“these desperate prayers of a cursed man,”

Caleb never imagined he’d be spending his Saturday night at school. Granted, he was there with you to support the French Club’s fundraiser, but it was still out of character. Even those who knew him did a double-take as they saw him trailing behind you as you led him through the campus grounds before settling into one of the chairs laid out before the giant screen projector.

For this month’s upcoming Saturdays, they’d be having a movie night, and the money they collected would be used for the trip they’d be taking to France in the summer.

At least you were nice enough to pick a seat all the way in the back where no one could watch as he teased you throughout the night.

“You don’t want any snacks?” He asked as the film started. 

“Later.” You responded without sparing him a glance. “I’ve only seen bits and pieces of this movie, so I’m excited to see the opening scene.”

The film for the night was the French version of Beauty and the Beast. Caleb wasn’t having an amazing time, but he wasn’t bored either as the film had his mind wandering to the idea of you in a corset like the one worn by the female lead. 

He was sure your tits would look to die for in one, especially in a soft pink color with frills and lace. He knew you wouldn’t be too happy with how tight it would be around the waist area, but he’d be sure to rip it off of you after he recorded a video of how’d the flesh would bounce to the rhythm set by his hips as he pistons in and out of your soft cunt. 

At the motion of you standing up from his lap, he looked up at you as you gestured towards the area where they were selling snacks.

“I saw a girl with those gummy clusters I like! Do you want anything?”

Caleb shook his head, immediately pulling out his wallet from his pocket before handing you a bill.

“I’ll just steal some of yours.” He smirked as your lips formed a pout. “Sharing is caring, honey.”

You thanked him as you took the money, grumbling a curt fine at the idea of sharing your sweets. 

He settled back into the seat. He tried to focus on the scene before him, but from the corner of his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the guy who was trailing awfully close behind you. You were too far away for him to hear the words being exchanged, but it was clear you were uncomfortable as you shrank into yourself.

Caleb didn’t take his eyes off of you, only relaxing once you were back on his lap.

“You okay?” He questioned, a hand coming to rest against your tummy soothingly. “Did he tell you something?”

You shook your head as you ripped into the bag of candy. 

“Just being a weirdo, but I told him I had a boyfriend.”

Whenever Caleb heard you refer to him as such, for the first time in his life, it left him feeling satisfied. Had it been any of his past flings, that relationship was severed by the end of the night, but not you. The brute had grown accustomed to you and the thought of you leaving him left a sour taste in his mouth. 

“Boyfriend, huh?”

The hand bringing a colorful cluster to your mouth stopped a few inches from your lips. You turned to look at Caleb who was already watching you.

“Oh, do you not like when I call you that?” Your tone was dejected, and the sparkle in your eye dimmed. 

His nose bumped against your temple, the sound of him taking a deep breath present as he inhaled your sweet perfume. 

“Only hate that I can’t fuck you right now, baby.”

He chuckled at the adorable side eye you gave him, taking the piece of candy you offered. 

“Caleb!” You scolded. “You and that mouth of yours.”

“You love it. At least that’s what you said last night when-”

You grew flustered, a hand waving in the open space. 

“Stop it!”

His chest felt warm at the sight of your heated cheeks. 

He tried to focus on the movie once again, but he could feel the guy from earlier stealing glances at you. You of course were too caught up in the film to notice. Not Caleb though. He was hyperaware of everything when it came to you.

Shooting the male a nasty glare, Caleb shifted in his seat and adjusted your legs so that you were sitting sideways in his lap, head tucked under his jaw. He made sure to cover your legs with his jacket before slipping a hand under and past the hem of your pleated skirt. 

He felt you tense as his fingers curled over your thigh, his fingertips awfully close to your warm cunt. He could feel the heat radiating from your center. When he curled a stray digit, he felt the soaked center of your panties. A gasp came from your lips. 

The bag of candy crinkled loudly as your grip tightened around the plastic.

“Caleb, what’s gotten into you?” You whispered slash yelled, completely scandalized, while frantically looking around.

It’s not like it was the first time Caleb touched you out in the open, but it was the first time there were others around. 

“Caleb, not here-” You harshly whispered, your words dying on your tongue as two digits ran along the cut of you, gathering your juices just to slip past your puffy folds with ease. A whine fell from you at the intrusion. 

“Shh, don’t fight it. I know how much you love having my fingers inside of you. Take them so well even though you’re so little and tight.”

You wanted to fight it, but his fingers were stretching you out too well, your slick aiding his ministrations. Your hips wanted to start moving, but then what was occurring under his jacket would become clear. 

“Caleb! S’embarrassing…” Your words turned into a moan as his fingers curled towards the spongy spot that had your hips bucking. “G-gonna get me in trouble.”

Even though you were embarrassed, the unknown male’s eyes trained on every single twitch of your figure, you couldn’t ignore the wonderful feeling spreading from your cunt to your tummy.

You wished you had gone with your idea of bringing a small blanket, so that way you would’ve been able to hide your face in it. With no other option, you tucked your face against Caleb’s neck, your quiet cry going straight to his dick. 

Your walls clenched down, holding his digits and refusing to let go. 

“Fuck, you gonna cum already, honey?” Using the hand that wasn’t between your thighs, he cradled the side of your head, holding your face to his neck and hiding you away from the world. The entire time, he maintained eye contact with the peeping tom beside you. “Think this is the fastest I’ve made you cum. Do you like being watched? Do you like it when some punk ass loser watches you take my fingers?”

Applying pressure with his palm against your sensitive bundle of nerves, you couldn’t help as your hips began to rock slightly to match the rhythm he set with his fingers. 

“I’m gonna make a mess.” You continued to whine as you tried to hold back your impending climax by bearing down your pelvic muscles. “It’s dirty.”

Caleb chuckled, the hand cradling your head smoothing down your hair. 

“Go ahead. I’ll just clean you up.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, your forehead knocking against Caleb’s jaw as you used his body to hide as you whispered for him to keep going. You were almost there, might as well give him what he wants at this point.

If the bulge in his pants was any indication of his growing need, he’d have you spilling onto his hand and immediately deciding to go home so that he could bury himself to the hilt in your pussy in private. At least that way he’d be able to hear your moans and cries at full volume. 

“Go on, baby. Let him see how pretty you look when you’re spilling all over my hand. This is the only chance he’s getting at seeing you come undone.”

“…kiss.” You were breathless, pawing at his shirt. “…w-wanna kiss.”

A grin broke across Caleb’s face. 

“Whatever you want, honey.” He angled your head towards him. “C’mere.”

It wasn’t until your lips met that your body went lax, allowing yourself to get caught up in the pleasure he was giving you. He swallowed every little sound you made. He may be allowing someone else to see you falling apart, but they’d never be able to hear the sounds you make. That was a privilege for him and him alone. 

“Let go.” He whispered against your lips. “Once you do, I’ll take you home and make you come apart over and over again on my cock. Until you’re shaking and crying and begging for me to stop.”

As the film reached its climax, you called out to Caleb, his name turning into a mewl as your orgasm caused your body to shake, fingers tugging at the fabric of your boyfriend’s t-shirt. He continues to scissor you open until your walls stop spasming and you are finally able to catch your breath. 

When your body cooled down, the embarrassment set in, and your hands grabbed onto the leather jacket, pulling it up to cover your face. 

“I can’t believe you-you just made me do that. With all these people here!”

The shame began to set in for you. Face burning and pulse pitter-pattering as you whispered to yourself, your horrified words fell on deaf ears, but at least Caleb held you close, his hand rubbing your arm.

All the while, Caleb looked the flustered male dead in the eye as he made a show of licking your juices off of his fingers. His tongue curled around each digit, lapping up every single drop. Saving his middle finger for last, he oh so coincidentally flipped the male off as he pulled it from his mouth with an exaggerated pop. He smiled as he spoke, far too pleased with the situation. 

“Sweet.

toji’s head snaps up so fast he almost drops the box of freezies.

it’s you—oh god, it’s you, and you’re looking down at him with those pretty lashes & short skirt & your hands holding a basket behind your back. you’re in those cute kitten heels you had on the first time he saw you—did you get your nails done? so pretty. you’re so pretty, you’re always so pretty, and toji’s mouth dries.

he doesn’t say anything because he can’t, because your perfume smells like honey & has his lungs sticking to his throat—but he slowly stands up anyway. you’re humming to yourself as you pad closer, getting in his way, heel clicking against the tile as he traps you in the aisle.

he reaches up to the glass bottle, and he can see your lashes fluttering up at him. your chest presses against his, and his lip ticks upward.

“you want this, princess?” he mumbles.

you playfully swat his chest, but your palm doesn’t slide off. you’re caressing his pecs now, teasing. “toji, give it to me. i have a pasta to make tonight. i’m busy.”

toji chuckles, slipping the bottle into your basket and letting his palm sneak over your waist instead. your hands are still on his pecs, lightly squeezing as you laugh when he tugs you closer. he nuzzles your jaw, murmuring, “only if i get an invite, sweetheart.”

“we’ll see,” you tease as his tongue licks your earlobe. you’re running a thumb over the silver tag on his chest: TOJI. “if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you wash the dishes.”

he kisses your neck. “m’always good for you, baby.”

you’re giggling now, shoving him away with flushed cheeks & a laugh too bright. toji catches your hands, tugging you back with a smile on his face before squeezing your hips. your lips are so glossy. is that the new gloss you bought last week? can he kiss it off?

he’ll never know, because he’s holding your hips while you tug at his collar and whisper something he doesn’t care about in his ear. his manager calls his name.

fuck.

toji gives your hips one last squeeze. “go pay, princess. i’ll bag your stuff.”

“you better.” you huff, spoiled & sweet, and toji can only watch the sway of your hips as you make your way to the register.

you’re a pretty girl with a posh life who will never know lack. toji’s a 24-year-old who’s still in college, working odd jobs with a son waiting at home.

in the third aisle of the local loblaws, toji zenin has his hands on his hips and his eyes on the ground. toji zenin will never say it out loud, but he knows he will never, ever, get the girl.

ⵌ AT THE FRATHOUSE !

“you can’t pull someone like y/n, no offense.”

toji wishes suguru wouldn’t spell it out. he already knows, for christ’s sake.

in sigma chi’s living room, toji zenin is sprawled out on the center rug while suguru and sato eat on the floor beside him. sato is between geto’s legs with his back against geto’s chest & his toe tickling toji’s jaw through his socks. suguru is tilting his shawarma for sato to bite from before taking a bite of his own.

sato’s about to dish out an insult of his own when the door swings open. in comes ryomen sukuna, standing in the doorway with bags in his hands and his limbs stretched out like some sort of clown. he bellows, “therapy fucking sucked today. i still don’t think i need therapy, by the way. watching porn and jerking off is completely normal—fuck you, suguru.”

“maybe it is,” suguru’s lips are sticky with shawarma sauce, “but having your dick out in the same room as other people is not.”

“a young man can’t be an exhibitionist? suck my dick, man.”

“oh, i’m not hungry..”

sukuna trudges over toji’s legs, then plops on the ground opposite sato and suguru. sato throws him the middle finger with a grin. sukuna throws it back. “i brought drinks. toji, why’re you on the floor? ya need therapy too?”

sato snickers. “toji’s fallen for a rich girl.”

sukuna snorts, “don’t even joke, lad.” but suguru and toji aren’t laughing. his brows scrunch. “wait—“ he turns to toji, “you’re serious?”

toji eyes him. “mind your own business.”

sukuna doesn’t believe in complex schools of thought like ‘minding your business.’ so instead of picking a shawarma for himself and eating in silence, he joins sato and nudges his foot against toji’s cheek. “does she know you’re poor?”

“hey, hey,” geto bites his cheek, “not too much on him.”

but sukuna continues. “what about the kid? does she know you have a son?”

toji’s jaw only tightens.

sukuna looks at toji in disbelief. then at sato, then suguru—then shakes his head, laughing. “jesus christ of jollof rice,” he cracks open a beer, “you’re fucking cooked, bro.”

toji drags his hands over his face. his eyes are hot, for some reason.

suguru sighs, resting his chin on sato’s head as sato munches happily underneath him. “i hate to suggest this, but there’s a way you can get her to give you a chance.”

sukuna and toji both perk up.

“if she doesn’t know about meg—or your, uh, economics,” suguru clears his throat, “then you keep it that way. she thinks you’re some hot older uni student who works at loblaws for beer money. lean into it.”

sato frowns. “this sounds like something i’d suggest. so not good, i think.”

suguru pokes his cheek, making sato’s pout grow deeper. “i’m just spit-balling here. it’s obvious you really like her, toji. and megumi needs a mommy.”

“i don’t like her because i want her to play housewife.”

“we know,” suguru’s smile is affectionate. “that’s why we’ll help you.”

sukuna grunts in agreement. “sounds scummy but it makes sense. if she finds out you’re a baby daddy with no money, she’ll just run back to her range rover.” he takes another swig of his beer. “we’ll help you hide your true identity. you just get her hooked enough that when she eventually does find out, she won’t leave.”

sato nods. “we’ll babysit. lend you money. heck—you can drive my porsche to your dates.”

on the floor, toji zenin is staring towards the ceiling. it’s a stupid plan, his frat brothers are even stupider, and there is no way in hell whoever is up there will actually let things work out in his favor.

but toji’s desperate. he has been for a long time. so before he can let himself think about it, his lips part to respond.

“alright,” he grunts. “let’s fucking do it.”

SIGMA CHI’S REMARK : DON’T WORRY BRO, WE GOTCHU !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #2: WHO’S YOUR DADDY ?

taught by: sato, sukuna, suguru

“babysitting a five year old brat. how hard could that be?”

ΣΧ

megumi zenin is tufts of black hair, sleepy blue eyes & a tiny fist in a jar full of gummy worms. he’s slumped against his dad’s thick leg, shoving fistfuls of gummies in his mouth with candy-smeared cheeks & a bored expression on his face.

sato, sukuna and suguru are side-by-side on a straight line.

hands tucked behind their backs & chests puffed out like soldiers. toji clears his throat. “listen up. i’m going to be gone for exactly two hours. if i come back and the kid has a single scratch on him, i’m throwing all of you into a pond.“

suguru shakes his head, stepping forward to crouch down to megumi’s height. he wipes megumi’s cheeks with a smile. “don't worry, toji. we've got him. right, little man?”

“hi, uncle sugu,” megumi’s voice is flat but he leans into geto’s palm on his cheek. “are we going to draw today?”

“of course, kiddo. i bought some new crayons just for you.”

toji scoops his son up in his arms, ignoring the way his tiny body writhes towards the gummy worms abandoned on the floor. suguru lifts the jar back to megumi with a smile. sukuna, however, is frowning. “why is his face like that.”

“sukuna, do not fight my kid.”

megumi points towards him. “my daddy calls you a pervert.”

sato bursts out in laughter. suguru’s snickering too, though he’s doing a better job of hiding it. toji drops his son to the ground and crouches to his height. megumi offers him a soggy, wet gummy worm. toji eats it off his palm & pokes his belly.

he rises to his feet. “suguru is in charge. rest of you, keep your hands off him. i’m leaving.”

megumi waves a sticky hand. “bye, daddy. bring me a cookie.”

“will do, brat.” and the door shuts with a thud.

——

“we should go to wonderland. you like amusement parks, ‘gumi?”

megumi zenin has a crayon in his hands, scribbling furiously with a focused expression on his face. he’s seated in geto’s lap, occasionally having suguru hand him a crayon as he perfects his artistic masterpiece. to his right, sato gojo is leaning over the table and talking a mile-a-minute.

megumi answers, scribbling a drawing of what looks like him and his father—DADDY AND ME. “i’ve never been to an amusement park.”

“what?” sato slams his palm on the table, distraught. “what kind of kid has never been to an amusement park?!”

“my father is poor.”

“oh,” sato shrinks. “fairs.”

suguru lets out a fond huff, burying his nose in megumi’s hair to hide the fact that he’s shaking from laughter. sato looks crushed by guilt. “i can’t take this anymore, suguru.” he clutches his chest. “we’re going to the apple store and getting him an ipad pro right now.”

suguru raises a brow. “toji said no screens. and either way, i won’t let you turn him into an ipad kid.”

megumi slumps against geto’s chest. “i want a blue gatorade.”

“i’ll get it for you, buddy,” suguru smiles before kissing his cheek, easing him off his lap. “don’t let sato teach you about investment and stocks while i’m gone, okay?”

sato has his chin on the table, defeated. and just as suguru’s back turns into the kitchen, sukuna saunters in, steps heavy, palm curled around a blue bottle of—is that the last gatorade?!

sukuna cracks the plastic seal, taking a slow, heavy swig of the drink while staring right at the five year old. megumi’s tiny brows furrow. “that’s mine. uncle sugu said i could have it.”

“well,” sukuna licks his lips, slow. “uncle sugu’s not the king of this house.” he takes another gulp, throwing his head back with a refreshed ahhhhhh. megumi frowns, lips tight.

and then he screams.

“uncle sugu! mister pervert’s being mean again!”

sukuna chokes on his gatorade. “who the hell are you calling mister pervert, you little brat—“

sato jumps over the table to hold back sukuna before he can strangle the five-year-old. suguru runs out of the kitchen in alarm, quickly scrambling to hold back sukuna’s wrath alongside sato.

megumi only blinks at the display. three grown men bickering and shoving over gatorade. hell, he’s not so sure he even wants it anymore.

he sighs, reaching across the table to pick up sato’s iphone. he dials his dad’s number, palm smushed into his cheek as he watches suguru smack sukuna for his bad behavior.

ⵌ AT THE DATE !

in the local coffee shop, your lashes are fluttering & the sunlight kisses your skin as you stare out the window.

toji zenin has his heart in his throat. his hands are in his pockets but his ribs are cracked against his chest, and the sight of you pouting out the window has his mouth drying with want. he strolls over regardless, posture lazy, steps cool, because toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

“hi, princess,” he slides into the booth seat—next to you, not across, because he’s been thinking about the feel of your waist in his hands since last thursday—and his ankle hooks around yours on autopilot.

“hi,” you smile, leaning into his side as he kisses your hair. toji takes your palm in his. your fingers are so dainty. fuck.

“you look nice today,” you hum. “who are you trying to impress?”

your lashes are batting up at him, but toji manages to keep his cool. his smirk is lazy & gorgeous. “you, obviously.”

toji wonders how you can let him touch you so casually. even now he’s nibbling your ear as you talk about something from class—a lazy professor or something else, it’s hard to listen when your thumb brushes his jaw while you speak—and toji’s mind wanders. he’s kissing your neck now, thumbs rubbing circles on your thighs as your breath hitches between words, and toji wonders why you haven’t yet flinched in disgust.

he doesn’t dwell on it too long, though. he knows the topic will only get him down.

so he kisses your neck as you laugh and swat him away, telling him he’s distracting you from your story. you never push him off, though, and your thigh’s on his lap now.

but all good things must come to an end.

toji’s phone buzzes.

loud & obnoxious. SATO, his screen reads. he quickly swipes it away. “sorry…just spam.”

“spam?” you poke his bicep, grinning. “or is your little side piece getting impatient?”

“don’t have a side piece, baby,” he murmurs into your cheek. “only want you.”

1 NEW FACETIME AUDIO CALL : SATO 🤡

his phone has been buzzing for ages now. you sigh, crossing your arms & clearly annoyed. “toji, just answer it. what if it’s an emergency?”

you’re right, he should answer it, because if anything happened to megumi, he’d fucking flip. he bites his lip, “one second, princess.”

he presses his phone to his ear, but megumi’s voice greets him instead.

“daddy! uncle kuna’s trying to kill me because of blue gatorade!”

toji’s eyes widen. from the corner of his eye, he can see you inching closer, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to listen in.

in the background of the call he can hear sato shrieking. “suguru—! use the spatula! use the spatula! sukuna stop—“

you’re blinking at him, inching closer to his bicep on the table. “daddy? who’s calling you daddy?”

toji’s soul leaves his body.

“daddy, are you coming home soon? uncle sugu’s spanking him now. it’s very loud—“

he ends the call before you can hear any more.

“do you have a son?”

toji’s breathing stutters. you’ve inched away from him now, lips bent in a frown, brows furrowed, expression curious—or cautious, toji can’t really tell. and it pains him to lie to you, but what else can he say when you’ve already shifted your thigh off his lap?

“nah,” he answers too fast. “it’s my nephew.”

toji reaches out to thumb your cheek, but you don’t relax into his palm. “think he meant to call my brother, not me.”

he tugs your bottom lip as you speak. “i didn’t know you had a brother…”

“there’s a lot you don’t know about me, princess,” he leans in to kiss the corner of your lips, because he knows he doesn’t deserve any more than that. your pout deepens.

“we can change that though,” he lies, smiling. “wanna get dessert?”

SATO’S REMARK : NICE SAVE, TOJI ! AND MY BAD—HAHA !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #3: BLEACH !

taught by: geto suguru, toru gojo

“inviting her over already? we’ve gotta scrub this place clean, then.“

ΣΧ

toji zenin has one hour to make it seem like megumi doesn’t exist.

geto suguru is scrubbing the bathrooms. toru gojo has somehow been roped into this predicament and is scrubbing away in the kitchen. in the living room, toji zenin is picking up cheerios from the rug, phone in his ear with sukuna on the line.

“hi daddy,”megumi’s voice is flat through the speaker. “uncle kuna’s being nice to me today.”

“that’s great, kiddo. can you put him back on the phone?”

“yo,” sukuna’s voice crackles through.

“if anything happens to my son, i will spread your ass cheeks and sprinkle paprika in the hole.”

“oh.”

“yeah,” toji shifts the phone in his neck. “make sure he has a good time at that amusement park. and don’t let sato spoil him too much.”

“heyyy toji!” sato’s voice crackles through the speaker. toji sighs before grunting back a hello. “keep megumi safe, got it?”

“yes, sir!” / “we got it, boss.” / “bye, daddy!”

toji says his goodbyes. just as he clicks the end button, toru gojo pads into the living room, glasses tilting off his face & slipping rubber gloves off his hands. “all done in the kitchen. remind me why we’re deceiving this poor lady again?”

toji picks up a gummy worm tucked under the rug and cringes. “because she wouldn’t look twice at a broke guy with a kid.”

toru softens, adjusting his glasses. “you don’t know that. have you tried telling her?”

“no.”

“why not?”

"because,” he picks up another gummy worm hidden under the couch, glaring at it before throwing it away. "because every time someone finds out about megumi, they look at me different. like i'm a burden. like he's a burden."

toru purses his lip. he’s watching as toji ducks under the couch, picking out stray bits of cereal and snacks and other things that make toji’s nose scrunch up in disgust.

toru shakes his head, taking off his glasses to set them on the counter. “but you don’t know if she’s like that.”

“i know i can’t lose her before i even have her.”

toru purses his lip. toji’s voice came out too tight.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

when toji opens his front door, you’re in a too-short dress and there’s moët & chandon in your hands.

god, you’re gorgeous. and toji really needs to stop thinking that. needs to stop saying it in his head before he slips up and says it out loud with a tone he can’t take back.

“hi,” you tilt your head, batting your lashes in that way that makes him stupid. “you gonna keep standing there? or are you gonna take this bottle off my hands?”

ah, right. toji reaches for the bottle but you pull it back. he raises a brow.

“say ‘please pretty girl, may i have the wine?’”

you’re still peering up at him, hugging the bottle of wine to your chest, teasing smile on your glossy lips. toji leans against the doorframe. arms crossed, dark eyes raking over your hips, plush thighs, pretty waist. fuck.

his lips twitch, “i’m not saying that.”

“aww,” you pout, glossy and spoiled. “guess i have to turn back home and drink this expensive wine all by myself.” you turn, and toji bites his cheek because your dress has ridden up to give him the perfect view of your ass. so soft. he can’t wait to squeeze it.

“i’m gonna be so lonely…” your back is still turned to him, voice wistful. “and i came all the way over here, too. i’m so upset.”

toji doesn’t let you take another step.

you squeal as he scoops you up with a grunt, arms snaking over your waist & under your thighs to lift you bridal style. you squeeze the bottle of wine in your arms, eyes shut tight as you giggle while he kicks the door shut. “toji! put me down!”

careful what you wish for.

toji drops you to his couch with a thud. you land with a breathless laugh, dress bunched up to your hips & he can see the print of your panties. your hair is fanned out, and the bottle of wine is pressed to your stomach. you’re giggling, eyes bright, and god. you look so fucking gorgeous all laid out for him. toji’s jaw ticks.

he climbs over you, pressing his warm body down until the wine digs into your stomach. his eyes are dark. hungry.

“please, pretty girl,” he murmurs, breath hot, lips teasing your neck. “may i have the wine?”

oh.

your breath hitches. you stare up at him, cheeks hot, eyes wide, thighs squeezing together in anticipation. but you’re a bad girl, so you don’t give toji zenin what he wants just yet.

your smile falters, but you tilt your head. “thought you weren’t gonna say it?”

he grins, pressing a hot kiss underneath your ear. “and i thought you were leavin’.”

you let out a shaky gasp as toji licks a hot stripe up your neck. he’s filthy—big hands gripping your hips to keep you pinned to the couch, squeezing you hard each time you moan and buck yourself into him. his breath is hot against your neck, sucking and kissing and teasing, the occasional nip when you whimper just the way he likes.

his weight presses the wine harder into your stomach. you gasp, “toji, the wine—“

“hold it, baby.”

your eyes squeeze shut as his kisses trail further down your neck, tummy fluttering as heat pools between your thighs. his thumb on your hip sinks under the silk of your panties, and you whine his name before he shushes you with a sweet kiss to your cheek.

toji doesn’t kiss you on the lips. the lips are too honest, and toji is not.

you’re still clutching the bottle, chest heaving as toji presses your hips deeper, deeper—

“ow!”

toji freezes.

in truth, toji zenin has never been a gentle man. his body is too big and his hands are too rough, and life itself has never treated him gently, nor given him much reason to be gentle towards others. but as toji hovers over you, limbs frozen in alarm, his stomach can’t help but twist with disgust. said body and rough hands have crushed something soft yet again.

“did i hurt you?” his voice comes out weird. “doll—look at me. you okay?”

“i’m fine,” you wince, cheeks flushed as you try to steady your breathing. you twist your leg slightly, sliding your fingers down into the sofa cushion where something sharp poked at you. “something... something poked my leg.”

you pull out a tiny, red brick.

you blink. “a lego?”

for the second time this evening, toji freezes.

he takes it from your hand, flicking it away. he lifts your arms to wrap them around his neck, and lowers himself back to your chest. “that what you stopped me for, princess?” he mutters coolly, like his heart isn’t beating in his throat. “had me so worried, baby.”

“toji, why do you have a lego?”

he kisses your jaw, “my nephew’s.”

ah, that makes sense. you hug his neck tighter, giggling as he slips the wine off your belly & onto the floor. he presses yet another kiss to your neck, warm & sweet, and you let your chin rest on his shoulder as he loves you with gentler hands.

but then you see it.

on the metal door of the kitchen fridge, past a jar of gummy worms and a poorly placed broom, a banana-shaped magnet is there.

and right under it, a scribbled drawing. the messy figure of a man with spiky hair, and a smaller, more spiky-haired boy.

DADDY AND ME.

your body goes still.

toji’s hands are on your hips, thighs, waist—but his touch suddenly itches. the warmth has gone cold.

“toji,” you whisper. “who drew that?”

toji doesn't move. his eyes slowly follow your gaze to the fridge, and the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. the lie slips out of his mouth before his brain can even catch up to it.

“sociology project,” he breathes. “developmental regression. drew it with my left hand.”

“your left hand…”

your voice trails off as toji sinks his lips back to your neck.

toji zenin does not study sociology.

TORU’S REMARK : YOU CAN’T FOOL HER FOREVER.

BROKE BOY TACTICS #4: LEAN INTO THE LARP !

taught by: sato gojo

“you can’t pull up to a date in an uber. take my porsche—you’re a rich guy now.”

ΣΧ

it’s late, and three floors down, toji zenin has his hands on his hips, staring at sato’s sleek black porsche in disbelief while his tie itches at his neck. three floors up, in toji’s crappy apartment, the gang’s all there.

megumi has a blanket pulled up to his chin, seated on the couch next to suguru. sukuna is lounging on the floor with his back against said couch. sato is flipping through TV stations. the light in the room is dim, and sato snickers at something sukuna says before tossing him the remote.

“why does everyone always leave me?”

the trio freeze.

megumi’s expression is flat. he’s staring into the tv’s glow, but his eyes are soulless and empty. suguru hesitates—but then he rests a hand on megumi’s hair. “what do you mean, kiddo?”

“daddy’s always leaving now,” megumi closes his eyes, rigid against the couch cushions. “he never spends time with me anymore. he’s acting like my mommy did.”

the three boys’ hearts crack right down the middle.

they’re staring at each other now, the weight of megumi’s words on their shoulders. how do they tell a little boy that the reason his father has been less present—and is also not present tonight—is because he’s currently trying to hide his child’s existence to impress a woman? and that they’re all helping him?

sato speaks first. too quick, too fast.

“he’s just been busy,” he croaks out. “he’s been picking up new shifts. he’s working really hard.”

“yeah,” sukuna agrees. “he’s working hard. to take care of you, meg.”

megumi stares into the tv screen. geto’s hand is still heavy on his head, and his body is limp and his eyes are heavy.

“i know.” megumi mutters. “he’s my hero.”

suguru bites his lip. “you know what, meg? why don’t we draw something? a new picture for your dad?”

megumi’s eyes flit to the kitchen fridge. DADDY AND ME. the picture is still there, but the paper is crinkled and damp now. as if someone threw it away with heavy eyes, then somehow thought better of it.

megumi nods, “yeah.”

“okay, buddy. i’ll go get the crayons.”

“i’ll get the paper!”

“and i’ll… uh. you want a gatorade, kid?”

the three adults go after the various items. megumi takes one last look at his drawing on the fridge, and then he slips off the couch and pads away.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

toji zenin is a man who can only have pride when he pretends.

so today, he pretends the sleek black porsche parked outside your house is his. he pretends he’s not wearing sato’s luxury cologne, that his tie isn’t secondhand, that the cuff of his suit isn’t too tight on his wrist and that the guilt in his mouth doesn’t taste like his blood.

he’s gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white.

when you open the car door, you look like a dream.

your lips are glossy, always glossy, but it’s a different shade of shimmer tonight. your hair is loose all over your shoulders, heels clicky, dress black and matching the shade of sato’s car. toji stares, jaw slack as you slide into the passenger’s seat. the words in his throat have turned into bile.

“Hi.” you blink at him.

“Hi.”

he can’t say much else, and he really ought to but he can’t, so instead he only watches as you huff and click your seatbelt in place. toji licks his lips, turns back to the wheel. says a quick prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in. “you look gorgeous.”

you don’t respond.

the car starts with an expensive growl. it makes toji wince, and he hopes you don’t notice. he’s practiced starting the car three times so he can pretend he’s used to it. he isn’t, and he’ll never be.

he pulls onto the streets, eyes frantically scanning the road as his pulse drums in his teeth.

“toji?” you say, eyes trained ahead of you, voice flat.

“yeah, baby?”

“where are we going?”

toji’s fingers drum on the steering wheel. he turns right at the fork. “somewhere nice,” his voice is strained. “somewhere you deserve to be.”

he lets his right hand shift to the center console, trying to bridge the gap. his hand is sweating, maybe. you glance at it. glance away.

you peer out the window, head against the edge, watching the lights blur through the glass. “i feel like i’m sitting in a museum,” you murmur, quiet. “everything feels curated. including you.”

he swallows. “i’m trying to make tonight special.”

“special…” you trail off, lashes fluttering as you stare out the window.

“i don’t know who you are, zenin.”

toji’s head aches. and so does his chest, violent and sharp and stabbing. he’s a liar, a con artist, a selfish man with rough hands and a son waiting at home. oh—megumi. his phone’s been buzzing in his pocket for a while now. how’s megumi?

“i’m just a guy,” he chooses to say. “a guy who likes you.”

“do you? or is that just part of the exhibit?”

maybe there really is a god watching, because before toji can respond something makes a sound.

he’s not sure what, honestly, but he’s quick to capitalize on it. he needs the air. toji turns into an empty street to park. he unbuckles his seat belt, leans over a bit. “stay in the car, okay?”

you only nod, and toji’s throat curls with guilt.

the night air is cool on his skin. he opens the car bonnet—careful, as careful as a man like him can be—pretending to scan the engines for a possible source of the noise. he doesn’t find anything wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t, but he holds up the bonnet and pretends to check anyways.

three minutes pass before he returns to the car.

three minutes of toji zenin teaching himself how to breathe. the same way he does when megumi shuts down even though he thinks the steps are corny. having a kid really changes you, doesn’t it?

megumi. he looks at his watch, 9PM. his boy should be in bed by now.

the buzzing from his phone has stopped. he should check it now, but you’re still waiting. still beautiful. still hurt.

so toji slams the hood shut. sucks in a breath and slides back into the driver’s seat. you’re staring at him as he buckles his seatbelt.

“toji,” your voice is careful. “do you have anything you want to tell me?”

yes. i work three jobs and i’m drowning in student loans. i got a girl pregnant when i was eighteen, and she left me when i turned twenty-one. i have a boy who’s five-and-a-half and he’s the only good thing i have left. and i’m sorry i lied, but i didn’t want you to leave me before i could love you and i’m sorry, and i’m sorry again, and you deserve better, and i’m sorry.

“no,” toji lies.

you purse your lips. “okay.”

the engine roars back to life. and toji is sweating, and the date feels over before it’s even started, and his pulse is too loud and—

“daddy?”

toji’s blood runs cold.

in the backseat of sato’s porsche, megumi zenin is there, body tucked under a blanket and rubbing his eyes. he slips off the seat and stumbles towards the console, still rubbing at his face. “hi, daddy.”

toji zenin can only stay frozen as megumi wraps his smaller arms around his neck.

he tries to speak, fingers twitching as they hover over his son’s back. “megumi—hey, buddy—what’re you doing here?”

megumi buries his nose into his father’s neck. “i didn’t want to be alone again.”

toji bites his lip. he can feel your eyes boring into him, and he nervously scrambles. “hey—you’re never alone, buddy. where are your uncles? come here.”

he lifts megumi into his lap, avoiding your gaze.

“is this your son?”

toji’s mouth dries.

he could say it’s his nephew, make up some lie about him referring to both him and his ‘brother’ as dad, but god. you’re already looking at him with something he doesn’t have the vocabulary to name, and toji’s jaw aches.

“yes,” he sucks in a breath. “this is my son, megumi.”

he brushes megumi’s hair back, taking his little fist away from his face so he stops rubbing at his eyes. “meg, say hi to the pretty lady.”

“hi, pretty lady.”

megumi waves a small hand, then collapses against his father’s stomach.

you force a smile and flick your eyes back up to toji.

“i think you should take me home.”

???’s REMARK : YOU CAN’T LARP YOUR WAY INTO BEING LOVED !

BROKE BOY TACTICS #5: EMBRACE YOUR ECONOMICS !

taught by: nanami kento, megumi zenin.

“maybe she doesn’t hate you. maybe she hates that you thought so little of her you felt the need to live a lie.”

ΣΧ

it’s a new day, and toji zenin is laden with old burdens.

he’s slumped against his bedroom wall, phone pressed to his ear with megumi on his stretched out legs. megumi has a red & green colored hand in another jar full of gummy worms. toji makes a mental note to hide it better next time.

“you didn’t just lose the date,” nanami’s voice cuts through the speaker, flat and professional as always. “you insulted her intelligence. made her out to be a shallow woman who’d only care about you if you had money in your bank account.”

toji stares at the ceiling. then at megumi, who’s about to eat a gummy worm off the floor. he flicks it away. “she looked at me like i was trash, nanami.”

“she looked at you like you were a liar,” nanami corrects. “which you are.”

nanami sighs, breath sending a crackle through the speaker. all he wanted to do was spend his afternoon reading his new favorite BL, doukyuusei, but once again the shenanigans of his friends have interrupted his peace.

“toji, you’re a smart man. and she sounds like a smart woman. i doubt she’d lose interest because you have a son—i believe she hates that you lied to her.”

megumi takes a worm and makes it crawl through toji’s lips. it’s cold, but toji chews and swallows anyways. “i need to apologize.”

“yes,” toji can hear a page flip. “and quickly. i have to attend to other matters now, but say hi to megumi for me.”

the line goes dead, and toji drops his hand to the floor.

megumi chews a gummy worm. then he takes it out of his mouth, frowns at it, then eats it again. “daddy, are you mad at me?”

toji frowns. “for what?”

“i ruined your date,” megumi looks into the jar of worms, frowning, then back at his dad. “with auntie.”

toji looks at his son. at his candy smeared cheeks, sticky hands, black spikes of hair and sugar in his teeth. megumi looks just like him. he’s always known it, but he’s growing to look more and more like his father every day.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he murmurs, pulling his son into his chest. “you’ve never ruined anything in your life.”

he pats megumi’s hair, head thrown back. “i’m sorry, meg.”

five-year-old megumi zenin has already lost interest. he’s more focused on getting the red and blue gummy in the sea of yellow-green ones, small hand grabbing fistfuls of worms before dropping them back. he doesn’t know his father is sorry, sorry for everything, for trying to erase his existence to impress a woman and for bringing him into this world knowing he will never be able to give him the future he deserves.

megumi retrieves the red and blue gummy worm. his favorite flavor. he blinks at it once, twice.

then he turns to his dad. lifts the gummy worm on his palm to his face.

toji zenin eats it right off.

ⵌ SHOW TIME !

megumi zenin is in his best clothes: baby blue button-up from suguru. a white top with a red race car that sukuna had got him for his birthday. light up skechers from uncle sato. toji had tried to get him to wear normal shoes, but megumi shut that down quickly. he wanted to be seen.

you no longer frequent the local loblaws.

and it breaks toji’s heart, actually. you haven’t blocked him just yet, thank god, so toji thinks you might not yet hate him completely. that he might still have a chance.

call him a weirdo, but he’s been to almost every grocery store nearby.

no frills, sobeys, you name it. and now, at 12:30PM sunday, toji zenin is in his car with his son, watching you load groceries into the backseat with a pout on your lips. like you’re above this. like you need a big, strong man to offer his help. and toji’s chest aches. because he could be that man, you know. if you’d let him.

toji slips out of the car. megumi hops out too.

he stops just a few feet behind you, watching you mutter curses as you haul a carton of juice. toji’s lip twitches. then he pulls megumi along.

“let me help.”

you blink as toji comes out of seemingly nowhere to save the day. he lifts everything out of your cart and into your car, never breaking a sweat. truthfully, your groceries aren’t even that heavy. he’s not sure why you were struggling, but he thinks it’s so fucking cute.

he lets you click your remote to close the boot shut. then he turns to you: “i owe you an apology.”

you tilt your head. “do you?”

he squeezes megumi’s hand in his own to ground himself. “i lied because i was scared,” he admits, and you never thought you’d hear toji and ‘scared’ in the same sentence. “you’re a pretty girl from a nice family who spends my rent money on groceries,” he breathes. “and i want you, bad. and i thought if you saw me—the me who lived paycheck to paycheck and has nothing except this little brat,” he raises megumi’s hand, “you’d leave before i even got a chance.”

he shifts his hand to megumi’s head. “it’s fucking stupid, i know. but this is my son,” he ruffles megumi’s hair. “say hi, kid.”

“hi, auntie.”

your gaze shifts away from toji, and drops to the little boy beside him. megumi is apple cheeks, dark, messy hair and nervous feet shifting on the pavement. he looks like his dad, and the sight makes your heart melt.

“hi, baby boy.” you crouch down to his height. “i love your shirt. do you wanna come here?”

megumi nods. he abandons his father’s side to let you scoop him up in your arms.

toji frowns.

megumi’s a shy kid. or not shy—awkward. he can’t make eye contact with kids his age, his tone is too flat, and his eyes are always bored. he doesn’t like to be touched by people he isn’t familiar with, and he’s very quick to say no to what he doesn’t like or want. so toji can only watch, brows knit in confusion, as megumi’s fist curls over your necklace and he lets you press a kiss to his cheek.

“hi, auntie,” megumi collapses into your shoulder, fist still gripping your necklace. “i did a very good job.”

“so good, baby,” you kiss his hair, grinning. “i’m gonna buy you all the gummies in the world.”

megumi blushes from the affection. he shifts his head over your shoulder so all you can see is his pink chubby cheek.

“what the hell is happening?”

“daddy’s a big dummy,” megumi mutters into your shoulder. “the biggest,” you agree.

toji’s frown deepens, and you laugh. “i’ve already met megumi, silly.”

toji blinks. he’s about to ask how, but you beat him to it: “remember when you got out of the car? megumi woke up in the backseat,” you kiss his ear softly, and megumi’s blush deepens. “we had a long chat about you, toji. and i asked him to pretend we’ve never met, and go back to sleep in the car.”

you watch megumi, fond. his fingers curling deeper into your necklace, his eyes shy and staring behind you. “i can’t believe you’ve been keeping this little angel from me. you’re a monster, toji.”

“dummy monster…” megumi mutters. you kiss his cheek again and he hides.

toji thinks about it. to megumi referring to you as auntie back in the apartment. fuck. he didn’t think too much of it, but perhaps he should’ve.

“so? you two were testing me, or some shit?”

you shift a hand from megumi’s back to your hip. “no attitude, mister. i’m still mad at you,” your frown, and then your shoulders drop. “did you really think you had to fake having money to impress me? picking me up in a porsche when i’ve already seen your crappy apartment?”

you stroke megumi’s hair. “and lying about meg,” your expression goes soft, sad. “have you apologized to him?”

“yeah,” megumi tugs your necklace. “he told me sorry.”

you smile at him, then kiss his little fist. “that’s great, baby. you deserve an apology. and i’m sorry as well, for taking away your time with your father.”

megumi pats your face, voice flat. “i forgive you.”

you giggle, pinching his cheek, and toji can only stare in disbelief.

megumi’s cheeks are pink from your kisses, little fingers curled tight around your necklace while you sway him absentmindedly against your chest. his light-up skechers blink every time his feet kick against your thighs. you’re smiling at him like he’s heaven as a boy, and megumi—quiet, awkward, megumi—is hiding his face in your shoulder because he’s shy.

how greedy.

how greedy of toji zenin to pick out cheerios from between couch cushions like trying to erase evidence of a crime scene. how greedy of him to scrub crayon off his walls, peel gummies off his floors and hide away his son with other people he can’t truly call family. how greedy of him to rip his son’s drawing off the fridge, only to put it back again later because he can’t even be greedy right.

how greedy of toji zenin to hide the only good thing in his life away; all because he wanted yet another good thing: you.

he wanted your pretty laugh in his apartment. wanted your heels by the front door, wanted your perfume in his sheets and your voice mixed with megumi’s cartoons on saturday mornings. toji zenin wanted everything.

now his everything was shoving his chubby hand in the face of his other everything to keep from getting attacked by kisses. but he was smiling. megumi zenin was smiling, and blushing, and laughing—and toji thinks about how he hasn’t seen megumi this childish in a while.

his heart aches.

“i’m sorry.”

sorry for what? he knows what he’s sorry for, but the words have failed him again, so he can only watch. watch as you tilt your head the way you always do, before megumi glances at you and tilts his head back at him the same way. oh god.

“‘gumi, do we forgive daddy?”

“yeah,” megumi’s feet kick. his shoes light up, red and blue. “if he stops hiding my gummies.”

toji won’t hide his gummies anymore. hell, he’ll never hide anything again in his life.

and maybe megumi senses the guilt on his father’s shoulders, because he squirms his tiny body for you to set him down and dashes so hard into his father’s legs that he knocks his forehead against his knee. “ow…”

toji snorts, crouching. “what are you doing, kid.” but he’s scooping megumi into his arms anyways. you pad closer, grin cheeky, and poke megumi on his side.

“how about we go shop for some gummy worms?”

BONUS — Y/N AND MEG’S FIRST MEET !

“who are you?”

the voice makes you jolt. you’re staring at your hands in the passenger’s seat of toji’s rented—no, probably borrowed—porsche, blinking away tears in your eyes when a tiny voice speaks behind you.

you whip your head around so fast your neck aches.

and standing there is a little boy, tiny, maybe four or five, rubbing away sleep from his eyes. his hair comes in tufts of black, and his eyes are blue, and oh my god he looks just like his father.

toji.

megumi is rubbing his eyes harder now. your heart melts.

“hi, baby,” you coo, patting away your own tears on your lashes. “i’m friends with your daddy. what’s your name?”

“i’m megumi,” he sniffles, yawns. “my friends call me meg. but i don’t have any friends.”

oh. “hi, meg. what’re you doing here? did your dad leave you home alone?”

you hope he says no, because you know toji’s been hiding something—someone from you, but he wouldn’t go that far. at least, you hope he wouldn’t.

“no, my uncles are at home,” he says sleepily. and you hover your hands over his face in silent permission. he blinks at your hands, sniffles again, before nodding to let you brush his hair back from his face. “i wanted to see daddy. he left for work.”

work? no he didn’t. toji zenin is outside, lifting the bonnet of a car he knows is too good to call his. “did he tell you he was going to work, meg?”

“no, but i know he is. he works for us. he wears the tie and he goes away.”

“oh, baby…”

toji zenin is a liar. a liar with a handsome face, and warm touch, and words that make your head dizzy. and you should be mad, really. you are, but the sight of this little boy with a face like his father’s only makes your heart ache.

you want to ask questions: who are your uncles? where were you when i came over? is your mother still in the picture?

but megumi zenin is blinking sleepily as you caress his cheek, leaning into your touch with a sigh.

“megumi, do you wanna make a deal?”

“what kind of deal?” megumi tries to rub his eyes, but you ease his fist away.

“a super simple one. your daddy’s been acting really strange, right? to you and me,” you pat his cheek. “all you have to do is act like we’ve never met, and i’ll give you anything you want.”

megumi thinks very hard. then he asks, “are you the lady daddy wants to impress?”

you blink. “what do you mean?”

“i heard him on the phone with uncle sugu,” megumi rests his head against your leather car seat. “he said he likes a nice lady. said he wants to be a better man for her.” he rubs his eye. “then he started leaving me. where’s daddy? i wanna talk to daddy.”

“oh, meg,” your heart breaks. “come here, baby.”

megumi hesitates, but then he lets you pull him into a hug. his hands are limp by his sides, but he pats your back once before his tiny hand slips away. “auntie, why are you crying?”

your shoulders shake over him. you sniffle, “don’t worry about it, meg. and your daddy’s gonna come back soon, okay? and he won’t leave you alone anymore. i’ll make sure of it.”

megumi pulls back. “you promise?”

you cup his cheeks. “i promise. go back to sleep, okay?”

EPILOGUE !

on the couch of toji’s crappy apartment, megumi zenin is curled into his father’s side, gummy worms in his mouth as he presses his sticky hands to the screen of his brand new ipad pro. a shiny gift from his loving uncle sato, who bought him the device despite suguru and toji’s wishes.

megumi offers his father a gummy worm. “when is auntie coming?”

toji eats it off his palm. “soon, kid,” he clicks his tongue. “swear you like her more than me now.”

megumi picks out five gummy worms from the jar, then lines them up on his ipad screen for convenience. “nah, i like daddy the most.”

toji softens.

all toji can see right now is the top of his little boy’s head, his tiny nose poking out and his chubby little cheeks. the ipad screen is sticky and candy smeared—much like megumi’s hands—and on the screen is a video of a teacup in a ballet dress—ballerina cappucina?—getting married to a little espresso man wearing a ninja bandana. toji frowns. the video gives him flashbacks to his days of working as skai jackson’s personal AI prompt writer. he shivers.

toji shakes his head. “meg, you know i’m never leaving, right?”

“i know,” megumi groans. “you told me a billion times yesterday!”

“quit whining,” toji murmurs, pulling his son into his lap. megumi reaches for his jar of gummy worms, and toji tugs it closer. “just wanted to remind you.” he mumbles.

megumi slumps against his father’s chest. soft, distracted, satisfied. “you don’t need to say sorry anymore. i forgive you.”

toji kisses his hair, burying his face in the dark strands. he sighs, “thanks, kiddo.”

———

when the doorbell rings, toji zenin is already half-asleep.

the sound—and megumi’s accidental jab of his elbow against his stomach—wakes him right up. toji smooths his hair, rubs the sleep from his eyes. then he turns to tell megumi to go wash his sticky hands, then decides not to.

he sucks in a breath and opens the door.

“hi, pretty.”

“move. i’m not here for you.”

you shove at his chest and push your way into the apartment, and on the couch to the right megumi zenin is there, ipad in hands and cheeks sticky and looking up at you with big, blue eyes.

“auntie?”

“oh, my baby!”

you scoop him off the couch and into your arms, and megumi clutches your shoulders tight as you attack him with kisses on his forehead, cheeks, everywhere. toji’s eye twitches in disbelief. “are we serious?”

“oh, you’re still here,” you glance over at him, bored. “meg and i are gonna make cookies today. mind being a doll and fetching the ingredients from the car?” you toss him your car keys.

toji looks at the keys in his hands. then you, who is cooing silly things that make megumi blush and bury his head in your neck.

toji pads over to you, slow. “i wanted to see you.”

you ignore his hands snaking around your hips. you turn your nose up at him, “and now, you have.”

“you still mad at me?”

of course you’re still mad. maybe not as mad as you were a week ago, but still upset. that he lied. that he thought so little of you that he went out of his way to sculpt a whole other life and hide away the little angel in your arms. but toji’s hands are still heavy on your hips. his voice is warm in your ear. and he apologized, you know. in the parking lot that day. at your house on monday, holding a bouquet of half-dead flowers and wearing a rented suit that went to waste because you refused to go out with him anyway. he sent you an hour long voicemail apologizing. you listened to it all on the way here.

toji zenin is such a sap.

he acts like he isn’t, though. but he is, and you feel it in how he presses his lips to your neck, over and over and over again. i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry.

megumi shoves his father’s lips away. “daddy stop.”

you laugh, nuzzling megumi’s cheek. “he’s such a dummy, isn’t he meg? do you think i should forgive him?”

“yeah,” megumi mutters, collapsing into your neck. “he said sorry a billion times to me yesterday. daddy’s really sorry for everything.”

“aww. daddy’s so cute when he’s sorry, isn’t he?”

toji is glaring at you. you can only giggle and press a kiss to his jaw, and his eyes widen a bit in surprise. you cup his jaw and press another one to his cheek. just one more, because you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t missed him as well.

“i forgive you, mister. now go get those groceries—shoo!”

toji nuzzles your neck before leaving the apartment.

megumi is still on your hip, clutching your shoulders for balance as you pick out pans and trays from the cupboard. he grips your hair in a tiny fist. “auntie?”

“hm, gummy?”

megumi hides in your neck—shy, nervous. “are you gonna be my new mommy?”

you freeze.

megumi clutches you tighter. his face is buried in your throat, and he’s gripping so tightly his little nails bite into your skin, but you soften. toji had already confessed everything in his voicemail. his mom isn’t in the picture anymore. how a mother can let go of a little angel like meg, you don’t know, but who are you to judge and conclude?

“i don’t know, meg, it’s too soon,” you hum softly, setting a pan on the tabletop. “but i know i’ll be here, baby. for you.”

“will you be at my school, too?” he peers up at you, big eyes glimmering with hope. “all the other kids have mommies except for me.”

“oh, megumi—of course i’ll be there!”

it’s taking everything in you not to carry this boy and run! you attack his face with kisses, and megumi squirms in your arms but he’s giggling. his hands are sticky on your face, neck, everywhere, but you kiss him over and over again, because you’ve only known him for a little over a week but you’re already ready to give him the world. “auntie, stop!” but he’s laughing. “there’s lip gloss all over me!”

when toji walks in, he can’t believe his eyes.

there are too many shopping bags in his hands, because everything about you is too much, even down to your shopping, and toji is staring in disbelief. the woman of his dreams in his kitchen, holding his son, and his son is laughing. laughing the way he used to before his mother left him two years ago.

and he doesn’t really deserve the warmth curling in his chest, or the strange feeling coursing through his veins, but who is toji zenin if not greedy?

so he drops the bags to his feet (gently, because you’d curse him if the eggs broke), and pads over to the kitchen where you’re showering megumi with affection, and he snakes his arms around your waist and drops his head into your neck. you turn, grinning, and you don’t push him away when he presses a quick kiss to your lips. the lips are honest, and now toji is too.

“aww, look at you getting all sappy.”

“auntie made my face all sticky..”

toji squeezes you both tight. a little greed never killed a man.

MEGUMI’S REMARK : CAN I HAVE SOME GUMMY WORMS…?

#SIGMA CHI STORIES !

LOVE OVER LOBLAWS, end.

© HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

SIGMA CHI TAGLIST (A) — JOIN HERE !

the way everyone keeps shifting around you like you are something set down wrong in the middle of the room. something breakable. something dangerous. something nobody wants to touch unless they know exactly where the sharp parts are.

you stand just inside the door after the van empties, one hand hanging at your side, fingers still half-curled around a knife that is no longer there. frenchie has it. you remember that in pieces. cloth around the blade. his hands gentle for once. his eyes not meeting yours.

the room moves.

mm drops the bag of manuals onto the table. frenchie sets his equipment down too carefully. kimiko locks the door behind everyone, then checks the window, then the hallway, because motion is better than standing still. annie stays beside you, not holding you, but close enough that if your knees decide to quit their job, she’ll know before the floor does.

hughie hovers by the couch with bloodless lips and shaking hands. “i’m sorry,” he says again, voice small enough to make your stomach twist. “i’m so sorry, i—”

“hughie,” annie says. not unkind. not angry. just stop. he does. his mouth shuts, but his face keeps saying it.

you cannot look at him for long. he is alive. that should help. but it doesn’t. not in any way you understand yet. it only makes the feeling sharper. one alive because one is dead. one breathing because one stopped. easy. simple. brutal enough to make your chest feel hollow.

butcher steps in front of you.

that surprises you. not because he has been absent, exactly. butcher is never absent. he has been in the room the whole time, carrying the stolen manuals like they weigh less than what happened, jaw tight, eyes too sharp, cigarette at the ready between his fingers. 

but now he is in front of you, close enough that annie shifts slightly, ready to interfere if he says the wrong thing.

he looks at you with an expression you almost don’t recognize on him. not pity. not softness. butcher doesn’t really do softness unless it’s been dragged out of him with pliers. but there is something steady there. something firm enough to lean on without asking permission.

“look at me,” he says.

you do.

his eyes don’t move to your trousers. don’t move to your hands. he keeps them on your face. “you did good.”

your stomach turns. “jesus christ.”

“no,” he says, and there’s no cruelty in it. no bite. just command. “you listen to me now.”

your mouth closes.

he nods once, like that’s better. like you are still on mission and he is giving you the next instruction. maybe that is the only way he knows how to be kind without choking on it.

“you were focused. you were ready. hughie’s alive because you moved when you had to.” his voice lowers, rough around the edges. “that’s a bitch of a thing. i know it is. i’m not dressin’ it up pretty for you. but it was good.”

good. the word doesn’t fit. it scrapes against what you remember: the blade going in, the guard’s body jerking, the sound he made against your shoulder. not loud. barely even human by the time your brain let you hear it. good is too clean for that.

“i killed him,” you say.

“yeah,” butcher answers. no flinch. no denial. “and hughie’s standin’ over there because of it.” butcher glances briefly toward him, then back to you. “you think i’m gonna tell you it doesn’t matter? i’m not. it matters. it’ll matter tomorrow, and the day after, and whenever your head decides to be a real bastard about it. but tonight, you’re alive. he’s alive. we’re all alive because you didn’t freeze.”

you don’t understand it. not fully. your body is too cold, your hands too wrong, your brain still kneeling on concrete beside a dead man even as you're staring at him. but you understand the warmth under his words, even if the words themselves are hard and ugly. you understand that butcher is not looking at you like a weapon. not right now. he is looking at you like someone he brought home.

that makes your eyes sting so suddenly you almost hate him for it. butcher sees that too. his jaw works once, like he has realized he has accidentally stepped into concerned father territory and would rather walk directly into traffic than remain there.

“right,” he says, voice roughening back toward familiar ground. he looks past you. “annie.”

“yeah,” annie says immediately.

“get her cleaned up. fresh clothes. whatever else.”

you blink, a little slow. “i can shower by myself.”

butcher looks back at you, sarcasm dragged along the way. “didn’t say she was gettin’ in there with you, did i?”

annie’s mouth tightens, but not with humor. “come on.”

you let her guide you down the hall. not because you need help walking. you don’t. mostly. your legs still work. everything still works. a body should not work this well after doing something it can’t take back.

annie brings you to the bathroom and leaves clean clothes on the sink. soft sweatpants. one of your old shirts. underwear folded neatly under both. she does not crowd you. does not stand in the doorway with her arms crossed. does not watch you like you are about to vanish down the drain.

she just touches your wrist once before leaving. “i’ll be right outside the hall if you need anything.” 

you nod. the door closes. the bathroom becomes too quiet.

for a while, you just stand there with your back to the door, listening to the pipes, the old fan ticking overhead, the muffled movement of people outside trying to pretend they are not worried. then you look down.

the blood is darker now. almost brown in places. stiff in the fabric at your knees and thigh, cracked where your legs bent in the van. it takes you too long to make yourself touch the waistband. longer still to peel the trousers down your legs.

they make a wet, awful sound where the fabric sticks.

you stop breathing for a second. then you throw them into the corner like they burned you.

the shower turns on with a shriek of old pipes. the water comes out cold first, shocking over your fingers when you reach in. you wait for it to warm. then hotter. then too hot. you step under anyway.

blood runs pink at your feet. you watch it spiral toward the drain and your mind does something strange with the sight—turns it unreal, turns it into a thing happening to someone else in a bathroom that is not yours. 

you scrub your arms first. your neck. your face. your knees. the place where the blood soaked through. you scrub until your skin burns and the water runs clear.

then you wash your hands. once. twice. again. 

the soap smells sharp and cheap. it gathers white between your fingers, under your nails, around the tiny splits in your knuckles. you dig your thumb beneath each nail until it hurts.

clear water. still, you see it. you wash again.

your breathing goes wrong somewhere around the fifth time. not crying, not properly. just your chest catching, throat closing, the hot water running over your bowed head while you hold your hands under the stream and wait for them to feel like yours.

eventually, the water starts to cool.

you turn it off.

the bathroom mirror is fogged over, which is a mercy. you dry yourself with slow, mechanical movements and pull on the clean clothes annie left. the sweatpants are soft. it feels obscene to wear something comfortable after cold concrete and blood. your hair drips down the back of your shirt. you wipe the mirror with one hand and regret it immediately when your face appears.

you look tired. not broken. not changed in a dramatic way anyone could point at. just tired. 

that feels unfair too.

when you open the bathroom door, soldier boy is there. you stop so suddenly your damp hair slips over your shoulder.

he is leaning against the opposite wall in the hallway, still in the loose shirt and stupid shorts he must have changed into after the mission. not drinking. not pretending he accidentally passed by. he’s just standing there, hair mussed like he dragged a hand through it too many times and got annoyed when that didn’t fix whatever was happening inside his head.

his eyes move over you once. not like before. not the slow drag meant to provoke. this is quieter. checking, maybe. cataloguing. the clean clothes. wet hair. raw hands. trembling mouth you immediately try to control.

“what are you doing?” you ask. your voice comes out husky, too close to breaking.

his jaw tightens. “walking.”

you stare at him. “in the hallway?”

“looks like it.”

you almost snap at him. you want to. it would be easier. familiar. instead, your lips tremble. just once. barely. but he sees it. something crosses his face so fast you might have missed it if you hadn’t learned to look for damage in the smallest places. annoyance, maybe. but not at you. not really. more like his whole body is offended by the fact that you are standing there clean and shaking and trying not to cry, and there is nothing in him built neatly enough to handle it.

he huffs. rough. irritated. his eyes cut away for half a second, like looking at you directly is causing him physical inconvenience. “come on.”

“what?”

he turns toward your room. “you deaf now?”

“i’m not—”

“move.”

you follow because arguing requires a version of yourself you left somewhere on a warehouse floor.

your room is dim when he pushes the door open. annie must have turned off the overhead light earlier, leaving only the lamp near your bed on low, gold around the edges. your gear is still on the chair. your vest folded badly. the deep poster still hidden under the magazines. normal things. stupid things.

soldier boy walks in and takes your bed.

sits first, then shifts back against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly. he looks absurd there. too big for the mattress, too broad for the room, too alive and warm and present in a place where everything feels hollowed out.

you stand near the door. “absolutely not.”

he looks at you. “shut up.”

“that’s my bed.”

“so?”

“get off.”

“no.”

“soldier boy—”

his eyes sharpen. “ben.”

the name lands between you. not soft. not sweet. a correction. a reminder. a demand. your throat closes around whatever you meant to say next.

he holds your gaze for a beat, then lifts one arm. not tenderly. he just opens it, elbow bent, hand loose, like the whole thing irritates him and he intends to blame you for it later. “get in.”

you stare at the space against his side. “are you insane?”

“probably.”

“i’m not sleeping on you.”

“didn’t say sleep.”

“then what?”

“lie down.”

your eyes sting hard enough that you have to blink. “why?”

his mouth tightens. for one second, you think he’ll make it crude. he could. he has a thousand ugly lines stored somewhere behind his teeth, all of them easier than this. something about women needing to be held together. something about you looking like hell. something about finally getting you in bed and having the worst timing of his life.

he doesn’t. “because you’re standing there like you’re gonna fall over.”

your face twists before you can stop it. the tears don’t fall yet, but they fill your eyes. hot. humiliating. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “i don’t want to think.”

he huffs again, but this time the sound is almost painful. his chest lifts with a breath he doesn’t use properly. “then don’t.”

“that’s not how it works.”

“tonight it is.”

“you can’t just order my brain around.”

“watch me.”

a wet, broken almost-laugh catches in your throat and dies there. your lips tremble again. you press them together, but it’s useless now. he’s seen too much.

his expression does something strange. hardens and cracks at the same time. “stop playing rough,” he says, voice lower. “just get in.”

that does it. not because it’s pretty. not because it fixes anything. because it’s him, and it’s awful, and it’s the closest thing to please he can drag out without bleeding from the mouth.

you cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed first, careful not to touch him. ridiculous, considering his arm is still open and waiting. he watches you with growing impatience, then finally hooks a hand around your upper arm and pulls.

you fold against him with a breath that nearly breaks apart on the way out. your cheek lands against his chest, over the loose cotton of his shirt. not the glowing place exactly but close enough that your body remembers the heat of it. one of your hands braces awkwardly against his stomach before you curl it into a fist and tuck it between you instead.

he is warm. solid. your body hates how badly it needs that. “this is stupid,” you whisper.

“yeah.”

“you’re in my bed.”

“yup.”

“wearing shorts.”

“you want me to take ’em off?”

you let out a small, strangled noise that is almost a laugh and almost a sob. “don’t ruin this.”

he goes quiet. his arm settles around your back. heavy. steady. not stroking, no. not petting. not making a production out of tenderness neither of you would survive. his palm rests between your shoulder blades, broad and warm, pressing just enough to hold you there when your breathing starts to shake.

he doesn’t say it’s okay. he doesn’t say you did what you had to. he doesn’t say he’s killed more men than he can count, doesn’t turn your first blood into one of his war stories, doesn’t offer you the cheap comfort of comparison. he just stays under you, breathing slow enough that your body can steal the rhythm if it wants.

for a while, you fight it. you lie stiff against him, eyes open in the low light, staring at the fold of his shirt near your fist. your hands still feel raw. your skin still feels too clean and not clean enough. every time you close your eyes, there is concrete. blood. hughie’s white face. the small sound the guard made when the knife went in.

your breath catches. soldier boy’s hand presses a little firmer against your back. just there.

“i can still feel it,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

he doesn’t ask what. he knows. his jaw moves above you. you can feel it more than see it. “yeah.”

one word. no comfort in it. somehow, comfort anyway.

your eyes burn again. this time, tears slip out, quiet and hot, soaking into the front of his shirt before you can hide them. your whole body tenses in immediate shame.

“don’t,” his hand stays steady. “not like that.”

your voice is almost gone. “like what?”

“like you’re gonna apologize for it.”

you close your eyes and the tears keep coming, silent now. not enough to make you sob. just enough to make your face wet against him, enough that he definitely knows. enough that he could say something awful and ruin it.

he doesn’t. he looks toward the door instead, jaw tight, eyes hard in the dim room like he’s daring the whole world to come in and make noise. no one does.

down the hall, the safehouse moves in soft pieces. a cabinet opens. someone speaks low. pipes knock once in the wall. life continuing with infuriating nerve.

soldier boy stays.

after a while, your breathing evens out. not sleep. not even close. but less jagged. your hand unclenches against his shirt, fingers relaxing one at a time without permission.

his palm remains at your back. steady. all night, as it turns out.

you drift, wake, drift again. every time your body jerks with some half-formed memory, he is still there. same stupid shorts. same loose shirt. same heavy warmth beneath your cheek. he does not move you off him. does not make a joke when your hair dries messy against his chest. does not complain when your hand ends up gripping the fabric near his ribs.

once, very late, you think he might be asleep. then you hear him breathe in, slow and controlled, and realize he has been awake the whole time, listening to you. watching the door. counting your breaths. never telling you it was okay. never leaving you alone with it either.

you don’t sleep. not really. but you stop shaking before morning.

soldier boy is in the living room. he sits on the couch with a beer he hasn’t finished, one arm over the backrest, watching the room work around him through the reflection in the dark tv screen. every now and then, butcher asks him something about old vought storage sites, old military contractors, old anything, and soldier boy answers with clipped irritation.

you don’t blame him.

the warehouse is a couple of states away. old vought shell company. officially empty, unofficially receiving enough reinforced alloy and vapor-regulation tech to build something that looks very much like a freezer with a budget increase. frenchie keeps saying it might only be parts. mm keeps saying that is how people talk right before discovering a fully operational nightmare in a basement.

butcher, naturally, has decided you’re all going.

“small team my ass,” he says, tapping ash into a chipped mug annie has already told him not to use for that. “we go in, we see what they’ve got, we take what we need, burn what we don’t, and fuck off before vought starts clappin’.”

“you make it sound simple,” hughie grimaces.

“it is simple.”

“last time simple happened, i watched someone get hit with a crowbar.”

“and?” butcher asks.

hughie pauses. frowns. “i don’t know. i feel like that’s enough of a sentence.”

you are sitting at the table with a checklist mm gave you, pretending to review your gear while actually reading the same line four times. flashlight. earpiece. lockpick kit. spare magazine. knife. emergency gauze. the list is practical. necessary. boring enough that it should be impossible to get distracted from. yet, your eyes keep drifting toward the living room.

not to soldier boy’s mouth. absolutely not. maybe to his hands. which is worse. because his hands are wrapped loose around the beer bottle, one thumb worrying at the label, and all your brain can supply is the memory of those same hands rewinding your wrap slowly around your knuckles. warm fabric. rough fingers. his thumb pressing once over the back of your hand. his voice low enough to become a bad decision before you could name it.

wrap’s loose. god.

you look back at the checklist so hard the paper should feel threatened.

“you good?” annie asks beside you.

“yes.” 

you make the mistake of glancing at her.

she doesn’t smile, but her eyes do something knowing and awful.

“don’t start.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“i was about to ask if your earpiece works.”

you stare at her.

she stares back with the face of a woman who could probably survive sainthood if she had to.

“does it?” she asks.

you pick up the earpiece and shove it into the pouch on your vest. “yes.”

“great.”

“you’re unbearable.”

“i learned from you.”

across the room, soldier boy shifts on the couch. you feel it more than see it. which is stupid. you should not have body-awareness of a man sitting twelve feet away.

you stand too fast, grabbing your vest off the back of the chair. “i’m going to check the rest of my stuff.”

annie lifts both hands. “sure.”

you leave before she can look at you any harder.

you don’t go to the gym. instead, you go to your room, leaving the door cracked slightly to still hear the living room commotion.

your room is small. poorly made bed. clean shirt thrown over the chair. boots near the dresser. the deep poster folded badly and shoved face-down under a stack of old magazines because apparently you are incapable of throwing away historical evidence of your own humiliation. your vest lands on the bed with a dull, heavy sound, followed by the knife, the holster, the spare magazine, the lockpick kit, the little roll of gauze annie keeps sneaking into your things like you don’t notice.

you stand there for a second with your hands on your hips and stare at all of it.

mission prep should be simple. it used to be simple. check the gear, check the exits, check the weapon. now, somehow, even a vest feels complicated because your brain keeps reaching back to the gym, to warm hands and rewound wraps and soldier boy’s mouth finding yours.

you take a breath and pull the vest on. it sits wrong immediately. “of course,” you mutter, tugging at the side strap. it twists beneath your fingers, catches under the buckle, and refuses to lie flat. you pull harder. it only gets worse, because apparently even fabric has decided to develop a personality in this house.

behind you, a shadow shifts in the doorway.

you don’t turn around right away. “you lost?” you ask.

soldier boy doesn’t answer for a beat. then, “strap’s twisted.”

slowly, you look over your shoulder.

he stands outside the doorway, not in your room. that’s the first thing you notice. not the messy hair, not the old shirt stretched across his chest, not the way his eyes are already on the vest like he was built to find weak points. the threshold. he stops at it.

“i know,” you say.

“doesn’t look like you know.” his gaze flicks past you once, quick, taking in the bed, the gear, the face-down stack of magazines. then it returns to the strap. “move your hands.”

you look down at yourself. “i have it.”

“you’re making it worse.”

you reach for the buckle again, mostly because spite remains the only reliable source of renewable energy in your life, but soldier boy steps in before you can get your fingers under the twisted nylon. one second he’s at the threshold, the next he’s in your room, close enough that the air changes around your shoulders.

he doesn’t ask. he just huffs through his nose, catches both your wrists in one broad hand, and moves them out of the way like you’re an inconvenience with a pulse. 

“hey—”

“stand still.”

your mouth opens. closes. because he’s already got his hands on the vest, already dragging the strap free from where you’ve jammed it under the buckle, already crowding into your space with that unbearable confidence of his, all blunt force and old-world entitlement wrapped up in the deeply annoying fact that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

his knuckles brush your side.

you know it’s not by accident because he could make this quick. he could yank, tighten, step back, and be done with it in three seconds. instead, he takes his time. not soft. not gentle. it’s a lot worse. measured. practical enough to deny, slow enough to make your skin heat under the vest.

“arms up,” he says.

you stare at him.

his eyes lift to yours, unimpressed. “now.” 

you lift them with all the dignity available to a woman being physically bullied by tactical gear and one extremely insufferable supe in her own bedroom.

soldier boy uses the opening immediately. his hands go to your waist, rough and sure, turning you half an inch to the left like your body is another piece of equipment he has decided to correct. his fingers press against the lower edge of the vest, tugging it down, then flattening the strap across your side.

“you had it sitting too high.”

“did i?”

“yeah.”

“thank god you came in here, then. could’ve died of poor tailoring.”

his mouth twitches, but it doesn’t soften him. if anything, the almost-smile makes you weaker. like he knows exactly how little space there is between you and is enjoying the fact that you’re trying so hard to pretend you don’t notice.

“don’t tempt me,” he says.

the strap pulls tight. you inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.

his eyes cut up. “too tight?”

the question is almost swallowed by irritation. nearly disguised. still there. “no.”

“good.”

then he does it tighter by a fraction anyway, just enough to make the vest sit firm against your ribs. secure. stable. 

his hands stay there, testing the fit, palms broad against the sides of your body while his thumbs press along the front edge. 

your room feels painfully small around him. the cracked door. the bed behind you. the gear spread over the blanket. the folded deep poster hiding under magazines. soldier boy taking up the space in front of you with his head bent, hair falling slightly over his forehead, jaw shadowed, mouth set like this is nothing but a gear check.

his hands drag down once more, checking the line of the vest. 

your heart does something stupid. “you always this handsy with equipment?” you ask, because if you don’t speak, you might combust.

his gaze doesn’t lift. “only when it keeps moving.”

“i’m breathing.”

“try doing it quietly.”

you scoff. “you’re in my room.”

“door was open.”

“cracked.”

“open enough.”

“that your excuse?”

“worked so far.” 

he shifts behind you without warning, one hand at your hip, the other at your shoulder, turning you away from him. positioning. your breath catches—the sudden jolt of being moved by him again, so easily, so completely, like your weight is a suggestion he’s already dismissed. his chest is close to your back. close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your shirt and the vest, close enough that when he reaches around you to check the front buckle, his forearm brushes just beneath your ribs.

“don’t tense,” he says near your ear.

you glare at the wall. “don’t manhandle me.”

“then stop needing it.”

“you are such an asshole.”

“and your knife’s in the wrong place.”

you blink, thrown by the shift. “my knife is fine.”

“no, it’s where you like it. not where it’s useful.”

his hand moves to your hip again, fingers finding the sheath. he unclips it before you can protest, then slides it forward along your belt. the motion is efficient, but the contact is not brief. his fingers press at your waist, his thumb hooking under the strap to secure it, and your body remembers the gym so vividly that for half a second you’re there again: his hand holding yours, his mouth hard and hot, your back near the bench, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

you swallow. he notices. of course he notices. “what?” he asks, voice lower.

“nothing.”

“liar.”

“you’re imagining things.”

“i’m old, not blind.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

his hand closes over yours before you can move the knife back. he brings your fingers to the handle, not gently, but with purpose. guiding. showing. making you feel the difference. “there,” he says. “faster.”

you pull the knife halfway from the sheath. it comes easier now. cleaner. damn him. “fine,” you mutter.

“say that again.”

“absolutely not.”

“you were wrong.”

“i was not wrong. i was less right.”

he huffs behind you, and the sound hits the side of your neck. 

“if someone gets behind you,” he says, rougher now, the humor thinning out of his voice, “you don’t reach back. you go down, make space, cut if you have to.”

the tunnel flashes through your head again. the hand over your mouth. concrete under your heel. your own breath trapped behind someone else’s palm. your fingers tighten around the knife handle. soldier boy’s hand stays over yours. steady. hard. not comforting, exactly. more like a command your body understands.

“don’t let anybody get a hand on you that long again,” he says.

you breathe out slowly. “i got out.”

“you did.”

“then trust that,” you say.

his hand shifts, thumb pressing once against your knuckles. “i do.”

you go still. he seems to realize what he said a second after saying it. his jaw tightens. he lets go of your hand too fast, like the words are still touching him and he doesn’t like it.

you turn around.

he’s closer than you expect. or maybe exactly as close as he meant to be. your back nearly brushes the bedpost, and he stands in front of you with the vest between you like a poor excuse for distance. his eyes are on your face now, not your gear, and whatever practical reason brought him into your room has worn thin enough to see through.

“you trust me?” you ask. the words come out quieter than planned.

his expression hardens immediately. defensive. insulted by the softness of the question. “don’t get excited.”

“too late. i’m practically swooning.”

“you’d hit your head on the way down.”

“you’d catch me.”

his mouth curves, small and sharp. “would i?”

the room stops behaving. it has no right to do that. there are people just outside. maps on the table. butcher’s voice somewhere down the hall. a mission tomorrow that could put all of you face-first into vought’s newest nightmare. this is not the time. this is aggressively not the time. 

and yet. 

soldier boy’s hand lifts to the front of your vest again. no reason this time. he catches the top edge near your collarbone and tugs it into place, slow enough to make your breath change. his knuckles brush the base of your throat.

you hate the sound you almost make. his eyes drop to your mouth.

“strap’s fixed,” you say.

“yeah.”

“knife’s fixed.”

“mhmm.”

“so you’re done.”

he doesn’t move. “looks like it,” he says.

“doesn’t feel like it.”

his gaze returns to yours, dark and direct. “no?”

you should step back. you should shove him. you should say something cutting enough to get the room back under control, something about old men and his apparent inability to understand personal space unless it’s reinforced with concrete. 

instead, you stand there. like an idiot. like you want him to notice.

he leans in a fraction.

your fingers curl at your sides to stop yourself from grabbing his shirt. his mouth is close now. not touching. but making every other thought in your head look embarrassingly flimsy.

then butcher’s voice cuts through the door. “you two done playin’ dress-up?”

you jerk back so fast your hip knocks into the bedframe.

soldier boy doesn’t move. 

butcher stands in the door with his cigarette tucked behind his ear, one eyebrow raised and his mouth curled around the exact kind of smile that makes you want to commit assault with a bedside lamp. his eyes move from soldier boy’s hand still near your collar, to your face, to the vest, then back again.

“gear check,” you say.

“looked thorough.”

“that tends to be the point.”

“didn’t know he was qualified.”

soldier boy turns his head slowly. “you got a reason to be here?”

“unfortunately.” butcher’s smile sharpens. “frenchie got a better read on the warehouse. underground level. two loading bays. cameras on the north side are dead, which means either we’re lucky or it’s bait.”

“it’s bait,” you and soldier boy say at the same time.

butcher’s grin widens. awful. horrific. you want to walk into the sea. “harmony,” he says. “beautiful thing.”

“don’t be disgusting.”

“fuck off,” soldier boy says.

butcher looks between you again, and something in his expression shifts. not much. just enough. the joke thins into calculation, and you feel the change before you fully understand it. you don’t like it. not one bit. “meeting in five,” he says. “try not to get tangled in the buckles.”

“butcher.”

he lifts both hands, already backing away. “five minutes.”

his footsteps retreat down the hall. 

you look down at the vest, adjusting the front panel just to have something to do with your hands. “that was horrible.”

a beat passes. then soldier boy reaches out again. not for your waist. not your neck. he taps two fingers against the knife sheath he moved. “faster,” he says.

you look at him.  his face is back to unreadable, but not empty. he means it. the mission, the knife, the warning. all of it. “yeah,” you say.

his hand drops. “and next time you get an opening,” he adds, “finish it.”

you lift your chin. “still upset i didn’t punch your face?”

“i’m upset you stopped.”

“that’s a very strange complaint.”

“it was clean.”

“your nose was in the way.”

“then break it.”

you stare at him. he is completely serious. you breathe out, slow and irritated. “you are such a romantic.”

“you’ll be alive.”

that shuts you up. not because it’s soft. it isn’t. not because he says it gently. he doesn’t. but it lands like a promise made by someone who would rather swallow glass than call it one.

you look away first. “meeting,” you say, stepping around him.

he lets you go. 

at the doorway, you pause, one hand on the frame. “soldier boy?” his eyes lift. you tap the knife sheath at your hip, right where he moved it. “it’s better there.”

he holds your gaze. then nods once. small. simple. dangerous in the way all small things have become with him. you leave before your face does something stupid.

when you walk back into the main room, annie’s eyes go immediately to your vest. then to your expression. then to the hallway behind you. “gear check?” she asks.

you sit down beside her with great dignity. “don’t.”

her mouth curves. “i didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

across the room, soldier boy walks in a minute later and takes his usual place by the wall, arms crossed, face blank, every inch of him looking like nothing happened. except his eyes cut once to the knife at your hip. then to you. you look away before anyone else notices.almost before anyone else notices. butcher is watching from the head of the table, cigarette between his fingers, smile gone quieter now. and that is worse than if he’d laughed.

It was late. Beyond late, the kind of hour where the dark ceases to be a shield and begins to feel like a countdown

Two hours had bled away since midnight, the precise deadline Sylus had given you to return with the shipment routes. Two hours since his last text had flashed across your screen: "I'm on my way." A terse response to your notification that you had successfully wrung the coordinates from the broker. The deal had come with a condition, of course, but a win was a win.

Now, you stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of the most expensive penthouse in N821. Your skin was still radiating the residual heat of a hot shower, the heavy ivory silk of your robe trailing against your ankles as you knotted the belt around your waist.

N821 was a different kind of monster than N109

Where N109 was a chaotic, bleeding theater of crime, N821 was the same beast refined sleeker, heavily organized, masked in exorbitant wealth, and brutally cold

You closed your eyes, exhaling a slow, sharp breath through your nose. The frustration didn't leave you, it merely settled deeper into your chest. He was with her. That little hunter. The one he taunted. The one you had once discovered practically in his lap

Granted, during that particular encounter, she had a loaded barrel pressed flush against his sternum. And God, how Sylus had thrived on the bite of it. He didn't just tolerate her defiance; he fed on it.

Irrelevant, you reminded yourself, your jaw tightening. Your arrangement with the leader of Onychinus was built on concrete and blood, not sentiment

If there was closeness between you, it was found exclusively in the dark sharp, high friction intimacy utilized purely as stress relief. When two apex predators unite, you do not expect a love story. You expect an alliance

He desired you; that much was undeniable. You were a crown jewel in the underworld silently deadly, poised, and impossibly elegant. A trophy for a man who claimed to own the world

Not an ornament for him though. Never that. Sylus had little interest in fragile things

Yet, your eyes rarely deceived you. Every time he looked at the hunter, there was a faint, intolerable fondness in his gaze. It was childish to even note it, but the great, wanted criminal's eyes actually softened whenever he called her kitten

You despised the word. If he ever dared utter that nickname to you, you would ensure his next glass of wine was laced with cyanide.

Why did she get a title born of affection while you received a title born of strategy? With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the glass to gather the paperwork scattered across the desk. Time was a luxury you didn't possess

The documents required your signature and a thorough review before they could be handed over to your dear husband by morning

Your dear, dear husband.

The man you swore you didn't crave. The man you swore you didn't miss. You swore it because it was the absolute truth. You were detached. It was the only state of being you had ever known

As the perfect daughter of a sprawling empire, love had never been factored into your record.

Neither had vulnerability

For someone who could afford everything the world had to offer, you couldn't afford a heart

You had never been in love. Intimacy itself was a foreign language until Sylus Qin. To this day, the irony of it brought a cold, humorless smile to your lips. Embarrassing, really, that a man so ruthless had been your introduction to the flesh.

Then again, he had set a incredibly high standard.

While other girls your age were experiencing the trivialities of teenage romance, you were busy learning how to strip a firearm in under ten seconds. You had spent your youth enduring grueling training sessions, followed by hours studying the art of high stakes negotiation under the suffocating, stern glare of your father

In your world, knowing how to distinguish which protocore dealer lied and which one merely inflated prices for survival was the key

But you knew how to hate. Sylus knew it, too, and he drew an infuriating amount of satisfaction from drawing that hatred to the surface

You sat in the plush, albeit uncomfortable, armchair, closing your eyes briefly to soothe the pulsing pressure building behind them. You forced yourself to reopen them, scanning the lines of text to highlight the clauses Sylus would inevitably want to contest.

Think of the devil

The heavy click of the penthouse door echoing through the foyer broke the silence. You didn't bother to lift your head. You were furious, and you had no intention of granting him the courtesy of an immediate greeting.

He called your name once. Then, as if tracking the scent of your irritation, his heavy footsteps moved towards the stufy where you were.

When he stepped into the light, he was a vision of controlled violence. His silver hair was damp, plastered slightly against his forehead from the storm outside. His clothes were dark with melted snow. His knuckles were split freshly cleaned, but faint traces of copper still stained the creases of his skin. A shallow, clean cut marred the high ridge of his cheekbone.

Yet, by the slow, deliberate grace of his stride, you could tell he was entirely unbothered. He looked utterly smug

You permitted yourself exactly one second to take in the sight of him. Then, with a fluid, dismissive motion, you tossed the files onto the marble coffee table. You swung your legs over the armrest of the chair, leaning back into the cushions with calculated laziness

Svlus stoned. He knew that nosture. He knew he was walking on razor thin ice

An amused brow arched upward, a familiar, infuriating smirk threatening to touch his lips before he smoothly schooled his expression. He slipped his damp coat from his shoulders, tossing it aside. Now, it was his turn to take you in

The silk robe had slipped, exposing the curve of one shoulder. Your long legs were draped carelessly over the velvet arm of the chair, and the ends of your hair were still dark with moisture. A vision. Perfect, dangerous, and entirely unimpressed.

"Read," you commanded

Your voice was a low, smooth blade. You didn't look at him as you spoke, your slender fingers wrapping instead around the stem of your champagne glass. You brought it to your lips, taking a slow, elegant sip

Sylus picked up the documents. His crimson eyes scanned between the lines, his expression entirely unmoved by the staggering demands written into the contract. It was the face of a man who found exactly what he expected.

You had done your job flawlessly. As always

"I assume it went well on your end as well" you murmured, boredom perfectly lacing your voice, though the underlying edge remained razor-cold. "Though if I were to critique, you are quite late. And we do have a time limit."

Sylus didn't look up from the pages immediately, flipping one over with a crisp, deliberate sound that echoed in the quiet room.

"Worry not, The twins handled it." he replied, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the stillness

"it was supposed to be your job–"

"–The broker tried to alter the delivery terms at the eleventh hour," he murmured, tilting his head. The shallow cut on his cheek caught the amber light of the fire. "He brought a few extra bodies to enforce the new price. It took a moment to remind him of his place."

"Remind him of his place."

You set your champagne glass down on the marble table with a hollow, deliberate clink. Your eyes didn't track the movement; they remained locked on the neat, bloodless line across his cheekbone

"A clean cut for a back alley broker," you remarked, your tone smooth, devoid of the irritation simmering beneath your skin. "He must have exceptional aim. Or a very specific model of an Association-issued blade."

Sylus didn't blink. The corner of his mouth twitched. He tossed the folder onto the desk, the heavy paper settling with a dull thud

"The Association tried to intervene. They failed."

"And you let them walk away," you countered, sliding your legs off the armrest. You stood, the ivory silk parting slightly at your thigh as you crossed the room toward him. "You left the financing channel exposed. I noticed the omission before you walked in. It's a vulnerability, Sylus. My board will reject that transit exposure immediately."

You stopped a mere foot away from him. The scent of him, and the distinct, metallic tang of fresh blood rolled off him in waves, overpowering the scent of the in the room

"I don't tolerate sloppiness," you murmured, tilting your chin up to look him in the eyes. "Especially not when my family's name is masking your assets. If your little shadow play in N109 is bleeding into our territory, fix it."

Sylus stood his ground, a towering monolith of damp wool and dark intent. He didn't offer an excuse. He didn't even look at the paperwork you were weaponizing against him

Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly down the exposed column of your throat to where the silk of your robe loosely met at your chest

"Sloppiness" he repeated, the word rolling out of his chest like low thunder. He took a single step forward, crowding your space until the heat radiating from his body began to melt the chill in your own. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"I call it what it is. A liability."

Sylus reached out. His split knuckles were rough against your skin as his thumb caught the underside of your jaw, forcing your head back a fraction of an inch. His touch was cold, a harsh contrast to the feverish warmth of your skin, but his grip was unyielding.

"You don't give a fuck about the southern transit line" he murmured softly.

"I care about our metrics"

"You care that she was there."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

The amusement left his face, replaced by something entirely different. The smug, detached mask he usually wore around you cracked, revealing the dark, predatory focus underneath. His crimson eyes searched yours, not with the cold calculation of a business partner, but with the raw, heavy intensity of a man who had just found a crack in an unbreachable wall.

"Look at you," Sylus whispered, his deep voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, more intimate. His thumb stroked the line of your jaw, the friction sending a sharp jolt straight down your spine. "Jealous." He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your lips

Your breath hitched a small fracture in your armor, but to a man like Sylus, it was a siren song.

"Don't flatter yourself," you hissed, your voice dropping to a dangerous, venomous whisper. You wrapped your hand around his wrist, trying to push him back. "I don't care who you entertain in your spare time. Just keep your goddamn pets out of my ledger."

Sylus didn't move an inch. If anything, your resistance only made his grip tighten, his fingers sliding from your jaw to wrap fully around the back of your neck, tilting your head up to fully meet his gaze. The coldness in his eyes was entirely gone. In its place was a dark, feral satisfaction that burned hot enough to scald

"will you say that again?" He asked, his lips brushing yours with every syllable, a torturous, high-friction promise.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t get the chance to

You tried to twist your face out of his grip, a sharp, dismissive jerk intended to re establish the boundary, but Sylus didn't let you breathe.

The moment your fingers tightened on his wrist to shove him back, he used his massive momentum to drive you backward

The small of your back hit the solid wall with a heavy thud. Nearby, the champagne glass you had set down wobbled, tipped, and shattered against the marble floor, the sharp crack of crystal completely swallowed by the sudden, suffocating proximity of his body

His hand shifted from your jaw, split-knuckled fingers tangling ruthlessly into the strands of your hair, tugging back until your neck arched, He used the leverage to feast on you completely without restraint. It was a violent, undisciplined wreck of a collision messy, desperate, and entirely devoid of the elegance you both prided yourselves on

He didn't give you a clean, strategic kiss. He didn't offer the practiced precision you both used to mask your intentions in public.

He bit you.

It was a bruising, desperate clash of teeth and lips that tasted immediately of the starved, mutual want you had both spent days denying. You let out a muffled, furious sound against his mouth a protest born purely of your refusal to break first and tried to wedge your forearm tightly between his chest and yours to force some distance.

Sylus didn't care. He pinned your arm flat against the wall, his thigh crowding ruthlessly between yours, the rough of his trousers parting the heavy silk of your robe.

The past four days of silence, of separate territories and calculated distance, boiled over in a single second.

It was unpolished. It was feral. The slick, wet sound of his tongue sliding against yours filled the quiet room, deep and demanding, dragging the air straight out of your lungs until your chest heaved uselessly against his.

You tried to bite him back, to hurt him, to remind him of the danger of crowding an apex predator, and your teeth caught his lower lip, drawing a fresh bead of dark blood.

Sylus groaned into your mouth, He thrived on the high friction of your resistance.

He pulled back for a fraction of a second, just enough for a thin, silver string of spit to break between your swollen lips. His eyes were entirely blown out, the right crimson of his iris practically glowing in the shadows of the room, dark with a terrifyingly possession. He looked like a beast that had finally been given permission to tear its cage apart.

"My, my, is my sweet wife finally showing her teeth?" he murmured against your lips, his voice a ruined, breathless rasp as his mouth left yours for a single second to track a wet, heavy path down your jawline.

"Move." you gasped, your fingers clawing deep into the fabric of his shoulders, though your nails dug in so hard you were actively pulling him closer, betraying the very lie you were telling. "Sylus–"

He didn't let you finish.

Our blood. Our slick, hot saliva,

It mingled into a chaotic, violent smear between your mouths as he devoured your protest.

The grip on your hair tightened, tugging hard enough to make you gasp before he buried his tongue back into your mouth, deeper this time, swallowing your breath whole. It was a suffocating, borderline foul display spit slicking your chin, the metallic taste of his torn skin smearing between you, while his large, calloused hand slid inside the parted silk of your robe to grip the bare skin of your hip with a bruising force that would absolutely leave a mark by morning.

You hated how easily he broke your composure. You hated that you had spent days pretending his absence didn't claw at the inside of your ribs, only for him to wreck your perfect armor in a matter of sentences.

Sylus broke the kiss, His forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest rising and falling in violent, uneven synchronization with your own

"Say it again," he rumbled, his thumb dragging across your wet lower lip, smearing the crimson stain. "Tell me you don't care who I keep in my spare time while you're choking on me."

"You're a bastard," you whispered, your voice shaking with a dangerous mixture of fury and unadulterated arousal, your hips twitching helplessly against the heavy, solid weight of his thigh pressed between yours

"Yours," he growled against your skin, a dark, stolen vow before his lips curled into that insufferable smirk

His mouth descended on your throat with feral hunger, biting and sucking the sensitive skin until a deep bruise began to bloom while his thigh anchored firmly between your legs, the sudden, blunt friction wrung a sharp, fractured sob from your lips

It was humiliating the immediate, pathetic rush of your own juices instantly soaking through the lace panel of your underwear. Your logical mind screamed to fight, but your body, instinctively chased the bruising pressure. You rolled your hips against his leg, a desperate, rolling twitch to catch the edge of relief.

But Sylus had no patience left tonight. His large, rough palms slid beneath the hem of your slip, scraping up, up, up, the bare skin of your thighs, your hips, trailing a path of fire. His hands found your chest, fingers roughly squeezing the tight, aching weight of your breasts, his thumbs snapping against your nipples without a shred of shame

"Need I remind you sweetie," he rasped, pausing only to sink his teeth into the junction of your shoulder, biting hard enough to draw the metallic taste of blood. "She is not the one who wears my name."

Not the woman he loves, but the woman in his bed. or at least that's how it sounded to you.

The bitter thought tasted like ash, but the fire between your thighs was blinding. Lured into his trap, your hips moved once again against his leg practically begging for the friction

Sylus let out a low, rumbling growl of pure triumph. Before you could reclaim your breath, his hands locked around your waist. With terrifying, fluid ease, he hoisted you onto his broad shoulder.

"What are you–"

The words were knocked out of you as he manhandled you across the penthouse, his brute strength on effortless display. You hung like a prized, captive trophy, until he threw you face down onto the mattress.

Your face pressed into the plush bedding, your breath hitching. Before you could scramble to your elbows, heavy, crackling energy flooded the space. Black-and-crimson mist bled from his fingertips, weaving through the air like liquid iron before snapping tight around your wrists.

The heavy pressure of his evol pinned your hands behind your back, completely unyielding.

"This won't solve anything, Qin," you hissed, turning your head to glare at him with venomous, hatred

But the threat died on your lips. In the dim amber light of the room, you were utterly exposed. Your silk slip had ridden up to your waist, baring the flush, plush curve of your ass and the perfect, arch of your spine. You looked like a feline caught in a trap, beautifully undone.

And fuck did Sylus adore the sight.

"It will," he murmured.

He stepped closer, his long fingers trailing down the small of your back before he leaned down to press a hot, mocking kiss against your lower spine.

His hand hooked into the lace of your underwear, pulling the material taut.

Even without looking, you could picture the sick, smug satisfaction written across his features. The panties were heavily damp, soaked through with the visible, glistening evidence of how badly you wanted him

Frustration and arousal coiled tight in your gut. You tugged uselessly against the heavy weight of bound hands "Uncuff me. This is fucking stupid! You can't just–"

"Can't?"

The word cut through your protest, smooth, amused, and dripping with absolute authority. He didn't care about your rules. With a swift, deft motion, his fingers hooked the damp lace, stripping it from your hips and leaving your dripping, swollen slit completely bare to the room

Before you could even process the movement, he brought the ruined lace to his mouth, licking and savouring the slick on it before letting saliva gather and spat on the same place he sucked, his large, calloused fingers ruthlessly stuffed the wet, panties into your open mouth after, forcing it past your teeth and cutting off your scream

Your eyes widened in absolute shock. The sheer audacity of it, the profound humiliation of being gagged by your own soaked underwear, sent a paralyzing jolt straight down your spine. You had never felt this helpless.

This desperate.

"Ah. Still trying to fight?" Sylus whispered, his lips curving into a dark, wicked smile as he looked down at your exposed, dripping heat. "Cute."

He reached down between your thighs. A heavy, viscous pearl of your own wetness was clinging desperately to your pussy, hanging from your swollen outer lips. With agonizing slowness, he used his thumb to catch the drop, breaking it and smearing the slick heat upward, coating your sensitive clit with your own fluids until you were covered in your essence

A muffled, strangled sob caught in the back of your throat, completely swallowed by the silk in your mouth as your inner thighs trembled

And Sylus thrived on the sound. With a deliberate, forceful shove, he buried two thick, rough fingers straight into your tight hole. The contrast was intoxicating, the feverish pulsating warmth of your walls instantly clamped down, desperately squeezing the cold, length of his fingers.

"Look at how wet you are," he rumbled, his voice a ruined, gravelly rasp as he began to pump his fingers inside you, driving them deep, stretching you open with a crude, slow pace. "...don't get the wrong idea, I'm not trying to mock you."" and you swore he almost sounded amused, but you couldn't focus

How could you, when the wet, squelching sound of his fingers sliding in and out of your pussy filled the quiet room. You were completely dripping, your juices running down his hand and pooling onto the dark sheets beneath you as he used his thumb to viciously hook and rub against your swollen clit with every deep thrust, driving you toward a blind, desperate peak while you lay pinned and gagged

Breathless and whining is what you were, one of the most important board pieces in N019 reduced to this, and you knew this was not even close to it all.

You could feel it. just beneath the shadow of your straining hips, you could feel the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hard against your thigh

Impending fucking doom it was.

He gave your ass a taunting squeeze, his large hand bruising the plush flesh before he finally pulled away.

The agonizing loss of his touch was immediately replaced by a different kind of torture. The slick, wet sound of his fingers inside you was gone, replaced by the harsh, metallic rasp of a zipper parting, followed by the slide of his boxers.

Pinned face down, your view was restricted, but you didn't need to see it to know what was happening. Peering over your shoulder, you caught a dizzying glimpse of his toned, sculpted stomach, and the thick, unyielding length of his cock standing proud against it. A viscous bead of precum already glistened at the blunt tip.

You watched his large, scarred hand wrap around his own girth, pumping twice in a slow, deliberate stroke before he aligned himself behind you

He slid upward, but he didn't push inside.

Instead, he wedged the broad, mushroomed head of his cock perfectly against your swollen clit. His fingers gripped the base of his shaft, holding himself firmly in place while he ground against your clit. Your own slick juices immediately coated him, the wetness running down his heavy length with every agonizingly shallow slide

He was teasing you. He was actively refusing to give you the ruinous relief of his cock stretching you wide, denying you the fullness you could feel aching in your gut. No matter how many times you fucked, taking Sylus Qin was a chore, because the universe was cruel enough to give the man a dick as impossibly big as his ego.

You whined, a fractured, pathetic sound, rolling your hips back in a desperate attempt to sink onto him, to soothe the need boiling in your blood

"Relax, wife," he drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration as he delivered another shallow, grinding thrust that sent a shower of sparks straight to your stomach. "You'll get what you want."

The heavy palm of his hand flattened against your lower back, pressing you down as his cock remained glued to your dripping slit. "Today. Tomorrow." He leaned down, pressing a hot, open mouthed kiss to your trembling shoulder. "Over and over again, until you tire of me."

He pressed one final, bruising kiss to your skin, and then, the heavy, crackling weight of his evol vanished.

The sudden release of pressure made your arms give out, your chest hitting the mattress, but Sylus didn't let you rest. His massive hands gripped your waist, and in one fluid, effortless motion, he flipped you onto your back.

And fuck, was it a sight.

You were beyond divine. Your usually immaculate hair was a wild, tangled mess. Your cheeks were flushed a feverish, beautiful crimson, and tears of absolute frustration pooled in your waterlines. Your lips were swollen and thoroughly wrecked, while between your parted thighs, your dripping, perfectly ruined pussy was fully on display.

Sylus literally choked on a breath.

There was a reason you were hailed as the most beautiful, dangerous woman in the underworld. Everyone else only ever saw you armored in million dollar gowns and a blood chilling smile. No one on earth would ever get to see you like this. Reduced to a beautiful, panting wreck.

His. Entirely his.

But while he was busy staring at you with open, starving reverence, you were absolutely furious. You reached up, ripping the soaked lace panties from your mouth and hurling them directly at his sculpted chest.

It only angered you further when his lips curled into a wicked, devastating grin.

Your chest heaved. Despite your fury, your body betrayed you, throbbing violently at the sight of him caging you in, looking like a greek god, taking in his physique

But the ache wasn't enough to dull your pride.

You needed revenge.

You surged upward, your hands shooting out to fist violently in the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You yanked him down, crashing your lips against his in a brutal, bruising kiss.

Sylus groaned into your mouth, a deep, guttural sound of approval. His body automatically chased the closeness, climbing over you to press his heavy weight down.

The second he did, your long legs instantly wrapped around his waist, locking tightly at the small of his back.

You squeezed your thighs, pressing right against the base of his rigid cock, wringing a sharp grunt from his throat. Using the leverage, you rolled your hips

The world tilted, and the next thing Sylus knew, his back hit the mattress, and you were straddling his hips.

You sat up, looking down at him with the cold, authoritative superiority.

"You've played enough," you murmured, your voice a smooth, dangerous blade. "So now, keep your hands flat on the mattress, Qin. If you even think about touching me before I give you permission, I swear to god I’ll leave you exactly like this."

His crimson eyes glistened with dark, feral amusement. It was a bluff. You knew it, he knew it. Sex between the two of you was like breathing; neither of you would ever actually stop. But Sylus loved this game just as much as you did

Slowly, he raised both hands in mock surrender, letting them fall flat against the dark sheets.

He watched, thoroughly trapped, as you reached down and slowly pulled the ruined silk slip over your head, tossing it aside. His eyes darkened, locking hungrily onto your perfect breasts, his jaw ticking with the desperate urge to bite, to taste, to ruin

But you kept yourself deliberately out of reach. You leaned down, taking his lower lip between your teeth for a sharp, stinging bite before dragging your open mouth down the strong column of his throat. You painted his skin with hot, wet stripes of your tongue, trailing down his collarbones, over the hard planes of his chest, and tracing the sharp, dangerous V-line that disappeared beneath his waist.

His breath hitched, his abdominal muscles jumping under your mouth.

Then, your slender fingers wrapped around his impossibly thick cock. You felt him flinch, a full body shudder ripping through him as you leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss directly to his weeping tip.

You were going to make him beg.

You flicked your tongue out, catching the thick bead of his precum, tasting the hot, salty tang of his arousal. You were aching, sticky, and dripping wet because of him, and it was time he felt that exact same desperation.

Sylus let out a sharp, ragged exhale as you parted your lips. Maintaining absolute, unblinking eye contact with him, you slowly sank down onto his crown with your mouth.

Fuck.

You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks. Taking his entire length was physically impossible, but you took as much as your throat would allow, your hands ruthlessly wrapping around the thick, heavy base to pump the rest.

His hands twitched violently against the sheets. His fingers curled into fists, fighting the agonizing urge to grab fistfuls of your hair not to force you down, but to drag you up and kiss you. He needed to be inside you. He needed to feel you whole. Watching you worship him like this made you look like a filthy deity.

The visceral, wet sounds of your mouth sucking and slopping against his heavy flesh echoed in the quiet room. You gagged softly, choking once as he unconsciously bucked his hips upward, driving himself deeper into your throat.

You could taste the shift in his pulse. You knew he was close.

So, right as his hips snapped up, chasing the final, blinding high of his climax you pulled off completely.

The sudden rush of cold air hitting his slick, painfully hard cock made him freeze. He stared up at you blankly for a fraction of a second, chest heaving, before a rich, breathless laugh tore from his throat. He was left entirely high and dry, his eyes burning with a dangerous fire.

"Give me one good reason," Sylus rasped, his voice rough as gravel, "why I shouldn't flip you over right now and show you exactly what you just did."

You hummed, entirely unimpressed. "You could," you whispered, leaning down to drag your tongue up the underside of his shaft. "But you won't."

Before he could argue, you wrapped your lips tightly around him again, taking him agonizingly deep. A single tear escaped your lash line from the sheer, suffocating size of him, a thick string of spit and precum dripping down your chin to smear over his skin.

Sylus couldn't hold back anymore. Breaking your rule, his large hand shot up, tangling ruthlessly into your hair to guide your head, his hips bucking up in short, desperate thrusts to chase the edge.

With a deep, guttural groan, he shattered.

Hot, thick, salty liquid erupted into the back of your throat. You whimpered, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the overwhelming taste and volume of it.

But you didn't swallow.

You pulled back slowly, parting your swollen lips. Sylus watched you, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Your hand remained wrapped firmly around the base of his twitching cock

Maintaining eye contact, you let his thick, pearlescent cum spill from your mouth.

It was absolute, exquisite filth. The heavy white fluid fell in thick droplets, landing directly onto his still erect cock, sliding down the slick, inflamed veins.

It was disgusting. It was perfect.

Sylus was utterly mesmerized, trapped in a state of primal shock as he watched his own seed run down his length. But it was infinitely worse when you leaned back down.

With slow, deliberate strokes, you stuck your tongue out and began to lick him clean.

You chased the hot rivulets of sperm up and down his shaft, swallowing every last drop of the filthy mess you had made.

You sat back on your heels, wiping a stray drop of sperm from your lower lip with the back of your hand, a triumphant, wicked gleam in your eyes.

He was broken. You had taken the king of N019 and reduced him ruined mess beneath you

Or so you thought.

The heavy, suffocating shift in the room's atmosphere was your only warning.

Sylus’s chest was still heaving, the silver strands of his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but the hazy, blown out look in his crimson eyes was already sharpening.

The dark, look in his eyes returned, instantly wiping away any illusion that you were the one in control.

A low, vibrating sound started deep in his chest.

"Beautiful," he rasped, his voice a dark, gravelly purr that was breathless and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "You played your hand well."

Before you could even register the sudden flex of his muscles, his hands lashed out

His massive palms clamped around your waist like iron vises. With a violent, he flipped you. Slammed into the mattress, the heavy, unyielding weight of his body instantly crashing down to cage you in

He didn't give you a second to recover. His hands caught your wrists, pinning them squarely above your head with just one of his massive hands.

"But the house," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his hot breath sending a violent shiver down your spine, "always wins."

He shifted his weight, his knee driving ruthlessly between your thighs to force your legs impossibly wide. Even after his climax, he hadn't softened. If anything, he was harder, the thick, rigid length of his cock pressing hot and demanding against your soaking wet entrance.

His regeneration worked in more ways than one.

Your breath stuttered. The adrenaline of your revenge was instantly swallowed by the immediate, reality of what was about to happen.

"Sylus–"

"Shh," he commanded softly, silencing you not with cruelty, but with an agonizing, possessive intensity.

His free hand slid down your torso, his calloused fingers tracing your stomach before slipping between your thighs.

He didn't bother waiting anymore. You were already dripping, completely melted down for him, your slick fluids pooling against his fingers as he guided his thick, blunt head squarely against your opening.

He locked his crimson eyes onto yours, demanding you watch him. Demanding you feel every single agonizing second of your surrender.

And then, he pushed.

A sharp, fractured cry tore from your throat. Despite how wet you were, taking him was a visceral, shock to your system. He was too thick, too unyielding, stretching you wide open with a blunt, heavy pressure that sent a blinding flash of white hot pleasure straight to your brain

Your nails dug violently into the back of his hand where he held your wrists. "Fuck–wait, wait–"

"I’m done waiting," he growled, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he forced himself deeper, inch by excruciating inch. "You wanted to play the tyrant? Take it."

He didn't slam into you. He knew exactly what he was doing, driving himself inside with a slow, relentless, torturous pace that forced your body to accommodate every single millimeter of his girth. The friction was maddening

You could feel the distinct, heavy throb of his pulse buried deep inside your walls, stretching you until you felt completely, utterly full.

When he finally bottomed out, his hips snapping flush against yours with a heavy, wet slap, your back bowed off the mattress

You were completely lost to him. The meticulous, flawless daughter of a syndicate empire, reduced to a trembling, mewling mess, completely ruined by her husband.

Sylus let out a long, ragged exhale, burying his face in the crook of your neck. For a few seconds, he just held you there, letting your body adjust to the staggering invasion, reveling in the feverish, desperate way your inner walls clamped down around him, milking him

"Mine," he breathed against your skin

the word tasting like a vow and a curse.

Then, he began to move

He pulled back almost completely, the slow drag of his length nearly drawing a sob from your lips before he drove his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt with a heavy, concussive thud.

The rhythm he set was ruthless. It wasn't the frantic, desperate fucking of amateurs; it was the measured, devastatingly powerful pace of a man who intended to wring every drop of sanity from your mind.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding echoed off the marble walls of the penthouse. With every deep, grinding thrust, he deliberately angled his hips, ensuring the thick ridge of his cock dragged ruthlessly against your swollen clit.

Your mind shattered.

"Sylus" you sobbed, the name tearing from you in a broken, high pitched plea that you would have killed anyone else for hearing. Your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper, desperately chasing the blinding high.

"Hush now," he mocked, though his voice was thick with his own desperation, his breathing turning ragged as he pounded into you. He finally released your wrists, only to slide his hands under your shoulders, lifting you up so your chest was crushed against his. "Where is all that anger now, sweetie? Where is the woman who was going to walk out on me?"

"Shut up" you gasped, biting down hard on his shoulder to ground yourself against the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure.

He hooked his arms under your knees, folding your legs back toward your chest, exposing you completely. The new angle drove him impossibly deeper, the nerves of your clit so exquisitely sensitive that your vision literally whited out.

And as the suffocating, brilliant wave of your climax began to crest, snapping your muscles tight around his cock in violent, pulsating waves, Sylus let out a guttural moan, driving deep inside you one final, devastating time to meet you in the dark

...

The silence that crashed back into the penthouse was deafening, filled only by the ragged, synchronized cadence of your mixed breathing.

His palms, rough and heavily calloused, framed your jaw with a sudden, grounding warmth. Sylus looked down at you, his crimson eyes were completely blown, dark with an unreadable, heavy emotion as he leaned down to share the very air between your lips, sealing your surrender with one final, bruising kiss

Your fingers tangled into the short, silver locks at the nape of his neck. You pulled him down tightly against you, anchoring yourself to his massive chest. Heartbeat against heartbeat, you closed your eyes and focused on the heavy rise and fall of his torso, desperately trying to piece your fractured composure back together.

"If you ever use your evol to bind me like that again, Qin," you whispered against his mouth, your voice a breathy, thin threat, "I will have your head"

A low, rumbling vibration started deep in his chest, breaking into a breathless, genuine laugh that brushed hot against your collarbone. "Is that a promise, my dear? I'd say you are not in the position to threaten me right now"

He nipped at the sensitive skin of your neck before his large hands slid beneath your thighs. With a fluid, effortless roll, he shifted your limp body directly on top of him. He stayed buried deep inside you, a heavy, unyielding anchor as the sticky, cooling residuals of your shared cum smeared between your skin.

You completely melted, turning to absolute putty against the hard planes of his chest. His broad palms traced slow, soothing patterns up and down your bare spine, but the gesture did little to cure the boneless, trembling exhaustion holding you hostage. You were entirely unable to function

Sylus stared up at the ceiling, his jaw tightening. He wanted to say something. He wanted to offer a rare, uncharacteristic reassurance, to tell you that while he thrived on the fire of your jealousy, there was absolutely no one else

But the words remained trapped in his throat. Did you even want to hear that?

Absolute, non negotiable loyalty had been the bedrock of this arrangement for a full year now. It was a cruel twist of fate, the invisible threads of his life were bound to a different woman yet the only woman who truly mastered him was currently draped across his chest.

His wife.

He looked down at your tangled hair, unable to fully articulate the staggering weight of what you actually meant to him. It was a terrifying admission, but you had completely rewritten his parameters. Every cold smile, every sharp word, every calculation you made left him utterly mesmerized. Without ever demanding it, you had him wrapped entirely around your fingers

"I should get you cleaned up," he finally rasped, his deep voice scraping pleasantly against the quiet room.

A faint, stubborn hum of disapproval escaped your lips. Beneath the sheets, your exhausted inner walls involuntarily clamped tight around his half hard length, wringing a low, strained groan from his throat. A dark, amused smile touched his lips at your defiance. He leaned up, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your heated forehead.

You were already slipping, the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging you over the brink of sleep, but the syndicate princess refused to let the business fade. Without opening your eyes, you murmured your final, drowsy command into the crook of his neck:

"You better deliver that shipment tomorrow."