes your pulse stutter because thereâs something in his tone youâve caught glimpses of beforeâin game chats when other players frustrate him, in the way his jaw tightens when men look at you too long, in the casual possessiveness thatâs grown stronger each dayâbut never this concentrated, never this focused entirely on you.
âeverything,â you whisper, because retreat isnât an option anymore. youâve come too far, fallen too deep, let yourself get too addicted to the way he makes you feel like the center of the universe. âi can handle everything.âÂ
his lips curl, sharp and beautiful and completely unlike the gentle adoration youâre used to. itâs hungry, satisfied, like youâve just given him permission for something heâs been craving.
âcareful what you promise,â he murmurs, but his hands are already moving, fingers finding the silk ribbons at your shoulders. he unties them slowly, reverently, like heâs unwrapping the most precious gift heâs ever received, his fingers steady but his eyes flickering with hunger, his jaw tight as he watches the fabric fall.
the camisole falls away and youâre bare to his gaze, nipples hardening in the warm air as he looks at you like heâs seeing something that belongs entirely to him. the silk pools at your waist, and his eyes rake over your breasts, your nipples peaking harder under his stare, a flush spreading across your chest.
âperfect,â he breathes, and thereâs something almost clinical in how thoroughly he studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly, cataloguing every curve, every freckle, every flush. his palms cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness, just enough pressure to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy. his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. âdo you know what you do to me? walking around in those little outfits i picked out, looking at me like you trust me completely?âÂ
thereâs something almost cruel in his tone, a darkness youâve sensed but never seen fully unleashed, and it shouldnât make you wetter but it does. the careful, worshipful lover is dissolving into something hungrier, more possessive, and your body is responding like itâs been waiting for this version of him all along, your core aching with want, slickness forming as your thighs shift.
âi do trust you,â you manage, even as his hands move lower, skimming over your ribs with deliberate slowness, fingertips trailing fire across your skin, each touch precise, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines that burn in the humid air.
âyou shouldnât.â his fingers hook in the waistband of your silk shorts, and he pauses, looking up at you with eyes that have gone dark behind his glasses, his lips curling into a faint, predatory smirk. âbut god, iâm so fucking glad you do.â
the profanity sounds foreign in his mouth, rougher than his usual careful language, and it sends heat shooting straight to your core, making you clench with need. he pulls the fabric away with agonizing slowness, like heâs savoring every inch of skin revealed, and when youâre completely bare beneath him he just looks for a long moment.
his eyes rake over your body, lingering on the flush across your chest, the way your thighs quiver, the glistening slickness at your center, his jaw tightening, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate. the intensity of his gaze makes you want to cover yourself and spread wider at the same time, your core aching with need.
heâs cataloguing every detailâthe flush spreading across your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, how your thighs press together unconsciously, only to part again as your core clenches.
âbeautiful,â he murmurs, hands sliding up your legs with reverent touches that feel possessive, his fingers digging into your thighs, leaving faint marks. âso fucking beautiful it makes me crazy. makes me want to do terrible things to you.âÂ
his thumbs brush the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips, not quite touching your center, just close enough to make you squirm, your hips lifting instinctively, seeking contact. âsatoru, pleaseââ your voice is raw, desperate, breaking on his name, your hips lifting again, your core aching with want.
âplease what?â his voice has gone silky, dangerous, a purr that makes your core clench with need. his thumbs circle closer, grazing the edges of your slick folds, teasing your clit without touching it, and his eyes narrow, watching your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan. âuse your words, beautiful. tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.âÂ
the command in his tone makes you clench around nothing, and you see him notice it, see the satisfied smile that curves his lips as he watches your body betray your need. âtouch me,â you breathe, hips lifting unconsciously, seeking contact heâs deliberately withholding. âplease, i need you to touch me.âÂ
âwhere?â he asks, and thereâs something almost sadistic in how heâs drawing this out, like heâs savoring your desperation, his lips curling into a faint smirk, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. âhere?â his fingers ghost over your hipbones, barely making contact, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines. âor here?âÂ
âyou know where,â you gasp, frustration making your voice crack, your core aching with need, your thighs trembling. your eyes flutter, tears pricking at the corners, and your lips tremble, a soft whimper escaping as his fingers hover so close but refuse to touch.
âbut i want to hear you say it.â he leans down, lips brushing your ear, and his voice drops to something dark and possessive, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe. âwant to hear you beg for it like the needy little thing you really are. bet youâve begged other men like this too, havenât you?â
the question hits like a slap, unexpected and cruel, and you feel heat flood your cheeks. âsatoruââ your voice trembles, raw with a mix of shame and arousal, your eyes wide with desperation, tears pricking at the corners.
âhave you?â his fingers stop moving entirely, hovering just above your center, so close you can feel the warmth of them but not the relief youâre dying for, your clit throbbing with need. âanswer me. how many others have seen you like this? how many others have you spread your legs for?âÂ
âthatâsâthatâs not fair,â you whisper, voice breaking on the words, tears spilling over as your core clenches with need, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with desperation.
ânot fair?â he laughs, and the sound is sharp and mean, a blade slicing through the humid air, his eyes glinting with dark amusement, his jaw tightening as he watches your face contort. âwhatâs not fair is how you probably let them touch you, let them think they meant something. but they didnât, did they? they were just practice for me.âÂ
his thumb finally brushes over your clit, just once, and the contact makes you cry outâa broken, desperate sound that echoes off the glass walls, your hips jerking upward, chasing more. he pulls back, watching you squirm with a smile thatâs all teeth, his eyes glinting with satisfaction, his jaw tight as he savors your desperation.
âmy clit,â you sob, beyond caring about dignity, tears spilling freely, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with need. âplease touch my clit, please, iâll tell you whatever you wantââ your voice is raw, trembling, and your core clenches with need.
âgood girl,â he purrs, but thereâs something twisted in the praise, his eyes narrowing, a faint smirk curling his lips as he watches your face contort. âsee how easy it is when youâre honest? when you stop pretending to be something youâre not?â
finally, finally his thumb presses against your clit properly, and the sensation makes you keenâa high, desperate sound that you donât recognize as coming from your own throat. he starts with slow, deliberate circles, his thumb grinding against your swollen clit with cruel precision, dragging across the sensitive nerves, each motion sending jagged bolts of pleasure through your core.
his fingers tease your dripping pussy, sliding through your slick folds with a taunting drag, collecting your arousal as your hips jerk, desperate for more of his merciless touch.
âoh god,â you gasp, hips bucking against his hand involuntarily. the sound of your wetness is obscene in the quiet villa, slick and desperate, echoing off the glass walls. your cunt clenches, aching for him to fill it, as his thumb shifts to sharp, rapid taps, then slow, punishing drags that make your thighs quiver, your clit pulsing under his cruel attention.
âlouder,â he commands, pressing harder on your clit, his thumb scraping across it with a vicious flick, sending a white-hot jolt through your body that makes you whimper, your breath catching in your throat. âwant to hear every sound you make. want to memorize exactly how you break apart for me.â
but the touch is gone almost immediately, leaving you gasping and clenching around nothing. heâs back to those maddening almost-touches, fingertips trailing through your soaked folds with clinical fascination, teasing your entrance with featherlight strokes that make your cunt ache for more, his movements slow and deliberately cruel.
âso wet already,â he observes, his voice a low, clinical murmur. âsoaking my fingers and weâve barely started. your body just gives you away, doesnât it? doesnât even wait for you to be awake to do what itâs made for. it knows who it belongs to, even when you donât.â
before you can answer, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with an obscene thoroughness that makes you whimper. his eyes never leave yours as his tongue laps at your slickness, swirling over each digit, savoring the taste of your pussy, and the sight is so filthy and intimate that your cunt clenches, a fresh wave of slickness dripping down your thighs.
âsweet,â he says after heâs licked them clean. âeverything about you tastes perfect.â
his hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding through your drenched folds with devastating precision, parting your pussy lips with slow, deliberate drags. the wet sound fills the air, obscene and desperate. he finds your clit and circles it slowly, then switches to quick, vicious taps, building a rhythm that has you writhing beneath him, spine arching off the silk sheets as broken whimpers spill from your lips, your thighs trembling with the intensity of it.
your vision blurs at the edges, the room spinning as pleasure builds like pressure in your skull. you hear yourself making sounds you donât recognizeâbreathless gasps, broken moans, words that might be his name or pleas. but every time you get close to the edge he backs off, switching to lighter, teasing strokes, his fingers grazing your cunt with cruel restraint, leaving you suspended in a limbo of need that feels like drowning.
âplease,â you sob after the third time he brings you to the brink only to pull back, and your voice cracks on the word, raw and desperate. tears stream down your cheeksâwhen did you start crying? âplease, satoru, i canât take this, i canâtââ
âyou can,â he says firmly, and thereâs steel in his voice now, authority that brooks no argument. âyou can take whatever i give you, canât you? my perfect, patient girl.â
he slides one finger inside your aching cunt as he says it, and the intrusion makes you arch with a sharp gasp that echoes off the walls. your body clenches around him involuntarily, desperate for more, as he twists his finger with a vicious grind, dragging against your sensitive inner walls with a cruel, deliberate stroke that sends fire through your core.
the sensation is overwhelmingâhis finger twisting inside your pussy, grinding against that sensitive spot, while his thumb torments your clit with sharp flicks and slow, scraping drags, the dual stimulation shattering your thoughts. you can feel yourself dissolving, the careful walls youâve built around who youâre supposed to be crumbling with each merciless movement of his hand.
âlook at you,â he murmurs, adding a second finger, stretching your cunt with a slow, forceful thrust, then pulling back to stroke shallowly at your entrance before plunging deeper, making you keenâa sound youâve never made before, high and broken and completely involuntary. âfalling apart so beautifully. is this what you wanted when you started your little game? to end up spread out for me, begging?â
the question cuts through the haze of pleasure like a blade. your little game. he knows. of course he knows. but instead of stopping, instead of feeling shame, you just clench tighter around his fingers, chasing the sensation thatâs making everything else fade to static.
âthatâs what I thought,â he says, and thereâs dark satisfaction in his voice as he works you methodically, building toward something that feels bigger than pleasure, something that feels like complete dissolution. âmy perfect little schemer, so good at manipulating everyone else. but you canât manipulate this, can you? canât control how your body responds to me. so loud for me. what would people think if they heard my perfect little schemer now?â
the thought should mortify youâthe villa is isolated but not soundproofâbut instead it makes you moan louder, the idea of being heard, of being claimed so thoroughly that even strangers would know you belong to him.
âyou like that idea,â he observes, and thereâs dark satisfaction in his voice. âlike the thought of people knowing youâre mine.â
he adds a third finger and you keen, back arching off the bed as he stretches your pussy wider than youâve ever been, the sensation teetering between pleasure and pain, your body trembling as it struggles to take him.
he slides his fingers in deep, then pulls back to stroke shallowly, teasing your entrance with quick, brutal thrusts before plunging back in, grinding against your inner walls with a cruel twist.
âgod, youâre so tight,â he says, a note of sharp amusement in his voice. âall those other cocks, and you still feel brand new. did they even count?â the wet sounds are obscene as he works his fingers deeper. âdonât worry. iâll open you up properly. iâll make sure you can take all of me, because youâll have to. this is what you really are when you stop all that clever scheming, isn't it? just a perfect, greedy cunt made for me.â
tears stream down your cheeks freely now, but you canât tell if theyâre from the physical intensity or from something deeperâthe way heâs seeing right through you, stripping away every pretense until thereâs nothing left but raw need and the terrifying realization that you want this, you want him to see you like this.
your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve crackling with electricity, the silk beneath you damp with sweat, your skin flushed and burning despite the ocean breeze. when you try to close your legs instinctively he forces them apart with his free hand, grip firm and possessive, his nails biting into your thigh.
âah, ah, ah,â he chides softly, cruel amusement in his tone. âdonât you dare hide from me. look at youâclenching around my fingers like youâre starving, and you think iâd let you shut those pretty thighs and keep your slutty cunt all to yourself?â
he presses you wider, spreading you obscenely open, his gaze devouring the sight of your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his hand. âbe a good girl and let me see it. every twitch, every little spasm. i want to watch you disgrace yourself.â
the shame floods your chest hot and heavy, but the words only make your walls flutter tighter around him. his breath catches, a low, hungry laugh breaking from his throat. heâs still fully clothed while youâre splayed naked beneath him, and the imbalance feels deliberateâlike a scientist dissecting his favorite specimen, like a god pulling apart something that belongs only to him.
âeyes on me,â he commands when your eyes start to flutter closed, overwhelmed by sensation. âdonât hide it. i want to see every filthy little expression you make.â
you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he works you closer to the edge with surgical precision. his glasses have slipped down his nose, eyes dark with hunger behind the lenses, and thereâs something almost clinical in how he watches youâlike heâs cataloguing every micro-expression, every broken sound that spills from your lips.
your thoughts feel scattered, fragmented. the careful persona youâve built crumbles with each vicious twist and stroke of his fingers, each brutal tap and drag of his thumb. you can feel yourself breaking apart, but instead of fear thereâs only reliefârelief at finally being seen, at having someone strip away all your defenses and want what they find underneath.
"are you about to come?" he asks, his voice losing its heat and taking on a cooler, almost clinical curiosity. his head tilts slightly, glasses slipping just a fraction down his nose as he studies your face like a fascinating experiment.
you can only nod frantically, a pathetic gesture because words have abandoned you entirely. your body is wound so tight you feel like you might shatter, pleasure building like a storm in your core that threatens to sweep away everything you thought you were.
but just as youâre about to tip over the edge, he stops completely. he doesn't just pull his fingers outâhe draws them back with agonizing slowness, leaving your cunt empty and desperately clenching around nothing as a sob tears from your throat. he holds his slick fingers up in the low light, examining them, and you, for a long moment, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
âno,â you cry, reaching for him with shaking hands. âplease, donât stop, i was so closeââ
âi know,â he says, and the smirk widens into a smile thatâs all sharp, beautiful teeth. there is no mercy in his eyes, only a bright, terrible amusement. âbut you donât get to come until i say you can. until i want to watch it happen. understand?â
you nod frantically, tears blurring his triumphant face, desperate to be good for him, to prove you can follow his rules. when his fingers return, they donât plunge back in. they slide through your soaked pussy, tracing lazy, shallow circles at your entrance, a cruel tease that makes you bite your lip so hard you taste copper, trying to hold back the whimper that threatens to escape.
âgood girl,â he murmurs, and the praise is a cold, condescending thing. he begins working you slowly again, building that familiar pressure, his thumb pressing lightly on your clit just to feel it pulse. âsee how pretty you are when you listen?â
but his fingers are so skilled, grinding against that perfect spot inside your cunt with a vicious, practiced twist, and your body betrays you despite your best efforts. you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, muscles tensing, breathing growing ragged as he works you with relentless precision, his own breathing staying perfectly even. heâs not even close to losing control.
ânot yet,â he warns, the words a low murmur, but his fingers donât stop their devastating rhythm. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. âhold it. i want to see you try.â
you tryâgod, you try so hard to be perfect for him, clenching your jaw and fists, your whole body a taut wire of resistance against the rising tide of sensation. but he feels you failing. he knows your body better than you do. he shifts his angle just slightly, grinding his fingers with a cruel, knowing precision against that spot that makes you see stars, and your control shatters completely.
the orgasm crashes over you without permission, a violent, tearing wave that rips a raw scream from your throat. you feel yourself gush around his fingers, a hot, shameful flood of wetness soaking his hand, the silk sheets, your thighs, as your body convulses with a pleasure so intense it feels like a punishment. your cunt pulses wildly, desperately, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
for a moment you canât even think, only ride it out, mouth falling open on a strangled, broken cry as your body betrays you completely. your vision whites out, your thighs tremble and knock together, every nerve lit with an unbearable, agonizing release.
then, when it finally ebbs, the horror rushes inâicy, sharp, slicing through the haze. you see the mess, a dark stain on the pristine sheets, feel the way his fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, and the shame is so thick it clogs your throat.
âoh,â you gasp, voice raw, trembling with a pathetic, panicked energy. âoh no, iâiâm sorry, i didnât mean toââ
when you finally force yourself to look up at his face, the expression there makes your blood freeze. thereâs no anger. itâs worse. itâs a mask of cold, theatrical disappointment, but underneath it, his eyes are glittering with a bright, terrible satisfaction. a tiny muscle is twitching in his jaw, not with rage, but with the effort of holding back a triumphant smile. he is enjoying this. he is feeding on it.
âwhat did i just tell you?â his voice is quiet, a deadly calm that feels louder than a shout. he doesn't move his fingers, just lets them rest inside you, a heavy, damning presence. âi gave you one, simple rule. what was it?â
âi tried,â you whisper, fresh tears of humiliation spilling over, hot against your skin. âi tried so hard, i promiseââ
âclearly not hard enough.â he pulls his fingers out abruptly, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. he leaves your cunt clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined silk. the sudden emptiness, the cold air on your wet skin, rips a whine from your throat before you can stop it, high and needy, shameful in its desperation.
he clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and deliberately condescending. âlisten to you,â he drawls, his gaze dropping to the mess between your legs, then back to your face. âwhining like a desperate slut the moment i stop touching you. youâve gotten too comfortable, havenât you? too used to me giving you everything you want, following your every whim like some pathetic puppy.â
the words cut deep because thereâs truth in themâyou have gotten used to his devotion, his willingness to spoil you, to treat you like something precious.
âthatâs notââ you start, but he cuts you off with a look so cold it silences you.
âno?â his hand comes up to cup your face, his grip a little too tight, his thumb brushing away your tears with a mock tenderness that makes your skin crawl. âthen why did you just disobey me? why did you take what i told you to wait for? you took it from me.â
you canât answer because heâs rightâyou did take it, couldnât stop yourself from falling over the edge he told you to avoid. your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve raw and exposed, the shame of your failure burning almost as hot as the lingering pleasure.
âspoiled little thing,â he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, almost gentle whisper thatâs somehow more terrifying. he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. âalways so used to getting your way. but thatâs my fault, isnât it? iâve been too lenient with you.â
his other hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding slowly, deliberately through the slickness youâve made, spreading it over your throbbing flesh. you gasp at the sensitivity, your thighs trembling, trying to close them, but his grip on your jaw tightens. everything feels too much, too intense, but when you try to pull away his body just pins you more firmly.
âshh, no running,â he murmurs, his voice deceptively gentle, as if calming a frightened animal. âyour body is just confused. it wants this, remember? you cried when i took it away from you.â he presses a soft kiss to your temple, a gesture completely at odds with the cruelty of his intentions. âyou made a mess by losing control. the consequence is that i have to be in control for you now. just let me.â
he slides two fingers back inside your cunt and you cry outâa sharp, wounded sound. itâs too much too soon after your orgasm, pleasure bordering on a raw, abraded pain as he works you with a cold, clinical precision, grinding against your sensitive inner walls with cruel, deliberate strokes.
but even as you whimper and squirm, he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that isnât gentle at all. itâs a bruising, possessive claiming of your mouth, his teeth scraping your lip as he forces your head back into the pillows, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with yours. he is kissing you to silence you, to own you from both ends at once.
âshh,â he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers twisting inside you with a particularly vicious grind. he feels you flinch. âi know itâs intense, baby. i know it hurts. but you need to learn.â
the contrast is dizzyingâhis fingers punishing and relentless, twisting inside your pussy until you see spots, while his mouth moves with a soft, sweet thoroughness against yours, tasting your tears and your panic. itâs cruel and loving and completely confusing, making your already fractured thoughts scatter further.
âplease,â you sob against his lips, the word muffled and broken, not even sure what youâre begging for anymore.
âplease what?â he asks, pulling his mouth away just enough to watch your face as he adds a third finger, stretching your cunt so painfully you keen, your back arching off the bed. his eyes are dark, hungry, fascinated by the tears welling up again. âplease stop? please more? you need to be clearer, sweetheart.â
but you canât be clearer because you donât know what you want except for this feeling to never end, for him to keep kissing you while he takes you apart, for the terrible sweet contradiction of pain and pleasure and love all tangled together.
âyou want to come?â he growls, his voice gone completely dark, the mask of disappointment replaced with raw, unveiled hunger. âthen fucking take it. show me how completely you can lose yourself for me. letâs see you break.â
the orgasm slams into you like lightning, so intense that you actually scream, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. your body convulses around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you, your cunt pulsing wildly, soaking his hand again and again. youâre dimly aware of sobbing, not quietly, but in huge, ugly, gulping breaths, tears streaming down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of it all.
but he doesnât stop. his fingers keep moving, grinding that spot inside your pussy while your body tries to recover, the overstimulation so intense it borders on a sharp, burning pain, each new spasm a fresh agony of pleasure.
âtoo much,â you gasp, pushing at his wrist. he answers by bringing your own hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles even as his fingers inside you twist with a cruel, deliberate pressure.
âoh, but there is,â he whispers against your skin, his smile predatory and pleased. âthereâs so much more to give you. i love it when you sound like this. youâre so pretty when you cry for me.â
and that one wordâprettyâis the final, beautiful nail in the coffin. it takes the shame of your tears, the humiliation of your broken sobs, and transforms it into an offering.
itâs not a sign of your failure to control yourselfâitâs a sign of your success at finally pleasing him in the purest way possible. the realization lands not with a crash, but with a quiet, devastating click of acceptance. and the worst part, the most damning truth of it all, is how much you like it. how right it feels to not just be seen in this state of utter ruin, but to be praised for it. to be completely, utterly undone, and to finally be called beautiful for it.
âone more for me,â he tells you, his voice a soft, instructional murmur as his hand shifts, adding a fourth finger that stretches your cunt so wide you can barely breathe, a sharp, burning tear of sensation that makes you gasp. âletâs see if we can get you past thinking. thatâs where youâll be prettiest, i know it. when itâs just pure feeling, and all of it is for me.â
the stretch is intense, almost painful, but your body adapts with a shocking, humiliating ease, your pussy gripping him tightly, slick and needy. like you really were made for this, made to take whatever he wants to give you.
âthatâs it,â he praises, but the sound is less a compliment and more a satisfied confirmation as you adjust to the intrusion. he starts moving his fingers again, a slow, deep rhythm. âsee how easy it is when you stop fighting your nature? you just needed someone to show you what you were really for. to be taken like this. to be mine.â
his thumb, slick with your wetness, finds your clit again and youâre already spiraling toward another orgasm, body wound so tight you can barely stand it, the sensation spreading through you like molten gold, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged.
âplease,â you sob, the word a constant, broken refrain, not even sure what youâre begging for anymore. release, more pressure, for him to stop, for him to never stopâeverything blurs together in a haze of sensation.
âplease what?â he asks, his voice gone soft again, but it's a terrifying softness, a gentle tone despite the relentless, punishing grind of his fingers. he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. âwhat do you need, beautiful?â
âyou,â you gasp, the admission ripped from the deepest part of you. âneed you inside me, need all of you, pleaseââ
his groan is a physical thing, a crack in the careful facade he wears, and the sound vibrates right through you, a low, guttural note of surrender that feels like your victory. he pulls his fingers from your cunt and the loss is immediate, a sudden, shocking hollowness that makes you whimper, a small, pathetic sound in the quiet opulence of the villa.
your body, slick and oversensitive, clenches on nothing, a desperate, silent plea that feels humiliating in its intensity. your hips twitch, an involuntary motion, chasing the memory of his touch, of the pressure that was grounding you.
he sheds his clothes with a brutal efficiency thatâs almost frightening, each movement precise and devoid of any wasted energy. itâs not seductiveâitâs a preparation. he doesnât look at you as he unbuttons his shirt, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, as if unwrapping a tool for a specific, delicate job. you can only watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself.
his body is an exercise in contradictionsâbeautiful and terrible, all hard, lean lines and the kind of latent power that hums under the surface. and his cock⌠itâs a heavy, arrogant thing, jutting from his body with a slight upward curve, thicker than youâd let yourself imagine, the veins a stark roadmap across its length, a single, clear bead of precum glistening at the tip.
the sight of it, the sheer, solid fact of it, steals the air from your lungs and makes the ache between your legs sharpen into a painful throb.
he is finally, completely naked, and he turns his full attention to you. he looks at you, and itâs not with affection, not with the soft glow of romance.
itâs with the hungry, consuming patience of a collector who has finally acquired a priceless, one-of-a-kind piece and is now deciding exactly how to display it for maximum impact. your stomach twists, a nauseating, thrilling knot of want and a deep, primal fear. this is the point of no return.
âscared?â he asks, settling between your thighs. the mattress dips significantly under his weight, caging you, the movement slow and deliberate. his cock nudges against your slick folds, a heavy, promising pressure that makes a fresh wave of wetness leak from you, shamefully visible on the dark silk of the sheets.
âno,â you lie, but the word is a breathy, broken thing, lost in the space between you.
âliar,â he says, and the fondness in his voice is sharp, almost cruel, the indulgent tone one might use for a favorite, slightly stupid pet that has just performed a predictable trick. he positions himself, just the thick, crowned head of his cock, pressing into your entrance.
itâs a torturous hint of pressure, a question and a threat all at once, and you find yourself arching into him, a silent, desperate plea your body makes without your permission. âitâs okay to be scared,â he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel from his chest to yours. âitâs okay to want it anyway.â
he pushes in. not with a thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure, a deliberate invasion. itâs an agonizingly slow claiming of territory. the initial stretch is a searing, electric burn that makes you gasp, your nails digging into the silk sheets beside you, twisting the expensive fabric in your fists.
he pauses, letting you feel it, letting your body adjust to the first shocking inch of him, his eyes locked on yours, watching the flicker of pain and pleasure in your expression. then he moves again, another slow, grinding inch, stretching you wider. you can feel your inner walls resisting, then yielding, a slow, hot melting around his impossible width.
itâs a process, a complete remaking of your insides to accommodate him, and by the time he sinks himself to the hilt, your breath is coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
the feeling of him fully inside you is dizzying. a deep, stretching fullness that has finally settled past pain into a profound, grounding pleasure. heâs buried so deep you can feel the solid weight of him against your cervix, a constant, blunt pressure that seems to root you to the bed.
he shifts his hips, a small, grinding motion, and watches, fascinated, as his length creates a slight mound on your lower belly, a visible testament to his possession. his palm comes down to press on it, not hard, but with a firm, proprietary pressure that makes you keen, a high, broken sound. the feeling isn't just fullness anymoreâitâs him, a tangible brand on your body, inside and out.
âfuck,â he breathes, the word a rough vibration against your skin as he lowers his weight onto you. âso tight. like you were designed just for me.â his hands find your hips, his grip bruisingly tight, pinning you to the mattress, anchoring you under him.
you canât answer, canât think. he starts to move, and the rhythm is a slow, grinding punishmentâand with every deliberate, dragging thrust, his other hand grinds against that little mound on your belly.
the sensation is dizzying. you can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, amplified by that relentless, focused pressure from the outside. heâs fucking you from both sides at once, and itâs too much. heâs not just in your cuntâ
heâs in your head, making you hyper-aware of your own body, of how he fills it, of how he is physically altering its shape.
âwerenât you?â he demands, his voice a low growl that seems to echo inside your bones. his thrusts get a fraction deeper, a fraction harder, his cockhead bumping insistently against your cervix.
âyes,â you gasp, the word torn from you on a sob that is equal parts pleasure and surrender. âmade for you.â
thatâs all it takes. something in him snaps. the slow, controlled rhythm is gone, replaced by a frantic, punishing pace that steals your breath and rattles your teeth. he fucks you like heâs trying to erase everything that isnât him, his hand a constant, grounding pressure on your belly, a focal point in the beautiful, chaotic storm heâs creating.
a hot wire of sensation is pulled taut in your gut, and you feel yourself unraveling. his free hand slides down between your slick, colliding bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. he doesn't caress itâhe grinds his thumb into it with the same brutal rhythm as his thrusts, and the world dissolves into white static.
you come with a scream that feels ripped from your soul, your body convulsing around him, a hot gush of release soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you. he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow, just fucks you through the aftershocks with a relentless, punishing rhythm before finally pulling out.
your cunt is dripping, leaving you aching and empty, a ruin of sensation. but he gives you no time to recover. he grabs your arm, flipping you over with an efficient brutality that leaves your head spinning.
âthere you go, beautiful. up on your hands and knees for me,â he coos, his voice soft and hypnotic. âyou fell apart so perfectly just now⌠i think i need to watch it happen from behind. show me how good you can be for me.â
you scramble to obey, your body clumsy and boneless, limbs trembling. you push yourself up, ass high in the air, cunt leaking a mixture of your slickness and his seed onto the pristine silk sheets. the position is inherently degrading, a silent admission of submission.
he doesn't make you wait. he slams back into you from behind, and the angle is so much deeper, so much more raw. it feels like heâs trying to split you in two. your head hits the mattress with a soft thud, a cry of shock and pleasure torn from your throat. one hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back and to the side, forcing you to look at nothing, to feel everything.
his other hand slides down the curve of your spine, over your ass, and then his thumb presses deliberately against the tight, untouched pucker of your anus.
you flinch, your whole body going rigid. the touch is so alien, so invasive, itâs a jolt of pure shock to your system. itâs not sexual, not at first. itâs clinical. an assessment.
he leans in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a low, filthy caress. âoh?â he murmurs, his tone laced with a dark, mocking amusement that makes your skin crawl as he notices the untouched pucker of your anus. âwhatâs this?â
his other hand, still slick with your cunt's juices from moments ago, slides from your hip and deliberately smears that wetness over your ass, making it easy for his thumb to glide over the sensitive skin. âa little bit of unexplored territory?âÂ
the feeling of your own juices being used to lubricate a place you've never associated with pleasure is a deeply humiliating, confusing thrill. âdon't worry," he whispers, his thumb pressing lightly, insistently, against the tight ring of muscle, making you flinch. "at least you saved this little ass-pussy for me. we'll get to it later. i like knowing there's still a part of you i get to be the first to ruin."
the shame is a hot flush that floods your entire body, from your scalp to your toes. but itâs twisted with a sick, thrilling arousal that makes your cunt clench violently around his cock. he feels it, and his laugh becomes a low, cruel rumble against your back as he starts to fuck you in earnest.
his thumb doesnât try to enter, just circles the sensitive opening, a constant, humiliating reminder of a boundary he could cross at any moment, of a part of you he has now seen and catalogued and commented on. it makes every thrust feel dirtier, more illicit. the sheer wrongness of the sensation, the slick glide of his thumb over a place youâve never associated with pleasure, sends a confusing, short-circuiting signal to your brain.
your eyes well up with tears of humiliation and overstimulation. a single, hot tear escapes and traces a path down your temple into your hairline. he sees it. you feel the rhythm of his fucking change, becoming harder, faster, more desperate.
âoh, look at that,â he breathes, his voice thick with a strange, new excitement. his hand leaves your hair and comes around to cup your jaw, his thumb roughly wiping at the wet track on your skin. âa different kind of tear. this oneâs from shame, isnât it? itâs even prettier than the others. does it upset you, being treated like this? does it make you feel like the little slut you are? show me how much.â
he fucks you harder with each question, a brutal, punishing rhythm that drives the air from your lungs. the head of his cock slams into your cervix again and again, making you see spots, a dizzying, painful pleasure thatâs already pushing you toward an edge you donât want.
and all the while, his thumb continues its own separate, maddening torment at your rear. itâs no longer just circlingâit presses, nudges, a deliberate, insistent question against the tight, untouched pucker of your asshole that sends confusing sparks of sensation through your overstimulated body.
a choked sob breaks from your lips, a sound of pure protest, your body trying to recoil from the sheer sensory overload. âsatoru, pleaseââ
âshh, i know,â he murmurs, his voice going deceptively soft, even as his hips continue their punishing rhythm. âitâs new, isnât it? youâre not protesting the feeling, beautiful, youâre just scared of how much youâre going to like it. is that it? are you scared of the slut iâm about to make you?â
the raw angle, the punishing depth, and that strange, insistent pressure is too much. you come again, and itâs not a release; itâs a rupture. a messy, sobbing orgasm that feels dirtier, more debased than the last. your face is pressed into the silk sheets, the sound muffled to a pathetic, wet keening as your body convulses around his relentless invasion.
you feel him shudder behind you, a deep, guttural groan vibrating through his body into yours, his own pleasure clearly peaking in direct, parasitic response to your distress. he feeds on this.
he doesnât stop. he doesn't even try to acknowledge your climax. he just keeps going, his pace never slowing, fucking you through the lingering, hypersensitive spasms and beyond. heâs pushing you past pleasure now, into something else, something raw and overstimulated where every nerve ending is screaming in a language you donât understand. he refuses you any reprieve.
he pulls back just enough for his thumb to slide down, deliberately gathering the slickness that has gushed from you. you feel the wet, humiliating glide as he smears it over your ass, and your breath hitches on a fresh wave of shame. he's using your own arousal to prepare you for a new violation.
âso wet for me,â he murmurs, his thumb now circling the slick, sensitive ring of your asshole. âletâs put it to good use.â
he teases you, the tip of his thumb pressing against the tight entrance, then retreating, again and again. you squirm, a broken whimper escaping your lips. âno, please, donâtââ
âdonât what?â he whispers, his voice dropping into a silky, dangerous purr. âdonât make you feel good? donât show you what you really want?â
he ignores your pleas. his thumb presses forward, insistent and slow. the shock of it is a white-hot flash behind your eyes. the tight, resisting muscle gives way to his invasion, a slick, intrusive pressure that feels utterly alien. heâs inside you in two places at once, stretching you, filling you, claiming you in a way that feels absolute and irreversible. a strangled gasp tears from your throat, your nails digging into the sheets.
he doesnât just leave it there. he begins to move it, a slow, grinding rotation inside you that mirrors the relentless pumping of his cock. itâs a dual assault that makes your mind white out. you are nothing but a collection of violated holes, filled and used and stretched for his pleasure.
âgod, youâre so perfect like this,â he whispers, his voice a raw, desperate plea against your ear, his breath hot against your tear-soaked skin. âso open for me, so completely broken. donât you dare hold anything back now. let me have every last beautiful, shattered piece of you.â
and thatâs when he pulls your head back again by a fistful of your hair, yanking you up from the sheets and forcing you to look at him over your shoulder.
his face is flushed a dark, mottled red, his pupils blown so wide and black behind his glasses that thereâs no blue left at all. itâs an expression of ravenous, almost painful need, his jaw tight, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a faint snarl. he looks like heâs starving, and your tears, your pain, your complete and utter violationâthis is the only thing that can feed him.
the sight is terrifying and deeply, addictively flattering. he wants your pain. he wants your surrender. he wants to ruin you.
and seeing that, seeing the raw, desperate hunger on his face that you, and only you, have caused⌠it flips a switch deep inside you. the fear doesnât vanishâit alchemizes into a dark, roaring wave of excitement. this is power. making him look like this. a hot, coiling pressure builds low in your belly, sharp and urgent, a pleasure so intense itâs almost unbearable. you can feel a different kind of climax building, something deeper and more catastrophic.
your sob changes, the note of protest gone, replaced by a raw, hungry need that matches his. âsatoruâŚâ
he sees it in your eyes. he sees the shift. a slow, triumphant, predatory smile spreads across his face. âthatâs it,â he growls, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. âbeg for it.â
he watches your eyes as he grinds his thumb deeper inside you, twisting it with a vicious skill that makes you cry out, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. he fucks into you with a new ferocity, chasing the feeling, chasing your breakdown. and as he hits you just right, your eyes locked with his triumphant, hungry gaze, your body unravels completely.
your orgasm is a delugeâa hot, uncontrollable gush of fluid bursts from you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his cock, the sound of it a shocking, obscene splash in the quiet room. your body convulses violently, a pure, physical capitulation that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with surrender.
he finally pulls out, and before you can fully collapse onto the bed, heâs hauling you up by your arms. youâre pliant, boneless in his grip, a doll for him to position. he drags you, stumbling, toward the wall of glass that overlooks the dark, endless ocean.
âturn around,â he orders, his voice flat, devoid of the passion of a moment ago. itâs a command.
you obey, your legs shaking so hard you can barely stand. you press your hands and forehead against the cool, smooth glass. the immediate chill is a shock against your overheated skin. the room behind you is warmly lit, turning the glass into a near-perfect, one-way mirror reflecting the debauched scene, while also offering a terrifyingly clear view into the vast, empty darkness outside.
it feels like being on a stage, lit for an audience that may or may not be there.
he enters you again from behind, one smooth, brutal thrust that has you crying out, your voice muffled against the glass, your palms slapping against the cool surface. he grabs your hips, pulling you back hard against him, and begins to fuck you against the wall. your breath fogs the surface in front of your face, obscuring your own reflection for a moment before it clears.
he leans in close, his voice a low growl by your ear, his words designed to dismantle you further. âanyone could be out there. a boat. someone on the beach of the next island. theyâd see this perfect little picture. theyâd see the lights of this pretty glass box, and theyâd see you, bent over, taking my cock like a good girl.â
your face twists in the reflection, shame and heat collidingâeyes wet, brows drawn tight, your lips trembling around a broken moan you canât hold back. your thighs clench, betraying the way your body seizes on his words, the humiliating pulse of pleasure sparking even harder at the thought of being seen.
behind you, his form is a powerful shadow, his expression unreadable, his movements relentless and efficient. heâs railing you, the motion hard, almost impersonal, using your body against the wall, the rhythmic, wet thud of your flesh a crude counterpoint to the gentle, indifferent sound of the waves outside. the sound is obscene, a wet, slapping noise that echoes slightly in the cavernous room.
âyou love it,â he states, not a question. his hands leave your hips and slide up your stomach, his fingers spreading out possessively over your skin, a brief, almost tender touch before one hand moves down, his fingers dipping into the slickness between your legs. âlove being my filthy little slut on display for the whole world.â
heâs not wrong. the thought of being seen, the sheer, terrifying exposure of it, is the most potent aphrodisiac yet. his fingers find your clit, and the touch is no longer teasing. itâs a harsh, demanding friction, a punishment and a reward all at once, perfectly synced to his ruthless thrusts.
âtell me,â he commands, his voice rough in your ear as he fucks you harder, faster, your reflection a chaotic blur of motion. âtell me what you are.â
âyours,â you sob, the word ripped from a place deep inside you, a place that has finally given up fighting. âiâm yours, iâm your slut, i love it, i loveââ
you canât finish. your final climax is upon you, a tidal wave that promises to drag you under for good. your entire world narrows to the feeling of his cock filling you, his fingers on your clit, your own debased reflection in the glass, and the vast, indifferent darkness beyond.
your orgasm feels like a dissolution, a complete coming apart at the seams. you scream into the glass as you come, a long, ragged sound of pure surrender that fogs the glass one last time.
you feel him follow you over the edge, his own guttural roar lost against your back as he floods you with his release, his body shuddering violently against yours, his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping you pinned against the glass.
you collapse against the wall, boneless and shaking, held up only by his arms still wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep inside. for a long time, thereâs only the sound of your ragged breaths, the distant wash of the ocean, and the slick, cooling feel of sweat and glass against your skin.
you try to remember who you were before this night, before him, but that person is a ghost, a stranger you barely recognize. the woman in the reflection, marked and claimed and utterly, irrevocably debauched, is the only real thing left.
âbeautiful,â he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice soft now, almost reverent, as if observing a piece of art he has just finished creating. âutterly fucking perfect. look at you. finally looking like what you are. mine.â
he carries you back to the bed, settling you against the silk sheets with gentle hands that are completely at odds with how thoroughly he just took you apart. when he disappears into the bathroom you expect relief, a moment to collect yourself.
instead you feel hollow, incomplete without him inside you, filling you, claiming you. the emptiness where he used to be throbs like phantom pain, your body already mourning the loss of his possession.
he returns with a warm cloth, and the sight of him makes something desperate and pathetic unfurl in your chest. beautiful and terrible in the dim light, moving with the confident grace of someone who knows he owns everything he surveysâincluding you. his touch is reverent now as he cleans you, worshipful, but thereâs ownership in every stroke of the cloth against your oversensitive skin.
âhow do you feel?â he asks, settling beside you with that careful precision that never looks calculated but always is. his fingers find your pulse point, and you wonder if heâs measuring your heartbeat like he measures everything else about youâcataloguing, analyzing, filing away for future use.
âbroken,â you whisper, and the word tastes like bitter recognition. broken because you built this trap yourself, baited it with lies and manipulation, then walked right into it. you created the monster thatâs now devouring you, fed it exactly what it needed to grow strong enough to consume you completely.
the girl who started this con three weeks ago feels like a stranger nowâsomeone so arrogant she thought she could control a man like satoru gojo and walk away unchanged. someone who deserved exactly what she got.
the tears start without warning, hot and shameful as they track down your cheeks. youâre crying for the person you used to be, the one who thought she was clever enough to play this game and win. crying for every choice that brought you here, every moment you chose the drug of his devotion over your own freedom. crying because you know, with crystal clarity, that given the chance to do it over, youâd make the same choices again.
âgood broken or bad broken?â his fingers trace patterns on your skin, soothing and possessive, each touch a reminder that heâs mapped every inch of you now. claimed it all. thereâs genuine curiosity in his voice, but underneath it something hungrierâthe need to know heâs succeeded in rewriting you completely.
âi donât know yet,â you admit through the tears, voice barely audible. and you donât, because the person who would have known the differenceâthe person who started this conâfeels like someone you murdered with your own greed.
his expression shifts as he watches you cry, and thereâs something almost fond in the way he observes your breakdown. like a parent watching their child finally learn a difficult lesson.
âoh, sweetheart,â he murmurs, thumb catching your tears with genuine tenderness that somehow makes it worse. âshh, itâs okay. let it all out.â his voice is pure comfort, warm honey that soothes even as it suffocates. âmy beautiful girl, crying because you finally see how perfect this all is.â
the loving condescension makes you sob harder, ugly broken sounds that he seems to find endearing. he coos softly, gathering you closer against his chest like youâre something precious and fragile.
âthere we go,â he whispers, pressing gentle kisses to your hairline. âjust feel it, baby. feel how good it is to finally stop fighting what you were always meant to be.â his fingers stroke through your hair with infinite patience, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to break completely.
âyouâre so pretty when you cry for me,â he continues, voice thick with adoration that makes your chest ache. âso honest. this is the real you, isnât it? not the calculating little actress, just my sweet girl who needs to be taken care of.â
his words are a lullaby designed to lull you into surrender, each one wrapped in such genuine affection that you canât help but lean into the comfort heâs offering.
he pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like heâs trying to hold you together, and for a moment you just exist in the warm aftermath of your own destruction. but your mind feels scattered, thoughts fragmenting every time you try to focus on anything other than the feeling of being held, claimed, owned so completely by someone who saw through you from day one.
âyou know,â he says after a while, voice casual but with an undertone that makes your pulse quicken, âwe donât have to go back.â
the words take a moment to penetrate the haze clouding your thoughts, your brain still drunk on the lingering echoes of pleasure and shame. when they do register, they hit like ice water, shocking you into something resembling alertness.
âwhat?â your voice comes out smaller than intended, already shrinking from the possibility of disappointing him with the wrong response.
âto the real world,â he clarifies, fingers still tracing those hypnotic patterns that make it so hard to think clearly. âwe could stay here. in paradise. just you and me, no distractions, no responsibilities. wouldnât that be perfect?â
there it is againâthat word thatâs become both promise and threat. perfect. the standard youâre expected to maintain, the role youâre required to perform for someone whoâs been directing this entire play from the beginning.
the idea should terrify youâgiving up everything, everyone, your entire lifeâbut instead it sounds like relief. like finally stopping the exhausting performance of being a whole person when all you want is to be his perfect thing.
âstay here?â you repeat, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. as if speaking them makes them real, makes the possibility concrete rather than just another move in his elaborate chess game.
âforever,â he confirms, and thereâs something dark and satisfied in his voice that makes your stomach clench with equal parts fear and arousal. âlet me take care of you completely. let me give you everything you deserve. youâd never have to think about anything else again.â
never have to think. the offer is tempting in ways that terrify you, because thinking has become so difficult lately. every thought has to be weighed against his preferences, measured against his expectations, filtered through the lens of what will make him happy. it would be so much easier to just... stop.
âi...â you start, then stop, struggling to form coherent thoughts when his fingers are doing that thing again, tracing patterns that short-circuit your ability to focus on anything but him. âbut i canât just disappear. people will worry, my jobââ
something flickers across his face, fast as lightning but unmistakable. the warmth drains from his expression like someone switching off a light, leaving his features cold and sharp. his hand stills against your skin completely, the loss of that gentle touch feeling like abandonment.
âpeople will worry?â he repeats, voice flat and emotionless in a way that makes your blood freeze. heâs not looking at you with love anymoreâheâs looking at you like youâre a problem that needs solving. âwhat people? name one person whoâs called you in the past two weeks. one person whoâs actually noticed youâve been busy.â
the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, because you both know you canât. the realization hits like a physical blowâyou are completely alone, completely dependent on him, and he knows it.
âthatâs what i thought,â he says, and thereâs something cruel in his smile now. not the loving indulgence youâve grown addicted to, but something sharp and dismissive. âyouâre worried about a job that underpays you? an apartment thatâs falling apart? a life so meaningless you had to create elaborate fantasies just to feel important?â
each word is designed to cut, delivered without the gentle cushioning of affection youâve come to expect. youâre just another disappointment now, another person whoâs failed to appreciate what heâs offering. the shift is so sudden, so complete, that you feel like youâre drowning.
âno,â you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it. thereâs still some tiny spark of defiance left, some piece of who you used to be that refuses to be completely erased. âno, i... i had a life. i had things that matteredââ
his laugh is soft and utterly without warmth. âdid you? because from where iâm sitting, you spent your whole pathetic existence desperate for someone to notice you. to make you feel special. and the moment someone finally did, you clung to it like a drowning person clings to driftwood.â
the words hit like physical blows because theyâre true, every devastating syllable. but that small flame of resistance flickers stubbornly in your chest, making you lift your chin even as tears stream down your face.
âmaybe thatâs true,â you manage, voice shaking but determined. âbut it was still mine. my choice, my life, myââ
âyours?â he interrupts, and now thereâs genuine amusement in his voice, the kind reserved for children saying foolish things. âsweetheart, nothing about you has been yours for weeks. your thoughts, your preferences, your daily routineâiâve been shaping all of it. you just didnât notice because i made you feel good about it.â
the casual dismissal, the complete absence of the devotion youâve grown dependent on, sends panic racing through your system. this is what happens when you disappoint himâyou stop being special, stop being precious, become just another annoyance to be managed.
âplease,â the word falls from your lips like a prayer, desperate and broken. âi didnât meanâi justââ
and just like that, the warmth returns to his eyes like sunrise after the longest night. his hand finds your cheek again, thumb brushing away tears with infinite gentleness, and the relief is so overwhelming you nearly sob with it.
âoh, my beautiful girl,â he murmurs, voice thick with love and understanding. âi know youâre scared. change is frightening, even when itâs good for you.â his touch is reverent now, worshipful, everything youâve been craving. âbut fighting me only makes it harder. you know that, donât you?â
âi mean,â you nod quickly, voice getting smaller, more desperate to fix whatever youâve broken, âmaybe... maybe youâre right. maybe thereâs nothing really worth going back to.â
âthatâs my perfect girl,â he murmurs, his voice overflowing with genuine pride and adoration that makes warmth bloom in your chest despite everything. heâs looking at you like youâve just given him the most precious gift in the world. âsee? a beautiful thing isnât meant to struggle so hard. you were made to be cherished, to be taken care of. itâs so much easier this way, isnât it?â
âit is easy,â you whisper, the words feeling both foreign and terribly true at the same time. you lean into his touch, a silent plea for more of that warmth. âitâs so much easier than fighting.â
his breath hitches, and he gathers you closer, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your temple. âof course it is, beautiful,â he says, his voice thick with emotion. âiâll always make it easy for you. thatâs my only job now.â
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. âwe could extend our stay,â he continues, the idea sounding less like a question and more like a foregone conclusion. âjust a few more weeks at first. see how it feels. and if itâs everything i know it will beâŚâ he trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke.
a small, panicked thought about your job, your apartment, your entire life, flickers and dies in your mind. it doesn't matter. nothing matters as much as keeping that coldness out of his eyes.
âif it would make you happy,â you hear yourself say, the words a perfect echo of the person he wants you to be. âthen i want to stay.â
the effect is immediate and overwhelming. his entire expression softens into one of pure, unadulterated adoration. he looks completely undone by you. âoh, baby,â he breathes, his fingers tangling in your hair with a devotion that feels like worship. âyou have no idea. hearing you say that⌠itâs all iâve ever wanted.â he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. âmy sweet, perfect girl. you always know exactly what i need to hear.â
he pulls back, his fingers now carding through your hair with such tender devotion that you feel yourself melting into his touch, your body going pliant against his. âno more worrying about anything except being happy with me. doesnât that sound wonderful, sweetheart?â
heâs asking for the final nail. the last little bit of surrender. he wants to hear you say that this gilded cage heâs offering is a paradise.
âyes,â you breathe, turning your face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand, a gesture of pure, instinctual submission. âit sounds wonderful.â
he closes his hand gently, as if capturing the kiss, and brings your knuckles to his lips. his smile is radiant, beautiful, and completely, utterly triumphant. âand iâll make it perfect for you,â he promises, his voice a low, final vow against your skin. âalways. iâll take care of everythingâcanceling your flight, extending the villa, handling anything back home that needs handling. you donât have to worry about any of it.â
handling anything back home. the phrase sends a chill down your spine even as relief floods through you. what exactly will he be handling? how much of your old life will still exist when you finally decide to return to it? but the questions feel distant, unimportant when weighed against the overwhelming comfort of not having to think, not having to make decisions, not having to be responsible for anything except existing in his orbit.
âjust rest now,â he says, pulling the silk sheets up around you both with practiced ease. his movements are sure, confident, like heâs done this beforeâguided someone through the transition from person to possession with the patience of someone who genuinely loves the process. âtomorrow weâll start planning our forever.â
forever. the word should sound romantic, should make your heart flutter with excitement. instead, it sounds like a life sentence, beautiful and inescapable. but even that thought feels distant, muffled by the warmth of his arms and the lingering understanding that you brought this on yourself.
as you drift toward sleep in his embrace, you canât escape the recognition of whatâs happeningâthat youâre disappearing, dissolving into his want until thereâs nothing left of who you used to be. the girl who thought she could manipulate satoru gojo is gone, replaced by something smaller and more manageable, something that exists purely for his pleasure and entertainment.
youâre becoming his perfect thing, his ideal woman, his masterpiece. and the most terrifying part isnât that itâs happeningâitâs that you want it to. that the slow erasure of your identity feels like coming home rather than dying, like finally accepting what you were always meant to become.
outside, the ocean whispers its endless song, and you let it carry you deeper into paradise, deeper into the beautiful cage heâs built around your heart with such loving patience. somewhere in the distance, you can hear the sound of doors closing, bridges burning, escape routes disappearing one by one.
but youâre too tired to care, too drunk on his devotion to fight against the current pulling you under. tomorrow youâll wake up a little less yourself and a little more his, and the day after that even more so, until thereâs nothing left but the shape heâs carved out for you to fill.
youâre exactly where you belong, and the thought no longer terrifies you. it feels like accepting a truth youâve been running from your entire lifeâthat you were always meant to be owned, cherished, completely possessed by someone strong enough to see through your games and patient enough to let you destroy yourself.
you close your eyes and let yourself sink into his embrace, no longer pretending you donât notice how the tide keeps pulling you further from shore. you built this prison yourself, brick by brick, lie by lie, and now you get to live in it forever.
tomorrow heâll want you again, and youâll give yourself over just as completely. the day after that too, and the day after that, until thereâs nothing left of who you used to be except the vague memory of someone who thought she could play games with a god and win.
but tonight, in the darkness of paradise, you let yourself admit the truth youâve been avoiding: you donât want to escape.
you want to drown in the beautiful inevitability of what youâve become.
the girl who started this con is dead, and you killed her yourself. whatâs left is not a grifter or a goddess but a bird who forgot the sky. a creature born to fly, wings sharp and restless, who chose instead to fold herself neatly into the cage she built herself. because the cage is warm. because the cage is soft. because in spite of your nature, you will stay here forever, perfect and broken, as long as he keeps it comfortable enough.
athy says, and thatâs a wrap! if you made it this far, congratulations, youâre just as sick as i am and i love you for it. this story is basically my love letter to the works of OrangeButt73, and it was kept alive by the absolutely feral asks from dove anon. (iâm too much of a ball of anxiety and confusion to gift this properly, so if you two see this, just know youâre the fuel for this entire dumpster fire and i adore you both) feel free to absolutely lose your minds and scream in the comments, i will be reading every single one with a glass of wine and a sick, satisfied smile. this fic was a complete and utter passion project, if you know what i mean ;) thank you for reading!! <3
â°â⤠summary ; you were nervous to say the least. Your dearest owner, idrilla insisted on you staying at their friend, nanook's place for 3 whole months while they are away for a business trip. Kinda suspicous dont ya think??? You would've been fine by it, but the problem is... nanook owns 3 dog hybrids.
( @ ) Triplets au inspired by @box-artist and hybrid au from @podokrys
( â ) My horny ass has been fantasizing about phainon and his other version of himself, and I haven't seen many fics about them, so I'm gonna write a fic WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS.
CHAPTERS
CHAPTER I â âI DON'T WANT TO GO!â
CHAPTER II â âFIRST MEETINGâ
CHAPTER III â âIS IT JUST ME OR IS IT GETTING HOT IN HERE?â
CHARACTERS (SEPERATE ENDINGS)
I. PHAINON samoyed â sub-ish phainon , knotting , breeding , mating press , marking , slight yandere behavior , cockwarming.... etc.
II. FLAME REAVER wolf dog â soft sex , slight angst , knotting , breeding , lots of kissing , comfort , marking , aftercare.... etc.
III. KHASLANA great pyrenees â brat taming , marking , rough sex , knotting , breeding , different sex position , possessive khaslana , cockwarming.... etc.
SPECIALS
âAT THE SAME DAMN TIME !â â foursome , NSFW , Double penetration , double knotting , blowjob... etc.
LORE & ART
Appearance in the series
Roles of the dog hybrids â Yandere themes , fluff , reaver and khas being creepy , alone time doesn't exist in phainon's world , crack short fic
How Nanook got the hybrids , Are they related or not?
Nanook's reaction to the situation â Yandere themes , mentions of violence
Who gets hissed/swatted the most? â Yandere themes , attempted declawing
Phainon's crime against color theory (+ COOL ART)
Are phailings jealous of each other?
Phailings' relationship with Nanook
Phailings' favorite places in the farm
Reader's attempt at hiding and failing miserably (+ COOL ART)
Nanook tries to punish reader and Phailing's reaction
Nanook finally steps in
Nanook becoming somewhat reader's fav?
Reader getting injured (not really)
Reader stalking phailings out of spite
randomly snuggling the doggies
Cool ideas by anon â part2
Maine coon reader â NSFW
weird cat sleeping positions
Phailings' and kids
loafing on the phailings
Appearance in the series
Roles of the dog hybrids â Yandere themes , fluff , reaver and khas being creepy , alone time doesn't exist in phainon's world , crack short fic
How Nanook got the hybrids , Are they related or not?
Nanook's reaction to the situation â Yandere themes , mentions of violence
Who gets hissed/swatted the most? â Yandere themes , attempted declawing
Phainon's crime against color theory (+ COOL ART)
Are phailings jealous of each other?
Phailings' relationship with Nanook
Phailings' favorite places in the farm
Reader's attempt at hiding and failing miserably (+ COOL ART)
Nanook tries to punish reader and Phailing's reaction
Nanook finally steps in
Nanook becoming somewhat reader's fav?
Reader getting injured (not really)
Reader stalking phailings out of spite
randomly snuggling the doggies
Cool ideas by anon â part2
Maine coon reader â NSFW
weird cat sleeping positions
Phailings' and kids
loafing on the phailings
first interaction
Nanook as protection
( â ) Well as much as I love all 3 of them being a samoyed, I kinda want to change it a little. ALSO, keep in mind, there might be some changes in this post, especially the description of each characters! EXPECT SLOW UPDATES (SORRY)
đ°ynopsis â° pierrot is frustrated with how difficult his dearest is to stalk. youâre closed off and vague when it comes to details about yourself, especially your occupation. one evening, pierrot decides to follow you to work â and is flustered when this endeavor leads him to the entrance of a strip club.
đ ŕŁŞË Ö´ÖśđŞ ŕžŕ˝˛ŕž pierrot x fem!stripper!reader
â ď¸ đontent đarning sexual content ahead, porn with plot, stalking, biting, reader works at a strip club, size difference, oral sex (f!receiving), penetration, tummy bulge, pierrot is a little pathetic and reader is a little mean.
đ\đ been obsessed with playing the freak circus lately so i used my lurker account just to post this idea i had for pierrot đ maybe iâll write a version for harlequin too. enjoy :3
the warm september sun was blaring at the height of the clear midday sky on the day pierrot met you.
he was tasked with hanging flyers out around market street in town. heâd ignored the looks and the whispers of every passerby. it meant nothing to him.
most people didnât do more than whisper and stare anyways. it took a lot of guts to confront a man who stood at six foot five inches, regardless of what he was wearing. but someone had just enough guts on that beautiful day.
next thing pierrot knew, his flyers were knocked from his grasp and he was on the floor, scrapes tarnishing the surface of his mask.
ever since you freaks showed up, people have been disappearing!
we donât want you here! go back to whatever shithole you crawled out of!
get out of our city!
he just sat there and took it. the man would tire himself out eventually, in the meantime pierrot would have to endure the insults he slung as he kicked him while he was already down.
that was when he heard it. you stood above him like a goddess personified.
thatâs enough, donât you think? heâs not even fighting back.
you hadnât known it at the time, but your decision to stop and intervene sealed your fate.
whatever, lady! i hope they take you next! the man snarled at you, waving his hand at you aggressively as he stomped off.
pierrot watched as you let out an annoyed sigh before turning to look down at him. he admired your cool composure.
you told him to ignore the man. you helped him pick up his flyers and even offered him a band-aid! for your kindness, pierrot gifted you with a special red ticket to the circus of horrors.
your words as you departed replayed in his head all night like a broken record.
try to stay out of trouble.
and he tried. really, he did.
but when you showed up to the circus that night and watched him perform, he couldnât stay out of trouble. he had to follow you home. had to watch through your window as you wound down from your long night of exploring the different tents. and he swooned as he watched you sleep. he had to be part of your world one way or another.
he didnât want it to come to this.
you were making it really hard for him to stay out of trouble.
he shouldâve been satisfied with the time heâd spent with you at the circus. but every time you walked away, he felt like he was no more closer to knowing every inch of your soul than he was the day you met!
so when you left the circus as the sun began to recede under the horizon, he followed you home again. and for a while. . . he just watched.
he loved watching you exist in your home, you seemed to live such a quaint and cozy life.
but that was just it. during the day time, when he'd follow you around, you didn't do much. you went for walks in the city, went to cafĂŠs and read your books â but you never actually worked.
he was so curious! you lived in such a luxurious apartment, surely the rent was astronomical for one person, he had to figure out how you were supporting yourself financially.
so he waited... and waited... and...
at 10:45 PM, he watched you slip out your front door and walk towards market street. for someone who had bells attached to him, he moved so silently that you had no idea you were being followed. you walked all the way down market street before you began to approach the more run down side of town. he tilted his head as he watched you.
why the hell is she walking alone at night on this side of town? this is bad!
his mind raced with a million different scenarios of what you were doing and where you were going.
now that he thought about it, you had a very strange schedule. youâd be awake before the sun came up, youâd do whatever you wanted during the morning, but by the afternoon you always went home and went to sleep. he thought it was so strange!
but now it made sense, you were going to sleep early because it seems like you got up to something in the quiet hours of the night. and he was going to find out what that was at last.
he followed you all the way to a small, inconspicuous building. with a medium sized line of men out the front door and a plethora of flashy neon signs outside.
gentlemanâs club, the signs read. what business did his sweetheart have in a place meant for men? his heart was hammering in his chest, mostly with worry.
he paused as he watched you discreetly slip into the building through a door in the back of the building. he skipped the line and went to the back door after you, but quickly noticed a keypad next to the door. a code was needed to get through the back.
he furrowed his brows, and with a lot of reluctance circled back toward the front of the building.
he stood at the back of the line and waited silently. the other patrons noticed his presence quickly. of course, he stuck out like a sore thumb.
amidst the sea of middle aged men in shorts and tshirts and sneakers and baseball caps of dark and discrete shades, pierrot wore his circus attire. he was clad in gold and red and black and white.
yeah, he stuck out. just not in the good way.
one of the patrons snickered to his buddy, before turning to pierrot.
ârough day at the circus, huh buddy?â he teased, though it was pretty obvious the man was laughing at pierrot, not with him.
the other men standing on line laughed along with the man, but pierrot didnât speak. he just cocked his head at them, his bells jingled softly in tandem with the movement. their laughter slowly fizzled out until they left him alone.
pierrot ignored them all and waited patiently on line. when he finally reached the front and was let it, his eyes scanned the room meticulously for you.
when you left your home, you were wearing all dark clothes. you practically blended in with the night, so when he saw that most of the people here wore similar shades of black and dark gray and blue, he sighed. it was going to be tough finding you.
though he quickly realized he was looking in the wrong crowd, because you werenât a patron. you were on stage.
he hadnât even considered that as a possibility. but there you were, and heâd never seen you look so stunning before. you were an angel of glitter and colors in your outfit and your stage makeup and your heels. he almost hadnât recognized you. but he felt like heâd just fallen in love with you all over again.
the infatuation he felt was quickly replaced by something else when his eyes darted from you to your surroundings. you were on the main stage, the vibrant strobe lights blaring down on you as you whirled around on the metal pole. at your feet was a crowd of men, watching you with hungry eyes.
pierrot felt his heart sink into his stomach. the only other time heâd ever felt dread this intense was when columbina was killed.
his immediate desire was to slaughter every pair of eyes that looked upon you, to end them and tear out each eye one by one so that they would never lay their filthy gazes upon you again.
but he couldnât do that. he wouldnât. you told him to stay out of trouble. he needed to approach this was careful consideration to you.
so he shuffled closer to the stage, he towered over the other patrons. it wasnât long before you saw him, you paused and nearly stumbled when you locked eyes with him. your hands deftly gripped the cold metal pole, playing it off like it was part of the dance.
the other patrons didnât know what to look for. they were so focused on your body that they missed the way your eyes widened and your brows raised when youâd met his gaze.
only pierrot noticed. he noticed everything where you were concerned.
he didnât want to risk embarrassing you or scaring you by acting, so for a while he just stood among the crowd and watched you.
he felt closer to you now. you were the same, you were a performer just like he was. and you were so beautiful.
the second you stepped off stage you came barreling toward him. the other patrons didnât care about you anymore. you excited and the next girl stepped onto the main stage.
at first, he expected to be greeted with excitement from you for coming to watch you perform. but oh⌠the look on your face didnât look too happy the closer you got to him.
âwhy are you here?â you said to him over the loud music of the club.
âyou look upset, my lady. why are you upset? you look so bââ
âyou shouldnât be here. did you follow me?â you cut him off, and he looked a bit stunned.
âi did, i wanted to see where you worked. you were being so secretive about it, my lady.â
âyeah, for a reason!â you exclaimed at him, and he looked a bit hurt. he hadnât known you would get so upset.
âcome with me.â you demanded, and he looked puzzled at first, cocking his head to the side at you.
âyou heard me. since you want to follow me so badly, come with me.â you said, more sternly this time, if it was even possible.
he nodded his head up and down, and you led him away from the main stage, pass the bar and the restrooms to a connected hallway with several doors.
you led him into one of the rooms and shut the door behind you. it was dark, a single dim yellow light illuminated the center of the room, leaving the corners in the shadows.
there was a decently sized loveseat in the center of the room. this was clearly a room meant for more private encounters between the dancers and the patrons.
but judging by the look on your face, pierrot knew that wasnât why youâd dragged him back here. as much as he wished it was.
âif i wanted you to know where i worked, i would have told you.â you broke the silence. pierrot fidgeted nervously with his hands.
âiâm sorry, my lady. i didnât mean to upset you. if i had known this would have upset you so deeply, i would have never come! itâs breaking my heart to see you so angry with me.â pierrot said, he looked like he was about to cry. and it caught you off guard even for just a second.
you said nothing at first, you stared at him with an expression that was too difficult for him to read. in one swift motion, he dropped to his knees with a small thud and wrapped his arms around your waist, pressing himself against your legs.
âplease, forgive me! i canât spend another moment having you look at me like that!â he exclaimed against your abdomen where his face was burried. you clicked your tongue.
âdo you honestly think i enjoy keeping secrets just for the sake of being cruel to you?â you asked. your tone wasnât sharp anymore, but it was still cold and devoid of the usual warmth you addressed him with.
âno, my lady! no, no, no!â he exclaimed, and you could feel him nodding his head in denial against your abdomen. âyou are not cruel! you have the kindest heart of anyone iâve ever known.â
âthis isnât fair, pierrot. i would have told you about this when i was ready â you took that from me.â you tried to explain to him. you didnât comfort him, but you didnât push him off of you either.
âwhy were you afraid to tell me?â pierrot asked. âdid you think iâd be upset because of the way those men looked at you? it⌠made me angry to see them look at you like that. but that is not your fault! i need to protect you fromââ
âitâs my job, pierrot. i donât like it either, but itâs part of the job.â you said matter-of-factly. he lifted his head up, his chin pressed against the soft part of your abdomen. his eyes were big and yellow and honestlyâŚ. a little pathetic.
âpeople look at me differently when i tell them i work here.â you admitted, your voice lowering a bit â like saying it any louder would make it too real. âi didnât want you to look at me differently too.â
pierrot looked like youâd just dropped a bombshell on him with that statement. âmy lady, you are the most kind hearted, beautiful soul i have ever had the privilege of meeting. this changes nothing.â
his arms tightened around you. it wasnât possessive, but desperate. like he was trying to anchor you to him.
âit was so hard for me⌠to see you looking like this and have no choice but to stand there and watch you. you look so beautiful.â he went on, he was breathing a bit heavy now. his face dipped back to bury itself in your abdomen. the skin was so soft and warm. and exposed⌠it stirred something dark inside him.
âi donât want you to think about anyone else out there.â he rasped, and you felt his lips start tickling your mid-section, peppering the skin with the gentlest kisses. âjust your pierrot.â he said in between kisses.
you wanted to be mad at him. you wanted to push him off and storm back to work. but you couldnât, your resolve faltered more and more with each kiss on your body.
his arms loosened their grip on your waist, until just his palms were cupping the sides of your waist. his gloved claws slowly dragged down the dip in your waist, to your hips, where he gave a light squeeze as he nipped at your skin.
you let out a soft sigh. and he flashed a sharp-toothed grin against your skin.
âsee? you do want this, my lady. i know you do.â pierrot whispered hoarsely. âyou donât have to pretend. your pierrot will take such good care of you.â
âiâll get in trouble. weâre not sââŚpposed to use the private rooms like this.â you said softly. he chuckled.
âyou donât need to worry about that⌠anymore.â he responded as he rose to his feet. even with the thick platform stilettos you wore that added a couple inches to your height â he towered over you. he never used it to intimidate you, but he was always hovering. you still had to crane your neck back just to meet his gaze.
he meets you halfway, leans down and kisses your sparkly and glossy lips.
the kiss started out gentle, almost hesitant. pierrot wanted to savor it and to ease into you. but his restraint stood no chance when you were dressed like this, so pliant and perfect in his hands as he held you and kissed you.
you felt his tongue slip through your lips. it was long and intrusive within the smaller, warm cavity of your mouth. his kiss became greedy, and your fingers instinctively clasped around the puffy sleeves on his broad shoulders, squeezing tightly as his tongue tested the limits of your gag reflex.
your fingers curled even tighter when you felt him begin to walk you backward until the back of your knees hit the loveseat in the room.
he retracted his tongue from your mouth, his gaze was a tender and loving contradiction to the way he had just assaulted your mouth with his tongue.
âsit, my lady. please.â pierrot said breathlessly. you kept your eyes locked on his as you lowered yourself into the seat. almost immediately, pierrot dropped to his knees and positioned himself between your legs.
âi want this view to be only for me from now on.â pierrot said, his lips peppering the plush skin on your inner thigh. you felt arousal coiling in your abdomen.
âiâll do whatever i have to do⌠to convince you to keep this,â he paused, his hands running up your thighs and landing on the swell of your hips. âfor my eyes only.â
âpierrot, iââ you began to protest, and he gripped your hips while his sharp teeth nipped at the apex of your thighs.
âdonât speak.â he said as he pulled away, leaving an angry red mark on your thigh.
âyouâre dripping for me, arenât you. i can already smell it on you.â pierrot pointed out, slipping his finger through the material of your flimsy bottoms that already left nothing to the imagination â with his sharp finger he ripped at the material, exposing your slick pussy to the cold air of the room. you watched the way his pupils dilated at the sight, and the scent, of you.
he let out a low, almost animalistic growl before his mouth connected to your folds. while his tongue felt a bit invasive in your mouth, the sensation of his long tongue was entirely different when it was being put to use between your legs.
your head hit the back of the loveseat with a soft thump, and you let out a shaky whimper as he put his tongue to good use. his fingers clasped around both your thighs, holding you in place as you squirmed and bucked your hips, instinctively grinding against his face to seek more friction.
the sounds coming out of him, muffled against your folds, were that of a man starved.
your wetness ricocheted off his tongue as he used it to piston in and out of you, curling right up to hit your sweet spot. you let out a loud, unrestrained cry as you felt your abdomen coil. you came right into his face, your legs trembled and clenched around the sides of his face. his hands dug into the plush flesh on your thighs, keeping them apart just enough.
the edges of his mouth and his chin glistened with the remnants of your slick as he pulled back from you.
he kept one hand clasped around your thigh, while the other desperately fumbled with his belt buckle until he got it loose. it dropped to the floor with a soft clink, his bells rang softly with the franticness of his movements. his pants were off seconds later.
to say you were intimidated by the sheer size of him would be the understatement of the year.
working in this industry, it shouldnât have startled you, but it did. your mind was racing a mile a minute, wondering if youâd even be able to take all of him.
âare you ready for me, my dear?â he asked, fingers supporting the head of his cock as he lined himself with your entrance, you could see him having to refrain from bucking into you until he got that reassurance that you were ready.
you pursed your lips, let out a muffled whimper and gave a shy nod. pierrot was smiling ear to ear as he slowly pushed inside. you were already still dripping from when heâd made you cum on his tongue, which should have made him pushing inside you easier. but it didnât, he was that big.
he watched your face contort with the feeling of him stretching you, your eyebrows knitted, jaw slacked as tiny gasps and whimpers spilled from your throat, and you just took him so well. you fit him like a glove.
you were so small compared to him, part of him worried heâd break you. another part wanted to break you. the feeling of your small, wet hole squeezing and fluttering around the intrusion of his length was so intoxicating that he felt like he could have came right then and there â and he hadnât even started moving yet.
once youâd taken him to the hilt, he slowly retracted before snapping his hips forward again. he watched the way your body jerked with the force of him thrusting into you.
pierrot kept his hands on your thighs, propping them up around your waist â because you were so helpless beneath him, you probably would have gone limp if he let you go. he was practically trembling with each thrust. trembling with the weight of his own restraint, he knew he would destroy you if he went as hard as he wanted to.
he noticed the way your stomach would bulge slightly whenever he slammed home, he slowed down just a bit for a few moments just to admire the way it would poke out and then fall flat when he pulled back.
âpierâŚrot.. whyâd you⌠whyâd you stop? keep⌠keep going.â you stammered out, and he looked startled for a moment before immediately going back to the previous pace heâd set.
âdoes it⌠feel good, dearest?â he asked, his voice was almost whiney as he spoke, his voice lilting just a bit higher with the force of his thrusts and the way youâd clench around him when he slammed into you at just the right angle.
âyes⌠y-yes!â you cried out, your eyes squeezing shut as you felt them growing watery. you were such a beautiful mess. your eye makeup was beginning to run, smudged messily at the corners and under your eyes. your lip gloss has been practically rubbed off from his kisses.
you were his to break, and his to put back together again.
pierrot could feel himself breaking, too. he tensed, bracing himself as he tried desperately to prolong this experience for as long as he could. he wanted to make you cum again and again until he finally felt worthy of his own release. but you were too much. too tight and wet and warm and welcoming. he felt like he was right where he was meant to be in this moment.
âi love you⌠i love youâŚ. i⌠love you!â he panted, slamming into you with emphasis and spilling deep inside of you as he came, his warmth filling your womb until you were a trembling mess beneath him. but he kept his hands on you, keeping you from slumping against the love seat. for a moment he just held you in place, still inside you.
the room fell silent, save for the distant sounds from the club just outside the door. you were panting, he was panting, nothing else mattered.
âmy lady⌠you did so beautifully..â he cooed at you, one of his hands cupped your clammy and warm cheek with a tenderness that contradicted the way he had just fucked you.
âiâd like⌠to go home now, pierrot.â you panted out, your neck craning to the side as your cheek rested against the back of the love seat.
âo-of course, my lady⌠iâll take you home.â pierrot said, he sounded ecstatic. you didnât want to go to back to work, because of him. he could steal you away for just a bit longer.
slowly and gently, he pulled out of you. he sprung out with a squelching sound, the evidence of both of your releases dripping out â onto his shaft, his thighs, your thighs, the loveseat and the floor, it was a mess.
âgod⌠iâm going to be s-so much trouble.â you said breathlessly. pierrot smiled secretly readjusting you on the couch so that you could sit comfortably while he gathered your things and prepared to make an exit.
âyou donât have to worry about that, my lady.â he said softly, sliding his pants back up first. he realized now that ripping off part of your outfit wasnât smart, so he had to improvise. he took off his red overcoat and put it on you. it was long enough to cover your lower half, and he picked you up bridal style. his hands keeping the overcoat securely over where you needed to be covered most.
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Tw: mentions of abuse, Yandere behavior, mentions of torture.
I love the trope of a Yandere inflicting horrific stuff onto the reader to then realize their mistakes or abuse and try to recorrect.
Maybe a Yandere viewed you as a rival to their âdarlingsâ affection so they decide to kidnap and torture you for days on end until something in your mind snaps and breaks.
And ofc it just goes down hill from their now your wishing they would kill you so it could bring you some sort of release. But something changes in the Yandere slowly but not enough to notice.
He doesnât inflict as much âpunishmentsâ onto you as before. He brings you more food than the scraps you were given.
But seeing you like this all worn out after he pulled out another one of your nails as punishment. God you didnât even scream not like you could anymore, nor could you sob from the pain.
All you could let out was silent tears as you prayed for it to end.
And that broke something in them.
To say the guilt consumes them is an understatement it tears through them like a knife would ruthless and unforgiving.
Not only has he heavily starved and beaten you but you lost a finger or two almost your whole foot one time. Your bodyâs peak, pliant.
It makes him sick oh god does it make him sick.
The best thing he could do is end your suffering or let you goâŚ. But how could he do either when he is so hesitant to even raise a knife to you now?
So he does the only thing he can do, he takes care of you. Not immediately, slowly trying to ease you into it. He knows you donât trust him and he knows how broken your mind is.
So he starts fixing up your wounds one by one, until youâre able to atleast flex some of your fingers again. Then he moves you out of the basement.
You havenât felt warmth in months so when you do, everything comes undone.
You canât help yourself but to nuzzle into him, to search for that warmth that his body so eagerly supplies and he lets you.
And god does he love it, to have someone so eagerly look for his affection is addicting.
Now hes not sure he wants to let you goâŚ..but donât worry he wonât hurt you again!
Yandere!Dragon treats you like the crown jewel of his entire existence. Dragons are biologically driven to hoard precious, beautiful things, and the second he laid eyes on you, his instinct labeled you as his permanent property. He doesn't care about gold, gems, or ancient artifacts; your cold skin, your elegant fangs, and your immortal grace are the only treasures he cares about protecting.
Yandere!Dragon is obsessed with your cold temperature. Because his own body naturally runs incredibly hot, his blood practically boiling with draconic fire, he treats you like his personal cooling system. He loves pulling you into his lap and wrapping his massive, leather-scaled wings completely around you, effectively trapping you against his chest. Heâll sigh happily as your icy, vampire energy balances out his heat, completely ignoring the fact that you literally cannot move until he lets you go.
Yandere!Dragon handles your nocturnal lifestyle by creating the ultimate, sun-blocked sanctuary. He knows the sun is your literal kryptonite, so he took over a massive, deep cavern complex or a heavily fortified, windowless estate and turned it into a luxury "nest." Heâs lined the floors with the softest furs, silks, and velvet blankets, making sure you have absolutely no reason to ever leave the dark safety of his territory.
Yandere!Dragon has a terrifyingly possessive attitude toward your feeding habits. He flat-out refuses to let you hunt or feed on random humans. Instead, he insists that you take your blood directly from him. Because dragons possess incredible vitality and hyper-accelerated healing, you can feed on him heavily without ever putting his life in danger. He gets a dark, intoxicating rush whenever your fangs pierce his scales, whispering about how your immortality is literally being sustained by his fire.
Yandere!Dragon goes into a state of pure, destructive rage if anyone else gets too close to you. If a werewolf, a human hunter, or even another vampire looks at you for too long, his draconic eyes will slit, and smoke will literally start curling from his nostrils. He doesn't just scare threats away; he obliterates them. Heâll remind you with a low, rumbling growl that he can burn down entire kingdoms if they try to take you from him.
Yandere!Dragon weaponizes your natural vampire weaknesses to keep you dependent on him. He knows you can't cross running water easily or handle bright sunlight, so he purposefully picked a territory surrounded by roaring rivers and harsh day-lit valleys. He will happily carry you across any obstacle in his dragon form, but he makes it very clear that without his wings to shield you and his strength to move you, you are completely stranded.
Yandere!Dragon views your immortality as a divine sign that you were made for each other. Dragons live for millennia, and the fact that you won't age or die of sickness means he never has to worry about losing his hoard to time. Heâll hold you tight in the dark of his nest, his heavy tail resting across your waist like a seatbelt, completely satisfied knowing that for the next thousand years, you belong entirely to him.
Yandere!Dragon is actually just the latest in a long, ridiculous line of dragons who completely lost their minds over vampires. Itâs a massive running joke in his family. His grandfather married a noble vampire countess, his father married a rogue vampire assassin, and his older brotherâs nest is already packed with black velvet coffin-beds. When he first brought you home, the men in his family didn't even look surprised; they just sighed, handed him the "welcome to the coven" handbook, and said, "Yep, the family curse strikes again."
Yandere!Dragon gets aggressively roasted at family gatherings because his yandere behavior is so incredibly predictable to them. While heâs sitting there glaring at the servants, wrapping his wings tightly around you, and lowkey snarling if anyone looks your way, his dad is just drinking wine and laughing. "Look at him, heâs doing the exact same brooding thing I did when I met your mother. let the poor kid breathe, son, they aren't going to evaporate."
Yandere!Dragon hates how comfortable you get around his familyâs vampire in-laws. Because his brotherâs and fatherâs wives are also vampires, your arrival basically sparked an immediate, exclusive group chat. They understand exactly what itâs like to be hoarded by hyper-possessive, fire-breathing lizards. If you ever complain about how suffocating his nest is, your new sister-in-law will just pat your hand and say, "Oh, honey, just freeze his tail when he sleeps, heâll loosen his grip instantly."
The family dynamic makes his possessiveness ten times funnier but no less intense. When you guys visit the family estate, the architecture is already fully optimized for you. There are massive sun-blocking curtains everywhere, subterranean tunnels, and zero silver decor. Your dragon gets incredibly frustrated because he canât use the "the outside world is too dangerous for a fragile vampire" excuse when his mom is literally outside in a giant sun-hat, casually tending to her night-blooming gardens.
Yandere!Dragon tries so hard to prove that his bond with his vampire is the most superior one in the family tree. During family dinners, heâll loudly brag about how your fangs are sharper, or how your icy skin feels the best against his fire scales. His older brother will literally roll his eyes and start a bidding war over whose vampire partner has the higher body count from their days of human hunting. Itâs just a room full of terrifying, ancient dragons aggressively flexing how much they spoil their respective bloodsuckers.
Yandere!Dragon gets highly defensive when his father tries to give him advice on "dietary maintenance." Since dragon blood is the standard food source in their household, his dad will criticize his healing speed. "You're looking a little pale, son, are you letting them feed properly? Back in my day, I could let your mother drain me twice a week and still burn down a village the next morning." It drives your partner insane because he wants his relationship with you to be private, but his entire bloodline is treating it like a team sport.
At the end of the night, when you two finally escape back to his personal nest, his possessive facade comes right back. Heâll lock the massive stone doors, pull you into his lap, and bury his face in your neck, letting out a low, rumbling pout. "Don't listen to my brother. and don't listen to his wife. You're my hoard, not theirs. I don't care if 'everyone' marries a vampire, you're the only one that matters to me."