prettypieck

And that was the story of how you met Gojo Satoru - when you were eight, and he’d been merely ten. Though he didn’t look ten—he might’ve looked even younger than you. 

White hair. Winks of dimples upon each cheek. His face was chalk-white from the make-up typical of jesters, even young ones, supposedly. 

He was drowning in a faded red and blue jester outfit that looked as if it’d been dragged through multiple shows a night. It looked far too big to have been his originally. Even through the patched-up collar, his collarbones showed, and from the too-wide sleeves; his pale, near-skeletal limbs stuck out oddly. 

His face was pretty, however, with eyes too large for his head. 

Gojo’s cheeks were sunken in, yet his smile wasn’t the slightest bit smaller. That, too, looked too large to be his. 

And you…

Crying outside the royal court, after your parents had declared you far too young to see the travelling circus. The acrobats. The sword-swallowers. And one little jester…that had gone missing during the processions. 

Though, in time, Gojo took delight in weaving in additional parts of fighting off dragons and two haunted knight armors—enraptured courts that clapped and laughed as he sang of a white-haired fool and his crying princess. He’d whisked you off your feet and made you swoon in ways a princess utterly shouldn’t - and then produced you before your horrified father, His Majesty, as the sole suitor that made you laugh. 

At least according to him.

Though one thing was true from that fairytale: Gojo had been the only person to make you laugh. The only one.

Previous jesters and palace acts wavered between confusing you with their overly long ballads, or enraging you - all because they assumed some little princess couldn’t handle humor. And maybe that was why - Gojo hadn’t underestimated you - that you’d gone right up to your father in the middle of a particularly splendid fire-breathing act, stood in the center of the lavish floor, and declared—

For Gojo to be released from the circus to become your personal jester.

As a royal jester he would be clothed, bathed, and tutored alongside you - so long as he kept you entertained with his rhymes (to which you had no doubt that he wouldn’t falter). 

Not minister nor royal guest should lay a hand on him. He was to be treated as an equal member of the court, and should have titles bestowed upon him in due time—but for now, he will grow up as your best friend. Your only.

And whilst declaring this in about as much royal haughtiness as you could have managed, you looked over at Gojo. You don’t remember for what reason. You don’t remember what you were looking for.

All you remember is that Gojo’s eyes seemed brighter in that moment, like the night’s cloak of stars. There were tears in his eyes.

And he flashed you his crooked grin.

You grinned back.

His Majesty and the advisors didn’t take long to mull over the thought before asking the circus master to name his price for the boy. And Gojo had been small then - oh-so-small - a mere waif of a boy. He was clearly the youngest amongst these adults, and the circus master hadn’t even remembered he was part of the troupe.

He’d demanded two crowns and a bag of wheat.

To which The King had obliged with a simple wave of his hand—before freeing the other circus members, as well. He was merciful…most of the time.

And you’d been so overcome with joy that you ran to the jester and took his hands then and there.

Had it been in the little passageway where you’d met, then you might even have embraced him.

But perhaps you’d given the ministers enough conniptions for the day?

“Follow me.” You breathlessly whispered to the little jester that seemed far too shocked for words. “I shall summon the royal tailor whilst you take your bath- we have every fragrance in the land, and more than enough botanical springs.”

But the longer he stayed speechless and unmoving, the more self-conscious you grew.

Your fingers loosened around his, “That…that is if you wish to-”

“I do.” He stopped you from slipping away - he clasped your hands even tighter. Tight enough to nearly hurt—but you didn’t stop him. “I-I’d be honored, Your Highness.”

“You shan’t have to call me that.”

And though a few eavesdropping court ladies and gentlemen gasped at the destruction of long-held social etiquette, Gojo had merely smiled and nodded. And then you’d been the one to whisk him away. 

You.

Gojo shared little about his upbringing that first day in the palace, and even less over the years. You knew that he’d been born into an average family just a kingdom over - Gojo itself was a fairly used name - but tragedy struck and his parents both passed away—although you never asked how, and he never shared why. It almost…seemed as if he didn’t remember. A part of him that had scrubbed out most of those years, like a bloodstain.

And he’d lived in the same lifeless home as them for five days. Trying to wake them.

No one listened.

No one arrived.

No one helped.

No one helped.

No one helped.

Driven by hunger and loneliness, Gojo finally left the house after those five days. And just his fortune, he hadn’t walked long before encountering the travelling circus—so many jugglers and jesters and acrobats and fire-breathers. And one master leading them from the front. 

He’d been both enraptured and scared.

And hungry. So…so hungry.

Even the smell of the lion food was appetizing to him. 

One acrobat passing by had spotted the boy watching wide-eyed from the side of the road, and seeing how desperate he was, shared her lunch and invited him to join. It was the biggest act of kindness he’d felt in five days.

And so he taught himself to rhyme. To joke. To smile. 

And two years later was when you saved him- you told Gojo that it wasn’t so much as saving him than him saving you. But he denied. 

“Thank you.” Gojo had whispered to you, almost fearful, during his first night in the palace. The Princess’s jester had been granted quarters right across the hallway from your own chambers—and yet, the first night was always the scariest, wasn’t it? 

He’d given you quite the fright sneaking into your royal chamber after all the candles had been snuffed and your attendants had left. Soundless as a mouse—and looking just as unwelcome inside the gilded bedroom. But eventually, you welcomed him onto the lavish mattress far too large for even two.

Let alone two children.

Laid a fair distance apart, you faced each other. 

“I forbid you to say those words again, Gojo.” You smiled. “And just for the one night, I trust?” You meant the bed-sharing; should your attendants walk upon this in the morning, then Gojo would be thrown into the dungeons faster than he can rhyme. 

Gojo nodded, somewhat flushed. “Just for the one night.”

.

.

.

“Satoru-”

“Mmmm, puff pastries and wagashi.”

“Satoru.”

“Huh? Ohhh, sweet cheesecake.”

“Sato—” The exasperated call of his name doesn’t land before the kick does - square in the middle of Gojo Satoru’s broad back. 

Sometime in the last few years, after he’d taken up training with General Yaga to keep himself fit for his dances, Gojo had started sleeping without his upper garments on. 

And you couldn’t deny that it was a sight for sore eyes; his sun-freckled sun, the dips and curves of his muscles shifting as he did. The roundness of his deltoids. The sensual curve of his spine. The patterns of his scapulae, and lash marks that he wouldn’t explain. They moved like waves of an ocean, and they peaked and fell just as much. Some mornings you dared to trace every single one—just with your eyes, of course. 

But of course, he was just your best friend - socially, your jester, at that.

Which is exactly why you’re kicking him off the bed the second you hear your morning attendants heading down the corridor. As soon as he’s out of sight, the double doors to your bedroom open—and they’re floating inside with steaming-hot trays of breakfast and new fragrances for your skin. 

One of the attendants sets the breakfast tray down on your bedside table, and you sneak him a few of the blueberry-spotted pancakes. Though have to slap Gojo’s hand away from swiping the syrup, too, before one of them sees.

“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Your head attendant, Utahime, trills as she throws the curtains open to let soft morning sunlight flood inside. “The perfect morning.”

“It is.” You’re nodding. You slap Gojo’s hand away from the syrup again.

“And we have no more than an hour to get you ready, Your Highness. So I beg you to finish your tea quickly.” Another attendant hands you your morning tea - just how you liked it. It smelled of something floral that reminded you of the royal gardens, and something else so utterly appetizing that you could feel Gojo huffin’ and puffing about beneath you.

Served him right for sneaking in again, you think.

You slap Gojo’s hand away again. Utahime continues speaking onwards obliviously, “—prepare for the guest.”

“A guest?” That piques your interest. 

This time, Gojo steals the syrup. And it creates a loud clatter that draws the attention of all the attendants sweeping and scurrying about to pick out your gown for the day—you’re unceremoniously coughing to cover it up. You’re not sure it works.

Utahime crinkles her nose, “Nasty little ailment, isn’t it?” Her intelligent eyes dip down to the bed - though she keeps it discreet. Utahime, as well as being your head attendant, was one of your closest friends as well. 

Close to you in age, you’d hand-picked her to be what was essentially your right-hand woman. 

And she knew of the rather…close friendship that you and Gojo had; perhaps improper for court etiquette, but just right for the two of you. 

From underneath the bed, Gojo snickers. 

You bounce on the mattress, whilst Utahime kicks the bed post. 

“Ah…this ancient bed.” You’re commenting once the other attendants look at you with raised brows, “Honestly, sometimes I believe it to be haunted.”

“Wake up to a mysterious figure at your bedside, do you?” Utahime eyes you. You avert your gaze from hers. “Well, we should do well to rid your chambers of that before the Prince arrives, Your Highness.”

“The Prince?”

“Prince Zenin Naoya, of course.”

Gojo knocks his head on the bed frame. 

.

.

.

Prince Zenin Naoya possessed many titles; the latest one being the most unpleasant royal you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Which was saying rather a lot.

You’ve met many a-princess that were appalling to her attendants, and many princes that boasted their numerous wars. Your father himself fell into the latter group. And many, many more dukes and duchesses and marquis—and whatever other title had surfaced over the last few centuries and gotten latched-onto with rabid, golden-ringed claws. Had it not been for your duty to maintain a peaceful political climate, you would have forgone those social gatherings altogether.

Though your father was particularly careful not to repeat the border strife that had occurred not too long ago in your kingdom…some violence-seeped dispute over power. 

And so you lifted your head and plastered a smile.

You managed to clamor through even the most painful of social obligations.

But this one…this one might just force you to rewrite all the royal rules that had been drilled into you since you were younger. 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You nod in acknowledgement as the Prince bows. His coronet was made of pure gold; a simple band with a blood-red ruby in the middle. 

It flashed at you menacingly.

And so did his pearly-white smile. 

“The pleasure is all yours, Your Highness.” 

You’re taken aback at his choice of words. You meet Gojo’s eyes a little ways away from the court- and his read the same confusion. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Then Naoya turns to the King seated on the throne beside you instead. His smile leers, “My utmost gratitude for this invitation, Your Majesty. My parents send their regards.”

“Good people, good people.” Your father nods, “Their assistance during…those times of trouble shall forever remain in my memory.”

“Who are we if not united against the face of the radicals, Your Majesty?” Naoya graciously bows once more. 

“Well said.” And then the King makes a sweeping gesture in your direction. “And in the future, it seems we shall be united once more.”

Naoya throws his gaze at you again, and the way he looks at you…it makes you hug your arms to yourself.

You’re unsure why your gaze had been upon Gojo at that very moment - they always did seem to find him - but you watch as his expression darkens. Darkens. Darkens. In a way you’ve never seen before, and then it’s hitting you—

“Father?”

But he ignores you, “Satoru—!” In the years that you’ve brought Gojo to court, your father had become rather fond of his rhymes and riddles as much as you were. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that he had been called upon, and Gojo’s expression switches instantly into one of foolish mirth. “Why don’t you share one of your amusing rhymes with our guest?”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply. As he makes his way to the middle of the court, where Naoya and his entourage were gathered, the bells upon his blue-and-white garments jingle. 

And before you know it, Gojo clasps onto Naoya’s shoulders and ensnares him with his words. “Naoya o’ Naoya, with your great riches and gait.” The corners of his lips twitch - something sharp. Gojo covers his mouth in a faux-whisper, though his words reach every single corner of the vast chamber. “Every lady here knows you take potions to compensate~”

Naoya’s face turns green then red. A furious red.

As if fearing the Prince would swing, Gojo jumps back- just in time for the hay-blond man to whirl around. “But oh, no potion shall make Prince Naoya’s rooster big—the most you ladies get will be the size of a fig~”

The jester laughs maniacally, and so does much of the court; you yourself can’t stop from letting out a startled laugh or two. 

Your best friend never did hold back - perhaps because he was the only one allowed to do so without fearing the threat of the dungeons. 

And Gojo watches as a giggle slips past the hand you’d brought up to cover your mouth- and his grin widens as he takes it as a challenge. Dancing around Naoya, he continues—

“Naoya is hated by the ladies of the court. Naoya is hated in his medical reports~” He trills gleefully, darting a hand out and knocking Naoya’s coronet off. “And all the ladies and all the healers, have never seen a cock this short~”

Red face now turning almost…a sickly yellow, Naoya attempts to fist-fight the jester. Though Gojo was far more agile than he looked, and he was dodging each hit with ease.

“Oh—have I offended you, Your Highness? Perhaps a change of pace…” Gojo crows. “For all Naoya hates women, he might as well court men-”

“You- you—”

“Easy, son.” Your father chuckles to himself as well, “You should do good to familiarize yourself with the Princess’s jester if you are to marry her.”

Gojo stutters- and his rhyme pauses. His eyes widen.

You feel the red, red carpet give out beneath you. 

.

.

.

“I simply must…apologize for Sato- my jester, Your Highness.” 

The clinking of silverware fortunately masked the waver in your tone. It was insincere and unapologetic.

Naoya maintains an expression as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant, perhaps as if it was on his very plate. The Prince cuts into his bird with far too much force than necessary, “Apology accepted.” Rather short.

Though you yourself didn’t care—you shoot a look at the ministers that were currently attempting to meld into the royal portraits on the wall. 

With nervous smiles, they urge you to continue.

It was a poor imitation of a romantic dinner - as romantic as a political marriage could get. 

The royal dining room had a table that sprawled nearly from one end-to-end. Polished mahogany. Intricately-carved legs. So thick that they didn’t buckle under the hundreds of dishes piled on top: soups to puddings to heart-shaped wagashi to those you couldn’t even name. Woven in-between were flickering candles and vases of red, red roses—sprouting confessions of love. 

Some of those petals were even scattered across the floor.

Though the dining room could seat about four-hundred guests, right now it only seated him and you. You and your future husband.

Your future husband.

Your future husband.

Your future husband.

It still hadn’t sunk in, and you didn’t want it to.

Zenin Naoya takes a bite of his roasted bird and spits it back out. From his entourage, one of the Zenin ministers darts out with a dish to collect it.

You wrinkle your nose in distaste.

Two courts were watching this fallacy of courtship. 

From your side, it was the entirety of your court save for some of the outer ladies-in-waiting and some gents, and your parents. From his side, it was Naoya’s entire entourage at his every beck, call, and swallow. Just waiting for the opportunity that their beloved Prince didn’t like anything.

Which seemed to be…everything.

You yourself can only pick at the delicacies on your plate - they’d done well to include favorites of both you and His Highness. And yet…

And yet, in the past eighteen years you’ve never sat through a dinner without Gojo at your side. 

Always at your right-hand seat. Always chomping through his dinner with overexaggerated noises that made you laugh, and the ministers grimace.

How could you feel so alone surrounded by so many people, and yet lacking one?

You’re biting back a sigh.

“Pssst.”

Confused, you look up at Naoya- but he seems just as morbidly indulgent in his food as he was before. He was spitting out even more. 

And so you look around—but none of the ministers nor advisors catch your eye, either.

“Psssssst.”

There it was again. Somewhat irritated and feeling your confusion growing - this dinner certainly hadn’t put you in a good mood - you’re about to excuse yourself from this social hostage-situation. Someone must be attempting to make a fool out of you. You’re resting your hands on the polished table and about to push off—

When you feel something…touch your wrist.

You’re about to scream-

“Tamper your screaming, please.” 

Oh, well if they asked so nicely…

Wait-

Who?

Without making too much of a spectacle, you slide your fork off the edge of the table. 

Naoya grumbles at the metallic ringing—and muttering a dainty apology, you’re leaning down to pick it up. Or so it seems. 

Instead, you’re crouching yourself down and lifting the tablecloth ever-so-slightly. It’s a purple velvet, one of the finest in the land, and it opens up to reveal one of the greatest treasures this palace held. At least, in your opinion.

Gojo Satoru brings a finger up to his lips and winks. His make-up crinkling handsomely as he did so, “Do you frequent these parts?”

“I should ask the same from you.” You hiss, glancing around to make sure that no one was looking. “Satoru, what do you think you’re doing-”

“Exercising my culinary skills, my princess.” And he raises up a little velvet packet in one hand, shaking it around tantalizingly. He answers your question before you can voice it, “Just a little horseshoe, just a little wool from Yaga’s sweater, and perhaps the Prince that swallows this shall be a little sweeter~”

Your jaw drops. “You cannot be serious-”

“Never in my life have I been more serious.” Gojo replies solemnly, then with an innocent flutter of his lashes- “Forgive me for not sharing, my princess. But perhaps you would favor it as well?”

“It shan’t suit my palate.” You answer firmly.

“It’s far more palatable than what I did to the wine, trust me.” Gojo smirks.

“You rouge.”

He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Naoya’s tone grates through the little bubble of mirth you’d formed—in less than a minute, no less. “Wife- wife.”

You and Gojo stare at one another in shock.

Wife?

One of your ministers coughs pointedly, and with a final glance at Gojo, you’re straightening in your chair. “Were you perhaps addressing…me, Your Highness?” And any smart man would have quickly backtracked at this opportunity to change their answer. 

But you never claimed that Zenin Naoya was particularly smart. “My eyes don’t perceive any other woman here?” He scoffs, taking a bite of a chicken leg and then immediately spitting it out—“As for the engagement plans- eugh.”

You’re biting back a laugh as he drags out a string - seemingly from a wool…sweater…of Yaga’s - from his mouth and looks at his ministers in bewilderment. 

“Th-the chef must have been in a state of pioneering.” You cough out.

Another bite he takes.

And another wad of wool he spits out. 

You bring a hand up to your lips, “Perhaps you should wash it down with the wine, Your Highness? It had been brewed specifically for this occasion.”

And so he does - eyeing you all the while.

Naoya takes a big swig of his goblet and—shrieks as he finds half of a shoe inside. 

One of Gojo’s very own.

That shriek is loud enough to make the walls of the dining chamber rattle; and Gojo shoots out from the side of the dining table, unable to keep his laughter in control, and dances away. “Twiddle dee, twiddle doo—Naoya coughed up a shoe~” Those double doors are still swinging as it sinks in what just happened- and your ministers and guards take a menacing step towards where the colorful intruder had disappeared. 

You raise your hand to signal them to halt.

“This insolent—” Naoya was spitting with fury- unable to even formulate words. His mouth is a downturned slash, and he shoves the plate off the table. It shatters vociferously.

You notice that he’s turned a little green in the way he only seemed to do when Gojo was nearby. “My first order as King shall be to rid this incompetent kitchen-” He spits. “-and that godforsaken jester-”

Your fork clatters to the floor once again. “What’s wrong with Satoru?” You didn’t care if you sounded rather too offended by such a question. “Is it the practical jokes? I shall request that he ceases such-”

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Naoya cackles to himself. “Woman, what is there not wrong about that goddamn fool? He’s- he’s—a fool.”

“For that is his duty, is it not?” You narrow your eyes at him.

“I suppose.” Naoya leans back in his chair, “But his duty is to the crown, and when I am King-”

“His duty is to me.” Before you know it, you’re standing. You’re breathing hard. You’re ignoring the ministers that attempt to hold you back. “He’s my best fri—jester.”

And you repeat…though you don’t know whether it’s more for yourself, Naoya, or the boy with the blue eyes that was once underneath the table.

“He’s mine.”

Those words fall like the blade of a guillotine. 

Naoya’s eyes were spitting fire. “He’s…yours, is it?” He throws his cape back and stands, “Your Highness…I fail to understand why you entangle yourself with a mere jester?” Though the sentence itself wasn’t one particularly barbed, his distaste bled through every syllable. 

“He- he is my best friend-”

“He is a jester.” Naoya says with a tone of finality. He pushes back, letting the chair clutter behind him- the brings up a palm to stop his ministers from righting it. “And a jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”

Those footsteps of his resound louder than your heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

On the way to making his exit, he stops before the entrance and speaks. “We are to be engaged in six moons, and when you are my wife, I expect you to act like one.” Naoya’s gaze is deadly as he grips the door open, “My family earned our titles bringing down entire households- a mere jester is nothing to me.”

Another guillotine: this time, it’s the closing of the dining room doors.

“Your Highness-”

But you’re following Naoya out, and tears burn behind your eyes.

Just as luck - or perhaps fate - would have it, who else had been standing behind the doors listening to every word? None other than Gojo Satoru. 

Though his face is downturned, and you can’t make out his expression, your heart soars at the sight of him. He’s pressed against one of the walls closest to the doors, and he clenches his fists at his sides. And you’re just about to reach out- to tell him that Naoya’s words didn’t matter- to tell him that Naoya didn’t matter—

But before you could, Gojo sharply turns to you and bows. Those bells atop his hat jingle as he does so, and he stays bowed as he asks, “This fool begs to be dismissed, Your Highness?”

Your Highness? “You…you may…” Your brows furrow, fingers trembling towards him. “But Satoru-”

And yet, he’s gone.

And you didn’t get a single look at his expression.

You wondered what you would see. You wondered what you would be hoping to see.

But no matter what it was, you knew that all you wanted to see - whether anger or mirth or irritation - was Gojo himself. 

Your engagement was in six moons.

.

.

.

To your dismay, Gojo Satoru was avoiding you.

You should have realized that something was off that moment after the disastrous dinner—or perhaps when he didn’t join you to sleep, or perhaps when he hadn’t joined court in the following days. According to one of the palace staff, the jester was ill, but every attempt at a visit to his quarters ended up with you being rebuffed or diverted.

And how many opportunities for diversion there were.

The palace was a-flush with florists, and bakers, and candle-makers, and mask-designers—and orchestras upon orchestras practising for your engagement waltz. 

One of those times you’d been dragged away to floral-picking for the grand engagement ball - the one that would announce your union to the entire kingdom. Another time it had been to pose for a portrait with Naoya (a particularly taxing endeavour). And another time it was to pick out the colors for your mask- this was to be an extravagant masquerade ball after all. And another time it had been to get fitted for the ballgown you’d be wearing for the night—like exactly right now.

This time, you’d gotten just past the guards stationed upon either side of Gojo’s chambers (both on his word, and to prevent the Princess from getting into any…scandalous affairs before the engagement).

And you’d cracked open the door - ever-so-slightly - only to find that what was inside…made you halt.

Gojo’s room was completely and utterly empty.

Not just of himself, but of his literature books, his shoes, his bells, his flower vases. Anything and everything that made the chamber so utterly Gojo’s, was gone. Even the braid of friendship you wove for him when you were twelve - that he kept at the very top of his jewelry box - and the flower crowns you made for him that he dried and hung from his windows—you made them rather often, before…Naoya. 

He had intruded upon your idle dance between love and friendship - and you were still feeling bitter and confused as Utahime fitted you. As she wound up the hip springs of your corset- and tightened, and tightened—

“I just fail- hah, fail to understand.” You’re muttering, slightly out-of-breath.

Utahime looks up from the knots of your corset, “Your Highness?”

The royal tailor had just stepped out to aid in bringing the imported silk and cloth of gold up to your bed chambers, and in the meantime your attendants were helping tighten your numerous layers underneath. Your ballgown - engagement dress, more precisely - would be fitted on top of the base linen undergarments and the crinolines. 

Tonight, you will be engaged.

And to a man that has never made you laugh once-

“Your Highness?” Utahime repeats, snapping you out of your little reverie.

“Oh- forgive me.” You nod at her in acknowledgment. “What I meant to say was, I just fail to understand what he’s thinking.”

She nods back - you didn’t have to specify who. “It is precisely as I have told you, Your Highness.” Utahime tightens a few more knots- knocks a few more breaths out of you. “That ol’ nuisance has not a single thought in his mind. You must not worry yourself too much about him.”

“Oh, but Utahime…how can I not?” You’re sure the flurry of other attendants surrounding you were listening in - smoothing down your layers, preparing your jewelry. But you didn’t care at the moment, if you did say so yourself. 

“I believe it is just a little ailment, Your Highness. I fear I am not blessed enough for such a thing to prove fatal to that jester-”

You gulp. “I believe Satoru may be avoiding me.”

At that, even Utahime’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”

“His chambers have been emptied of even the flower crowns, and I haven’t even the faintest glimpse of him these past few days.” Speaking these words aloud seems to make them too real. “I believe I told you of how he overheard the conversation between Naoya and I?”

Utahime nods.

“Naoya had uttered some things- balderdash, if you ask me—” Your fists threaten to clench, but two attendants were working on your nails. Another was double-checking the measurements for your mask. Mask. “Yet I fear Satoru may have misconstrued some things…and I haven’t laid eyes on him ever since.”

There’s a silence.

Her fingers finish their final knot.

And then Utahime stands to look you squarely in the eyes. “This is Gojo Satoru we speak of, is it not?”

Slowly, unsure of where this was going, you nod.

“Then you have naught to worry about, Your Highness.” She flashes you such a beautiful smile, looking over your corset for imperfections - of course, there were none. “It is most likely that he’s skulking about these palace walls, looking for a minister to scare or a prince to embarrass.”

You’re letting out a soft huff of laughter.

“Or even…a princess to adore.”

Your eyes widen- and you’re snapping your gaze to hers. There’s a knowing expression that Utahime wears - one she often gets whenever she notices Gojo hiding in your room, or watches the two of you sneak out during royal balls. 

This one, in particular, was about to be the most crowded and convoluted yet. 

And you’re meeting her smile, eventually. “I thank you, Utahime…” You then look down as you hear the doors of the dressing room fly open, “But adoration cannot stop a royal engagement.”

Three sharp claps sound as the tailor gets the attention of your attendants. 

“That will be all, ladies. Thank you.” And his own attendants and apprentices flood the room to take over the fitting stage—Utahime squeezes your shoulder as she leaves.

Though she doesn’t reach her bed chambers for a much-needed rest, as she might have wanted to. Instead, she’s halting right outside the entrance-

“You.”

And making sure you were occupied by the tailoring, Gojo bows dramatically. Holding his little bells so they don’t jingle- “At your service, Madam Sour-face.”

“Cease it.”

“No, I said Sour-face-”

“Forget it.” Utahime could feel a migraine coming on already at the mere sight of his impish grin. 

“Sour-face Utahime with her pressure so high, one more joke and she’ll make me cry~”

Why - oh why - couldn’t the universe take as kindly to her and forbid her from seeing this man, too? She continues, “First, enlighten me as to why you’ve been giving Her Highness the cut?”

A too-innocent expression crosses his face. “Pardon? I fear I have no recollection of ever-”

“I will kill you with my bare hands and feel no ounce of guilt.”

Gojo clicks his jaw shut.

“I…” And it’s under the pressure of her unwavering glare that he finally cracks- letting out a deep sigh and dropping his head. “I plan to leave the palace.”

“Pardon?” Even she sounds utterly shocked. “When-”

“Tonight.” Gojo has never sounded more serious to her. “I have spent the past few days gathering my possessions, everything…she gifted me. As the ball starts tonight, I shall take my leave.”

“But your duties-”

“I have informed His Majesty of my decision. It seems though he shall miss the rhymes, he is keen for an amicable marriage between Her Highness and Prince Naoya. A jester can be replaced, trust in a marriage cannot—especially not one of political nature.” Utahime is almost shocked at this simple foresight, but then again- everyone always did underestimate the fool.

She watches his reaction, “And…the Princess?”

Which seems to make him flinch - as though struck. Perhaps a part of him was. “…I shall leave her a letter before I depart. Her Highness does not deserve to see such cowardice-”

“And yet you still remain.” Utahime’s words make his blue eyes snap to hers. She crosses her arms in front of her, and lets a smug smile take over her lips. “For what reason were you spying outside Her Highness’s fitting, if not to see her?”

“I—” He takes a desperate step closer. “It was simply in passing-”

“For what reason did you empty your bedroom of the flower crowns Her Highness made especially for you? Surely they shan’t prove themselves too useful on the road?”

Gojo’s eyes widened. “I…the memories-”

“For what reason have you waited until the last minute to leave? Until the last minute she shall not be yours, and yours only?”

He snarls, “She was never mine.”

“Because you believe the Princess does not deserve to base herself- being the lover of a fool yes?” When Gojo does not answer, she continues. “The fool seems to believe he knows what the Princess deserves. But does the fool know what he deserves?”

There’s a prolonged silence—of which is only punctured by the awed gasps from inside the dressing room, as the tailor and his apprentices comment on your beauty.

Gojo has the sudden, mad thought to open those doors just a little wider and see you for himself. Just one last time.

One last time.

What was he thinking?

He laughs to himself bitterly, “A jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.” 

“But a princess can be everything to a jester, yes?” Utahime asks. “More importantly- who are we to dictate what a person is to another person?”

The answer was as obvious as it was painful.

Gojo Satoru loved you. 

Loves you.

Something of it must show on his face, because Utahime throws him a pitiful look she’s never shared before—“You may leave if you please, I shan’t stop you.” And then she reaches out and presses a hand against the doors- they part, unlocked. “But if you wish to stay and stop acting a-fool…then follow me.”

She brushes past him.

Meanwhile Gojo looks inside and catches a glimpse of you - and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. 

He runs after Utahime, bells jingling.

.

.

.

“You look…”

“How odd.”

“How startling.”

“What a change!”

Utahime crinkles her nose, “The only thing this proves is that your face is more tolerable when it is covered.” She turns to the brown-haired woman next to her, “And that my Shoko is a goddess when it comes to handiwork.”

Shoko smiles sweetly, “I have much practice making death masks.”

“I’ll say.”

As the other few attendants pendulate between laughing to themselves, and admiring Shoko’s quick work - she’d been requested just a few hours before to make a mask befitting a royal ball, and she’d finished it just in time - Gojo leans closer to the mirror. 

He reaches his trembling fingers up to touch his face, “This is surely…me?”

“Unfortunately.” Utahime sighs, and she gets elbowed by Miwa.

Utahime had gathered the most trust-worthy attendants she led: Miwa, Momo, and Kugisaki from tailoring. Along with the impeccable royal healer, Shoko, who she knew would be the only one that would be able to create a mask for the ball with her expert hands. And they’d gotten to work fixing up perhaps their most difficult case yet—none other than Gojo Satoru.

The royal jester was rather fussy at first- insisting that the powder puffs and cloth wipes tickled. 

Before Utahime put her foot down and announced that they weren’t going to present a ‘half-assed’ (forgive her language) marriage-wrecker to the Princess just yet.

That reminder of you kept him quiet for the rest of the make-over.

And Kugisaki had even commented, “Perhaps we ought to invoke the Princess’s name every time we need to keep the jester in line?”

“Do not tempt me.” Utahime had replied. 

Gojo had shuddered.

But it really was true: he sat through the rest of the next hour or two without so much as a single rhyme or peep. 

Not even when they told him to ‘pucker up’ in order to douse him in rouges and lip stains. That likely saved five years from Utahime’s life…

Gojo himself helped them scrub off his stark-white jester’s make-up. The vampiric base. The teardrops of black paint. The red, red lips—a few of his little troupe openly stared as they’d never seen the Princess’s jester without his make-up. 

And Gojo himself knew that he wasn’t all that bad looking - he had noble features. A strong nose. A high set of cheekbones. A pert, pretty mouth that always looked to be on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.

Or, at least, that was how you described him.

You were the only person that got to see Gojo without his court-deemed make-up; and you always did say he was handsome. To which he’d always bat his long, white lashes dramatically and compose you a sappy sonnet about your eyes. He supposes he knew he was decent, but…handsome? 

He never saw it.

But these girls seemed determined to make him.

Cloudy hair. Delicate features. Blue eyes like a painting.

They replaced his make-up with something simpler. Gone was the cast of white, instead replaced by just a bit of rouge and shimmer. His pale brows were tamed and so was his hair - braided to the side using fragrant rose oils, with a few pieces falling handsomely over his face. All thanks to Momo, of course. 

Kugisaki had dug up something from that ol’ tailor’s trunk—a snow-white cloak and doublet, along with the associated tights he often made fun of. It was a suit fit for a prince. 

And it was exactly the type of suit he’d made fun of a prince for.

But here he was now - not a single difference between him and them. Or at least physically.

Gojo’s training sessions with Yaga had kept him fit; and he fit the suit perfectly. His broad shoulders were outlined against the clean cut, and his trim waist fit snugly into those damn tights—even through the suit, it was obvious he was well-built, in a way those baggy jester’s outfits never did show. Polished shoes. Silver buttons. Silver belt. Heavy silver chains and pendants that arrived with the robes. 

He might even have passed for a battle-hardened Prince like this…

Momo helped him into his equally as white gloves - it seems they were sticking to a theme for him. All the better to help his eyes and his crown stand out.

Oh yes…the girls had somehow bribed Yaga into letting them sneak down to the royal treasure. For just a few minutes.

All the spoils of war and generations of wealth—and they’d come out with a crown. 

It was Utahime who’d dug this one out, deciding that that would make him stand out far more than the usual hats. 

Made of pure silver; the design itself was rather simple, or so it seemed at first. Only when one looked closer…when one ventured further…could you see that what seemed like a simple band was actually a wreath of silver branches and floral vines twisted into one, with sapphire-studded flowers blooming along it. One more thing had been taken from the treasury - a signet ring with a ‘G’. 

“It felt proper.” Miwa, who had found the ring, beamed. “Names and titles are lost to time. And though I may not know what the ‘G’ once stood for, at least for tonight, it can mean ‘Gojo’, can it not?”

Gojo felt it getting slid onto his left hand, and he stares at the ring with furrowed brows.

He stares and stares.

He’s never felt more worthy of you.

By the time they had finished, the strings of the orchestra had started playing their opening sequence - the ball was commencing. 

Utahime turns to the rest of them, “We have done well.” Then, ultimately, back to grumble at him. “…You have done well.”

And though Gojo could make up a rhyme to rile her up, though Gojo could comment that they could have done better and bask in the ensuing chaos, though he could do his mask and his mask—

He simply looks at each and every one and smiles. Sincerely. “Thank you.”

They smile tenderly back.

The final component of his outfit for your engagement ball was the mask. Though there was no set theme, Shoko had gone above and beyond to craft his in the shape of the upper-half of a snow leopard’s face. The feline gaze. The sharp ears. The faint outline of rosettes against the white mask. It was mastery. 

Gojo dons it and smiles to himself. He really did feel handsome, as you had always said.

His blue, blue eyes twinkle from behind the mask.

.

.

.

“You look absolutely riveting, Your Highness.”

“I thank you.”

This was a royal ball that looked gilded. There was no other word to describe it—gilded. 

Polished floors. A thrumming orchestra. Golden chandeliers had every single candle lit; and they crept halfway down to the ballroom floor as if gifted from the Sun itself. Just for you. 

And that was in addition to the numerous other decorations that made even the most high-titled of guests gape in awe: the shimmering fountains that looked as if they were sprouting liquid gold, golden-dipped gardenias wreathed around the hallway, and the long table of foods were most lovely. All sorts of sweets and champagnes in honor of the union.

Guests upon guests upon guests being announced as they entered. They were dressed to impress, and there were more aristocrats gathered for this one ball than you’d seen in your entire life, perhaps. 

Had Gojo been here with you, then you two would’ve had the most amusing time coming up with stories for each one. 

There was Sir Gakuganji who held a secret liking for abstract dancing, here was Lord Todo whose son had fallen in love with a thousand-year-old portrait. No one would be spared. The two of you would have tucked yourself into some alcove and watched as the lavishments flew by, and when everyone was appropriately drunk you’d sneak out to the stables or to star-gaze. 

Your heart clenches.

Satoru…

You attempt to shake your head free of him.

It most certainly was a beautiful ball. And if you imagined that this was one of no particular purpose, then you really could see it. 

The ball was decorated to match your dress, you see.

Floor-length silk. Gold-threaded bodice. 

Celestial layers upon layers.

Your uppermost skirts had gold dusting atop it; and they dazzled as you floated across the ballroom. 

Your attendants had decided that going for a more simple look with the jewelry was appropriate - it would accentuate the simple gold circlet atop your head. A single sapphire embedded into the middle of it. 

Naoya had sneered at the choice, of course. When doesn’t he? But this time, he was particularly offended at the presence of a sapphire rather than the Zenin family’s signature blood-red rubies.

You refused to make your attendants change it. You donned your cat-like mask with pride. 

Perhaps that’s why he seemed keen on ignoring you in favor of a group of other beautiful court ladies in attendance—though you honestly couldn’t imagine anything different happening had the two of you been married, as well. You sighed inwardly.

You’re nodding in acknowledgement as Prince Okkotsu Yuta nears with a man beside him. 

He looked older - about your father’s age, if not a few years older. Tall. Toned - in the way of someone that had one been corded with muscle, but had since lost it to age. Bearing an ice-white beard and a row of silver medals proudly lining his chest—he stands before you in his off-white uniform and bows. It was obvious that the man was rather handsome, drawing eyes from around the ballroom. 

But what catches your eye the most were his eyes.

Summer-sky blue eyes.

They reminded you of—

“My uncle, Michizane, Your Highness.” Yuta introduces him. “This is his first time in the palace since…”

Your voice drops into something hushed. “I understand.” Turning to the general, you’re half-bowing once more. “I am rejoiced to welcome you into my home, any troubles that we may have had in the past-”

“Have naught to do with the present, Your Highness.” Michizane graciously nods at you. “And most certainly have naught to do with the beloved princess.”

You manage a smile.

“And if you can excuse my being so impudent…it is precisely what I sought this occasion for, Your Highness.” He looks over the bustling crowd, now getting ready to waltz- and seemingly catches the eye of your father. Your father who now looked as though he’d just seen a walking dead man. “I hope to bury the misunderstandings between my family and your father, and understand what happened to my younger brother and his family. It had proved itself to be both a blessing and a curse that I had been on an excursion during those troubled times. And I seek a resolution for the sake of my inner peace, if nothing else.”

You’re nodding in agreement. “It is most tragic what happened. For the sake of borders…nothing is worth so much. And I cannot ask for your mercy enough-”

“It is not something I shall ever be able to forgive. But you are not at fault, dear princess.” Michizane smiles conclusively, but not unkindly. 

“And yet, I have been wracked with guilt ever since.” You ultimately reply. 

Though you hadn’t met Michizane previously, you had learned that the history between your families was a long and bloody one. His family had been of a royal bloodline, of kingdoms now lost and eviscerated into neighboring ones - including yours. And you knew it was partly the fault of your kingdom. And although royal tutors justified and justified away your father’s actions—you could see past them

“Perhaps…” Michizane is the one to break through your whirlwind of thoughts. He reaches his gloved hand out, a silver signet ring on his middle finger. “-a dance to commence the burying of our animosity?”

“But of course.”

As the orchestra starts up a lively tune, Michizane whisks you away onto the dance floor. Much to the horror of some of your elderly ministers, of course, who gaped at the mere presence of the man.

And at the fact that your first dance wasn’t with the Prince.

But laughter bubbles to your throat as Michizane twirls and swirls you—sways you smoothly around and around the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers you’ve ever encountered, and you’re smiling appreciatively at him once the song comes to a close.

From the corner of your vision, you spot the black-and-red-clad Naoya storming his way over to you. And you hurry to beg a second dance when-

A title is announced - louder than all the rest. 

A prince.

Prince…you don’t hear the name.

But you don’t need it. 

Because you’re looking up at the grand staircase from which guests made their entrance, hand-in-hand with their partners or followed by their entourages. This one had neither. This one was one of the most beautiful men you think you’ve ever seen.

He looked like something from a story.

Snow-white mask. Snow-white suit. He was tall and clearly toned - but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem almost…dainty. He gripped the balustrade of the landing and looked over the glistening ball- barely even breathing, it seemed like. And he looked content to remain there in awe, before the chief butler reading out the named coughs- pointedly.

The man startles.

He looks over at the chief butler, and then nods jerkily to himself. In self-assurance.

Cautiously, he makes his way down to the ball.

And the closer he gets, the more of his details you’re taking in: like the traces of signature silver on his suit, and the way his fingers trembled ever-so-slightly. 

He looked just like the princes you’d read about in fairytales - the ones you imagined as a child before you happened to meet a real-life prince. 

Curls of white could be seen behind that snow leopard mask of his. They contrasted oh-so-beautifully with the blue, blue sapphire atop his crown.

Just like his eyes.

Your breath hitches-

“I believe I may have been monopolizing you, Your Highness.” Michizane whispers as the Prince nears. 

“Pardon?” You look at him- but he merely smiles.

Before you know it, the mysterious guest has neared enough to give the two of you a jerky bow. His tone tremors ever-so-slightly as he asks, “P-permission for the next dance, Your Highness?”

Michizane nods at you reassuringly. 

“I would be delighted.” You breathe, and then he’s taking your hand in his—gently. A touch even softer than the fabric of his tender, tender gloves. 

“I bid you a good evening, Your Highnesses.” Michizane tips his hat, “And do take care of the lovely princess…” Before turning to the younger man…his brows furrow the longer he looks-

But a lady-in-waiting taps Michizane’s arm for a dance—and he’s made to turn away. 

And you’re left alone.

With him.

Naoya stuck with some other lady-in-waiting as you put your hand…tentatively on the other man’s right shoulder. He lets out a shaky breath, as if your mere touch was replenishing his soul—and he doesn’t move away. Then you let your second hand get grasped - gently - in his own. 

Backward with your right foot.

Sideways with your left foot.

Backwards.

Sideways.

Backwards.

Sideways. 

It’s halfway into the song, pressed closed to his thundering chest, that you finally break the silence. “The crown suits you…Satoru.”

Gojo flinches, “You discovered-”

“You did not seriously think you could fool me?” You smile. He mirrors it- albeit sheepishly. “Gojo Satoru, how could I possibly be gulled? You have been my dearest friend since I was eight-”

He twirls you in the middle of the ballroom.

And you continue. “-and the one I hold closest to heart.” Looking deep into his blue, blue eyes.

Gojo sighs, “Words cannot describe how beautiful you are, my princess. The least this fool can do is but dress to impress.”

“You look particularly dashing this evening as well, Satoru. You always do.” Surprise makes his lips part—and you’re leaning in. Though they do not touch, you hear gasps from the onlookers. “You look like a Prince.”

“And you look like my dreams.”

The two of you dance for a second song, and a third, and a fourth. Without letting Naoya gain any entryway between you two - that non-existent space - you two dance the night away—dizzy with nothing but the proximity.

The realization that you could be so…close as long as no one found out. That you couldn’t be closer.

That you could.

That you needed to.

By the time that most of the guests had well and thoroughly indulged themselves in the bubbling champagne and wine, the clock had struck midnight—and you and Gojo disappear into the night once no one’s looking. Through the small passageway where the two of you had first met, then up a few flights of staircases, breathless and giddy, you’re lucky there were no guards stationed outside your bed chambers as the ball raged on.

And you’re opening the door and falling into the vast bed with him.

Your hands on his lapels. His hands on your waist.

You’re both letting out synchronized grunts as your back hits the springy mattress, and Gojo’s letting out a scorching breath that fans your face. That sets your skin searing.

“We ought not to…” You whisper- and then you’re pressing your lips down his neck. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows.

“I am of the same thought.” He responds, in an equally hushed tone - as if anything louder would shatter this fragile dream. It most certainly must be a dream, yes? This was all you’ve ever wanted- and him. “And yet—”

And yet, Gojo places a hand on the back of your neck, and guides your mouth to his. 

He kisses you loooong and deep- and inexperienced. You both are.

You’re chuckling as you tug his lips open with yours - letting Gojo’s sultry tongue slide inside your wet cavern. He drags his tastebuds inside and moans—

And after kissing you and kissing you as if starved for eons—

Until your lips were buzzing.

Until his hot hips were crushing into yours.

—you let your fingers fall to his silver buttons. Rapidly undoing them.

“My princess.” The jester wrenches deep from his chest - guttural and gone. There was a crazed hint in his tone already. “Allow me…”

And before you know it, he guides your hips to rest back on the king-sized mattress. Sapphire eyes boring deeply into yours- Gojo hands you his crown to hold, as he hovers himself down and unravels the first few layers of your gown. 

His fingers are quick- nimble.

And it takes him far shorter an amount of time to rid you down to your undergarments than it takes your careful attendants. Desperate. Depraved. Soon enough, you’re feeling goosebumps prickle across your skin at the bite of cold midnight air; your chemise and undergarments were much too thin.

And soaked. 

Utterly, utterly soaked. 

But Gojo’s face flushes - almost hard enough to warm your skin through sheer proximity. He admires your sopping cunt through your panties, he leans down and presses his nose right where your clit would be. And then he sniffs—

“Fuck.”

He almost jolts. Reaching in and tearing through your undergarments with his teeth. 

“Fuh-fuck.”

The noise that expels from him is almost unbidden- and its primal tone is enough to make your toes curl. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stares at your swollen folds. He stares at your glossy slit. 

He stares and stares as slick beads out of you in a pretty stream—and before Gojo’s own mind seems to register, he’s muffling a hot moan between your naked legs. Immediately shoving himself nose-deep.

His chin thwacks! the top of your sopping slit, and his tongue wastes no time darting inwards. 

Your entrance is so wet that he has no trouble easin’ his thick muscle inside- despite its impressive girth. And then immediately zig-zagging his sensual inches fucking in—aaaaaaall along your walls and driving the curvaceous tip of his tongue into every little ridge and cranny. Fat. Trembling with need. 

“Yes, my princess.” Gojo’s managing between husky breaths- each scorched out against where you were most sensitive. “Yes, my princess-”

“S-Satoru—” Your hand’s reaching down to twist your fingers into his snow-white locks. 

You’re giving him a particularly hard pull and he groans-

“My princess…” That ocean gaze of his is half-lidded and hypnotized, flickering right up to bore into your eyes as he gluttonously propels his tongue even deeper. “I cannot live if I do not make you mine.”

Your feet plant on either side of his shoulders- a steadfast pedestal. For you to buck your hips and shove your drivelling cunt against his mouth, “Then what deters you, jester?”

Gojo’s chuckle is dark and deepened with lust. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

He’s moving his tongue in and out of your hole at such a frenzy. 

This was the night of your royal engagement, and you’re here getting eaten out by your jester—

“Does it vex you that this lowborn jester has finally gotten his hands on the princess’s pretty pussy?” He gurgles out into your arching core, the wads of your sap slipping between his lips—and then back out as he licks. “Perhaps not you…but surely those godforsaken ministers that must have hoped for a more…royal touch….”

And licks and licks and licks—“Y-you keep running that mouth, Sato-”

“Jester, remember?” He grins. “Pray tell, Your Highness, am I the first?”

He must know the answer. He surely must- he’s been at your side for the past eighteen years…and you yourself were aware that you were his first, too. 

Yet you find your lips moving before your mind does. And you whimper, “Y-yes…”

“Pardon, my princess?”

“Yes-”

Gojo drags the doughy patches of his fingertips across your clit.

“Then you grant this lowly fool the deepest and most precious honor.”

It was an honor. 

An honor to eat your pretty core—to press his puckered lips against your folds in such a sensual kiss- one that would make even the most scandalous of court ladies faint. To part those tender pussylips and dive his tongue inside- every single inch that thrusts away at a vigorous pace. Stuffing you from the hilt of his tastebuds, to that flexible tip that swirled to n’ fro- 

Gojo had his face pressed up so closely - so deeeeep - that parts of his features were rubbin’ red. Covered in slick. Dripping with it. 

And yet he was only scouring deeper- deeper- fucking deeper until your pelvis was crushed against his hungry maw. Crushed. “And this fool is grateful- so very, utterly grateful.” His tastebuds were going in nearly till those sweetened soft spots you loved so much in those solitary moments in the privacy of your baths, yet he flares his tongue till he’s stretchin’ you out even more. “I shall do anything for you, my princess- anything—I live to serve you-”

Gojo’s honed canines nip at your clit.

“And this pussy.”

And serving you, he is. 

With every fibre of his being. With every part of him that could reach you—he’s eating you out like such an animal, as if he was going fucking frenzied on your cunt. 

The tip of his nose massaging your clit. That left hand of his fastening to your waist and dragging you right back n’ forth even deeper. 

“And th-this fool deserves not such a privilege-” He whispers, mostly to himself. Though his wide, lust-glazed eyes maintain contact with yours, “This fool deserves nothing. And yet…yet, I care not if they happened to enter this chamber right now- I would gladly get thrown in the gallows for this greed, for a second taste.” 

Wide-eyed - almost crazed - he tugs his wet tongue uuuuup the middle of your slit, and almost up to your navel. “In fact, I beg of it.”

And his other hand…

Oh, Gojo’s other set of fingers smear the puddle of slick that spreads from your core- all along your inner thighs and making its way down your calves. He collects it all.

Every single drop.

And then, like the most precious of mead, he brings those wettened fingertips up to his mouth and sucks. Savors. Gojo’s eyes flutter closed and his Adam’s apple bobs with ecstasy - “She tastes like she yearns for more.” 

“You understand?” You’re asking, half-bemused.

“I speak seven languages, Your Highness.” Gojo replies, “One of which is pussy—” Then with his flattened tongue, he laps up the rest of the satiny ribbons escaping you- before flicking his eyes to the mountain of pillows piled behind you. “My princess, might I request that you procure a little treasure I have left underneath your favorite pillow?”

“A little treasure…?” Almost dazed, you reach underneath and your fist closes around something soft and bell-decorated. One of his jester’s hats. 

“A long, long night beside the princess left this poor fool forgetting—the hat bestowed upon me by the princess, I should be getting~” Gojo trills- whilst he still lavishes his heated, horny lips across your swollen cunt. “But if the princess puts it upon my head, she can be as pushy- as she wishes as I eat this royal pussy~”

Your jester is speaking rhymes between your legs?

“Oh, sometimes your mouth is overworked.” You’re harrumphing at the overjoyed jester - once you’re unceremoniously dumping the cap n’ bell onto Gojo’s head.

Grinning, he bites down on the expensive tip of his right glove and tugs it off. 

He makes quick work fastening that behind his ears, before nudging your hands to grasp onto the floppy ‘ears’ on top. Your sole source of balance as he leans in and eases one of his long fingers inside- then two—then teasin’ a third.

As he shovels in oblong inches into your sopping cunt, pushin’ apart your tender folds and letting his padded tips find their way inside. And inside.

In and out.

“Please-” You breathe heavily as he quickens the pace after a few squelching thrusts. His middle finger was the longest, and it was spreading you apart the deepest—fuck, it was just so soft inside. So welcoming. So tight that you were clenchin’ around him almost hard enough to make his poor digits snap- and the mere thought makes Gojo hard enough in his trousers that he wants to cream them right away-

You’re clamoring onto your elbows suddenly, “Y-you cannot be serious, Satoru…”

Oh, had he said that out loud? It seems he’d said that out loud. And yet, without even a hint of regret in his grin- Gojo hums. “A jester shan’t ever lie to his princess.” Those kiss-bitten lips of his purse with a wad of spittle that lands gently between your pussylips, “Or his pussy.”

“Your pussy?” You ask- before the breath’s suddenly knocked out of you as he starts driving a third finger in this time. Properly.

Stretching you out to the maaaaaximum. 

The globular ends of his fingers edging in, in, in—he doesn’t just remain pistoning them vertically. Gojo’s rude in the sense that he’s hooking them right below where you needed him the most.

Throbbing, thumping; your g-spot was most certainly aching for him.

But that was exactly the problem- and Gojo’s smile grows wicked as he keeps thrusting his three fingers into your cunt. “J-just the slightest bit…fuck, to the left, jester.”

“If the princess may still utter a sentence, then this poor jester must go harder on her entrance~” He croons. Swabbin’ into every good spot except for that one - your favorite - he suckles on your sensitive nub. “What deters you from claiming what you seek, hm? Use me, Your Highness.”

Your teary eyes snap open. When had you even closed them? “Use?”

“Use me.” Less of a demand- more of a live-saving plea. Gojo was so far gone by this point that his hardened hips were ruttin’ against the luxurious mattress with every swipe of his tongue, “Claim what you wish. Use me- use me—”

And as he wishes, you’re lightly tugging on the points of his jester hat to keep him pressed against you-

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“I beg of you—this lowly fool begs…” As his right hand shapes out the tight, tight channel of your cunt - Gojo reaches his other hand up to grasp your own- to make you clutch his cap n’ bells even tighter. Hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks- and he needs you to be just as rough. “Fucking use me like the princess you are. The princess that saved me.” 

He ruts even more suddenly- he must be painfully hard now. 

“Claim my lips. Claim my tongue- claim every fibre of my being to be used by you…” A low snarl snatches from the back of his throat. “-just claim me as yours, as I have claimed you, my princess.”

And then you’re knocking that stupid little hat off his head- and fisting your hands in his hair once more to crush Gojo’s pretty, pink lips against your cunt. Arching off the mattress, you were just bucking and bucking your treacly pussy all over his face.

Stringing yourself through the shockwaves of pleasure that kept pouring up your legs - like warm water. Gojo was just salivating in-between them.

He doesn’t even have the time to breathe—and you’re getting the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to. Couldn’t even make himself think of anything else but dragging four - now four - fingers between those swollen-shut lips and thud-thud-thudding into your g-spot. “Good princess.” He hisses between clenched teeth, “Gooooood princess-”

“Keep quiet, jester.” You’re feeling yourself get slowly overcome by primal desperation. 

“As you wish, mistress~” And Gojo’s never been happier- lashing and lashing those ridged tastebuds inside until your walls buzzed with the texture. “Mmmm.”

And soon enough, you’re feeling your legs start to twitch- in the way they did whenever you had your fingers stuffed deep in the baths- “Oh.” By this point, Gojo was aiming to intrude four fingers and his slippery tongue between your pussylips. 

Swirlin’ and swirlin’ it—tap-tap-tapping it over that first tight ring of muscle. 

His greed sickened you- and made you even wetter. And with a forceful tug of those angelic strands of his, you’re staring deep into Gojo’s eyes - fluttering desperately as he fights not to detach himself with your wet pussy. He doesn’t.

And he’s accelerating his fingers hitting the bullseye—

“I-I feel I shan’t last very long, Sato- jester.” You’re hissing, eyes threatening to shut as the white-hot pleasure keeps wracking through you.

With his spit-glossed lips wrapped around your clit, he hums. “Mmm?”

“Oh.” You hunch into him. “Repeat that.”

“Mmmmm—” Gojo elongates his nearly-feline rumbles, and then his lips quirk up- into a grin you recognize as being a signature of when he gets a devious idea. 

One sure to ruin courts and leave you amused - though you’re sure that you’re the sole one being ruined right now. 

He’s nuzzling his face ever-deeper against your cunt, then muffles out an entire sentence - what you assume to be a rhyme - whilst he keeps his mouth sucklin’ on your clit. Making the sensitive bursts of pleasure explode twofold behind your eyes- you’re seeing stars as he repeats it—again, and again, and again and again and again—

Gojo often did love repeating a joke if it managed to make you laugh exceptionally hard.

However, now you were all but crying out for mercy. Your chin trembles as you keen out Gojo’s name in a lingering echo, “I-I really shan’t- oh…” No matter how many years of royal diction or elocution you’ve endured, it couldn’t mask the way your voice cracks on the tail end of your sentence. 

Almost pathetically so.

And soon enough, Gojo’s finding his witty mouth stuffed full- fucking you through your high.

Tongue flicking in and out. Teeth grazing over your clit. 

He alternates between letting his tastebuds enter your pussy as well—and then letting his doughy digit take over as he suckles on your clit. Like the sweetest thing in the world. “Mmmm.” Repeating his little rhymes over and over- interrupted only by the noisy slurps! of him sucking on your nub- and the embarrassing little whimpers as he was wrenched by you.

Side-to-side. Up and down.

You’re moving him wheeeeeerever you wanted- and he was in heaven as pain sears from his scalp.

You grip onto his braid, and another lock of his hair, as handlebars to prolong your wave of pleasure. The bliss stabs through you white-hot as he presses deeeep into your g-spot. “I haven’t felt anything like this- hah, before, Satoru…”

“Your jester aims to please.”

Your orgasm makes you shiver. It rattles past your walls - where the pounding was most prevalent - and then up your spine to make your head pound with pleasure—the curling of your toes, the fluttering of your lashes, the way you’re letting escape the sweetest soft moans; sweeter than any orchestra downstairs. Gojo memorizes it all. 

Through peak after peak.

Through thrust after thrust.

And as the crescendo comes to a close, he parts with your pussy—a pointed squelch! emanates from the connection. “Though the back of this Princess’s pussy I did knock, Her Royal Highness still yearns for the jester’s cock~”

Your mouth gapes, “Do not tell me that was the rhyme you have been repeating this entire time?”

“As you wish, I shan’t.” He grins. And then Gojo’s raising himself to his haunches- shrugging off his cloaks and his coats. “Perhaps another? From all the princes and lords to pick, our beloved Princess yearned for the jester’s di-”

“Another word and you shall be turned out.” You warn him, albeit half-heartedly.

“Now that doesn’t rhyme, Your Highness.” Gojo faux-pouts. With a few more tugs and pulls - he really didn’t understand how you aristocrats wore this on every occasion - he’s ridding himself of his upper garments and his trousers. 

Though you’ve seen the royal jester shirtless time and time again, his perfectly-toned body made your eyes bulge. 

And then finally the linen undergarments that presented him—Gojo Satoru’s long cock, hot and rock-hard.

He was engorged till he looked fit to burst - with his mushroom-curved tip blushin’ an angry red, and his veins popping out down his shaft. So prominent that you could almost count every throb-throb-throb!

Gojo’s tip glistens wetly with precum, capping the top of his cock and just oozing like a lacquer down every inch. Almost eight inches, if you’re mentally counting correctly. 

He wraps a single hand around his thickened base- rustling the soft curls decorating his pelvis. Spreading out in an alluring pattern—Gojo then uses his other hand to nudge your thighs apart. Hamstrings stretching. Toes curling. Making sure they’re pinned to the springy mattress before he inches his red-hot cock closer. 

There’s a resounding squeeeeelch! as he smears the very first, readied inch down your opening crevice. 

“Easy there, Your Highness.” Gojo’s breath hatches with a moan. “Easy- hah…”

“I am no steed, Satoru.”

“You speak the truth, my princess.” He shoots you a ravishing smile- hungry. He really did look ready to eat you. Ready to shovel his entire length in.

Ready to break—himself. Fuck.

He was breaking himself. 

A mere few inches are entering past that first ring of muscle-

And you’re arching your back into his chiselled chest. “Oh h-heavens…” It leaves you and mixes with the broken grunts n’ gruffs that were leaving Gojo just as equally, just as desperately, as he keeps your hips pushed into the bed and siiiiinks his cylindrical length inside. 

It’s like nothing your royal tutors had lectured you upon - down to the fact that all those awkward anatomical lessons were for your wedding night with a prince, no less. 

You feel a pearl of red escape you—and you embrace him with weakened limbs. “Satoru-”

“H-heaven is correct.” Gojo hiccups out. Was he still stuck on that you’d uttered earlier- had he even heard anything more? And were there…tears twinkling at the edges of his lashes? 

Before you can finalize an answer, you’re mewling at the slight resistance of your cunt. Gojo’s cock was oh-so-girthy—more than you might have expected, and seemed to be throbbing even bigger with every second he was mazin’ himself inside you.

And he feels the shift immediately- he’s affected by it immediately.

His handsome jaw grits. His chest caves with a sudden groan. He turns his half-lidded eyes downwards, and using both overlarge hands he grips each of your asscheeks. 

Those pretty, princely features of his twist into something agonized- as Gojo arches his sculptured back and drives his cock inside. “Please-” Your best friend pants out. “Please, please, please, please—h-haven’t I served you well, Your Highness?”

“You would be correct…?” You’re answering him- head foggy because of the sudden flurry of semi-thrusts.

In and out. In and out. He was buried just a few inches past his sensitive slit - and the small tremors of your cunt meant that he was thrown to ecstacy every few split-seconds. 

Gojo seemed to be growing longer than you remembered seeing him.

Gojo seemed to be pulsing even thicker-

“Th-then…shan’t this lowly fool be rewarded with a single inch…?” He mumbles- sounding utterly drunk. And it wasn’t just his slurring tone and his tapering sentences that gave you that impression - but Gojo had his face pressed into the crook of your neck, and his hot tongue gliiiiiding up your sweaty neck. “A mere inch, my princess-”

You buck- and even that seemed far too much for the pussydrunken jester.

For he’s digging his crescent-shaped nails into your soft flesh and dragging you back into him - hitting his hips with a resounding thwack! “No- no, please don’t leave, Your Highness.” He begs—fucking begs. 

“I-I am not—oh.” Another blustering thrust that leaves your deepest innards probed.

“If you wish me to cease- then just say the word. And I shall heed every syllable.” Gojo murmurs, his sapphire eyes threatening to shut with the hypnotic squeeze. With his pure need. With the urge to feel himself from the outside- and considering how big he was, he’s sure he’d manage to. “But please- please, do not leave me. Th-this pussy has been my deepest, darkest desire ever for f-far too long.”

Your eyes widen, “How long…exactly?”

Those plump, rose-pink lips of his graze yours as soft as a feather. “Ever since I knew what it was…and I woke up with quite the ah- rock-hard situation. I had never left your chamber faster, Your Highness- what if the attendants witnessed it?”

You moan as one of his hands lifts off your ass to thumb aside your sultry pussylips. Lovingly full.

“What if they were aware how feverishly I desired you?”

They were just glued with sap- it makes him break off a moan.

“What if- hngh, what if they could see through me—a lowborn mutt- eager to dirty the precious princess?”

Gojo stares so long and lovingly at your slightly-ajar cunt—so lovingly, that his mouth ends up watering. He continues, “To dirty you…to corrupt you.” A stream of spittle leaks from the corner of his lips, and it ends up dapplin’ over your folds. 

“To- hah, fuck you.”

Your jester roves his hips closer - smearing the translucent liquid using his hips. Aaaaaaall over as he nudges and nudges his rounded, reddened tip deeper inside - taking over your cunt little by little. 

Stars flash behind your eyelids, and in that opportunity, Gojo had reached over to take the crown that he’d donned for the ball. Your engagement ball. And he was promptly caressing the top of your scalp with it, placing it atop your beautiful head—you suited his colors. 

Gojo lets out something that sounded more like a prayer: “To fuck you with the crown on, has always been this fool’s most embarrassing wish.”

He’s finally bottoming out.

Finally. And it’s a sensation like none other. 

Gojo’s cock was stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before; managing to mold your channel to his measurements. And his hammers were just so sensual—slow, semi-thrusts so that he can fit himself inside. “Please-” Inside and inside. “Please, please- this lowly jester knows every secret and preference of yours, my princess.”

Your heels are digging into the gorgeous dimples at the base of his spine. “Yes, oh…”

“Every- single- inch—” And you’re being propelled in short jerks upwards- those ancient royal bedsprings protesting. As much as you were begging for more. Your hands drag down his creamy-white back, leaving bloodied marks- and that only leaves him pulsating even harder inside you. Gojo’s blossomed tip had contentedly filled you up till your cervix - “In ways those ministers would- hah, wring my neck over.”

“I would never let them.” You’re spitting out.

“And yet…” Gojo leans down to whisper. “That only made this fool yearn for it- more-” A few more pressurized thrusts, and every prominent vein of his massages your spots oh-so-perfectly. As he pushes n’ pushes he continues babbling, “Please let it fit inside-” His lips tremble with a whimper. “Please let it fit inside—”

Shock strangles your words, “S-Satoru, you’re already inside.”

“P-pardon?” He almost stutters his hips - before he likely realized that your syrupy-sweet cunt was far too heavenly for him to merely linger. And he’s thrusting away like an animal. 

Nodding, “Satoru, I promise—” Eyes scrunching together at the incredible sensations of him stretchin’ you out, hitting into your every nook, letting his velvety tip glide across your tenderest area - that g-spot. “You’ve succeeded your fantasy.” Your legs tighten around his slender waist, “Promise.”

Gojo’s chin hits his chest.

And he’s staring down at where the two of you glossily connect—“O-oh…” Gojo’s mouth looked so delicious like this - you almost wanted to bite him - as an expression of cute surprise takes over him.

And all of a sudden, it’s as if he’s simply melting…

Into your arms. Into your cunt. Gojo’s honey-dipped tip probes into your cervix, and instead of even ramming away - he’s merely draaaaagging and swirlin’ the bulbous edge of him around. Again and agaaaaain. The texture of his flared ridge was something incredible, and it knocks n’ grinds against hidden spots of nerves. “I finally have you, Your Highness.”

You’re feeling your heart pound at his confession - oh-so-tender. Even when he was fucking you deep into the plush mattress.

“You have never not, my jester.” You’re admitting back up at him.

The most beautiful smile graces his face- and Gojo’s feeling quite unfairly about all this. So he’s slitherin’ his right hand between your legs and spankin’ your neglected clit.

Those slight brushes of his bushy happy trail weren’t enough—now he was twiddling and turning such dizzying patterns atop that sweet, sweet nub. Watching your every minute expression, he hums. “Beautiful through anger, happiness and shock, yet the Princess looks prettiest on my cock~”

“You fiend.” You’re swatting his chest.

Only for him to gather up those weak legs of yours and bend you into a mating press- a mating press. Muscular thighs against your thighs. Your knees against your tits.

Gojo keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he drills away, “Though this lowly fool may be poor with the manners of a pig, aren’t you happy to have a cock that’s actually big~?”

And that…you have to admit that that one actually draws a laugh out of you.

And just as soon as the bubbling noise emerges from your lips- 

Gojo’s body seems to collapse. His hips seem to falter. His cock thunks at the back of your womb, sending your teeth chattering, and lets out a throb-throb so hard that you feel it louder than your own heartbeat.

Your eyes shoot open, “S-Satoru…?”

“I-I am quite alright, Your Highness. Naught to worry about.” Though there was something thoughtful behind his eyes, “It is simply…”

And only after a few more thrusts—after a few more rub-a-dubs of his thumb…fingers now so jittery on your cunt that he’s teasin’ you with his silver signet ring, too.

The smooth metal makes you keen-

“For all the horses and all the men, could not pull the fool out of his princess again.” He near-tentatively utters. It could be heard only slightly above the smacking of skin-on-skin, of his hips practically plastered onto yours, and you can’t help it - you’re startled into a laugh.

“P-pardon?” You speak through both moan n’ giggles. 

“Oh…” Meanwhile, Gojo was absolutely shattering. He was drooling. He was—fuck, he was tearing up. And great globules of tears were hitting the edge of your shoulder.

Gojo’s rubbin’ himself raw- he’s wracking his brain a mile a minute just for a new verse to come up with. 

Something that will make you laugh.

Something that will make you squeeze your tremoring thighs ‘round him. 

Something that will make you clench—and it’s such a startling, tight sensation that damn-near sends him hurtling straight into his high. But he can’t cum before you - of course, he can’t. What good jester possibly ever could? Before his princess no less?

Gojo accelerates his hips until tears start clinging onto his long lashes, and his cocktip starts twitchin’ out of pure oversensitivity.

And so he keeps on repeating—rhyme after rhyme, botched whimper after whimper. Each one more ragged than the last. Your jester was making you whine with laughter as he fucked you- whispering in your ear in aaaaaall the dirty ways one perhaps shouldn’t to a princess.

He fucks you like an animal. 

It’s the final note you’re hearing - ‘—no prettier princess than thee.’ - as your sudden high takes you by surprise. Legs shaking. Back arching. You’re squeezing him tighter than ever as the white-hot pleasure courses through you.

Thrumming your every vessel and vein.

Thrusted deeper into you with every one of his- they seem to burst pretty fireworks inside your now-emptied head. Nothing but lust inside it.

And it doesn’t take much for Gojo to topple into his orgasm, as well. He shakes- he stutters…“C-cumming…” Breathlessly. Large tears were puddlin’ at the crook of your neck, dampening your skin more than your perspiration. “And I cannot think of a more appropriate home.”

“Should you sire an heir, they shall have your head.” You’re whispering to him - a smile on your face.

“But you forevermore have my heart.”

“Rake.”

“For you only, my princess.”

That bawling divot atop his shaft keeps floodin’ out a constant stream of cum—hot-white and lacquering your insides. Every single burst of cum made him twitch- letting out the prettiest erotic whines. “My princess—solely for you.” 

“More.” You murmur gutturally. “More- more.”

“More…deep inside.” Lovingly, he’s patting at your bloated pussy. “Just for my princess.”

Until your walls were almost heavy with the condensation of his sap, and after only a few thrusts of his shaft- it was pouring out of you almost like a waterfall. 

Between the crevice of your puffy pussylips, you feel it drip-drip-dripping out of you. Eventually formulating a little froth of creamy white ‘round Gojo’s swollen base - a few globules that he’s smearing with a thumb and pushing right back into you. A thumb stuck right between your folds. “A-and where do you believe you are putting your hands, Satoru?”

“Simply giving my princess everything she deserves…” He leans down to nibble on your soft ear lobe. “And right on her engagement night, as well.”

You’re moaning as he tugs on your clit a few more times.

“Happy engagement, Your Highness.” The jester speaks, as he fucks his cum into you harder than ever. 

You end up babbling for a few minutes longer, before the sudden sparks of your high start bating- and Gojo himself starts finally slowing his hips down. 

“Mmmm…” You reach up and clasp him by the back of his neck, sweaty, with his hair curled at the name. You whisper into his mouth, “My greatest pleasure, to be engaged to you, Prince Gojo Satoru.”

There’s a long stretch of silence - still thrusting - before he mutters. 

“I really do wish I could marry you…” Summer sky-blue eyes shuttering into the kiss—

“Satoru.”

“—my princess.”

.

.

.

“Zenin Naoya.”

The young man whirls around - and his nose crinkles in distaste as an older man enters the royal guests’ quarters. 

No union had been announced.

The engagement ball had long since ended, and you had even long since disappeared with some prince- some jester, as he had discovered through ballroom gossip. 

The fucking jester.

Naoya knew he should have gutted him after that dinner.

But alas, once he arrived outside your royal bed chambers to finish off the job- he’d been blocked by your personal guards from entering. That damned General Yaga had threatened that a single step closer could constitute an attempt at treason- treason? 

Accusing him of treason? Did he not know who Naoya was?

General Yaga hadn’t budged. And thus, Naoya had no choice left but to retire to his own guest’s quarters. 

Alone and angry until morning arrived. 

He had just settled with the thought of enacting his own taste of justice today- he shall lure some of the ministers to your bed chambers, perhaps falsifying an ailment you’d befallen under, before Gojo can escape. And once they discover that that lowborn jester had sullied the Princess- dungeons it is for the fool.

And oh-so-generous Prince Zenin Naoya shall agree to marry even a ruined maiden. 

Then comes the crown. Then the titles, the land, the power.

The woman shan’t be too bothersome, either, at least you were easy on the eyes. Even if the jester had gotten his hands on you first.

And ah…perhaps he shall throw out this court and your father along with it? That’s if he was in a good mood - and it was the original plan, after all…

Or perhaps he shall stage a coup of which your father had ‘led’ and enact justice as King- yes…a royal hanging should seem righteous enough. The jester shall be first. 

This was justice. 

Naoya had just been in the middle of writing a letter to inform his father of this change of plans, when a knock-knock-knock thundered from the door. The broad, bearded man on the other side of it hadn’t waited for him to answer before coming inside. 

“May I…help you?” He stands. Had this seemed like any old guard or minister, then Naoya would not have hesitated to draw his sword- but this was clearly someone of high status. Of numerous battle accomplishments.

And his eyes dip down to the silver scabbard at his waist…

This was clearly someone potent.

“I have arrived with a proposition.” The bearded man invites himself to sit down on the very chair that Naoya had been at work at.

Naoya’s eyes narrow, “Of what kind? Do I look like an errand boy to-”

“Of the kind I am aware your family is quite expert at.” Those words held such a dark weight to them—and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Prince for a single second as he utters. “To be frank, I must request the ah…removal of Prince Okkotsu Yuta from the throne.”

That makes the royal straighten. “Find yourself a common mercenary-”

THUNK—!

From underneath his coat, the visitor pulls out a hefty bag - so large that Naoya wonders just how it had remained obscured for this long. There is a weight to it that makes the polished desk rattle, papers flying. There is an overabundance of its contents—so that the burlap rim threatens to burst open.

Naoya gulps as he eyes the - albeit alluring - bag. “D-do you believe the Kingdom of Zenins to have plummeted so far that we hold the need for a single sack of gold?”

The other man chuckles, “Gold?”

And with a single flick at the rim—it’s opening to reveal…sapphires.

A miniature mountain of it.

Such a rare beauty. Naoya had never seen so many in all the treasuries he’d ransacked combined - and his hand it darting out to grasp it—

“This is, of course…merely the advance.” The man places his hand on top of the bag, and slides it discreetly away from the Prince. His fingers twitch towards it, but Naoya can’t do anything with the other man here. “Trust me when I claim that your kingdom will have no shortage of sapphires for the next hundred years. I simply request that you prove your abilities to me.”

That snaps the Prince out of his constant eye-contact with the expensive bag. “Prove?”

His now-client nods. “Prove it. I should hope that the eradication of Prince Yuta shan’t prove too daunting- and for that, I wish to know what other…deeds you have accomplished, Your Highness.”

“The burning of the Inumaki kingdom’s crops.” Naoya immediately blurts out—before he lists off his family’s proud accomplishments as though he was listing off a market list. The other man nods with an unreadable expression. “The…displacement of the Cursed rubies, the demotion of the Ijichi household, the framing and eradication of the Gojo family-”

“Oh?” At that last one, he looks more alert. “Kindly elaborate on that final one, it seems to have ah…piqued my interest.”

Naoya hesitates- before a single glance at the sapphire sack makes him talk once more. “It was prior to my birth, thus the details might not be as adequate. Essentially what happened had to be done- the Gojo royals were advancing their economy in leaps and bounds—far too rapidly, far too soon.”

As he continues, an almost proud smile twitches at his lips. 

“It was ingenious- really.” He hums, “Just a few forged letters, just a single meeting with His Majesty-” Naoya gestures vaguely at this palace. “And he became convinced that the Gojos were planning battle over the borders.”

Naoya spits.

“Borders? Pah- what borders?” He’s pacing now, hands clasped behind his back—back turning to the other man as the Prince stares into the licking fireplace. “Come dawn, the palace was painted in red. Ministers. Mongrels. That King and Queen- the cowards begged for mercy, were you aware?”

Silence stretches.

It seems like an eon passes before the man’s answering - in a rough tone that punctures the silence. “I…I was not aware, no.”

Naoya huffs out haughty laughter.

“And what of their son?”

The Prince looks at the other man over his shoulder, brows pinched in confusion. “They had no son.”

“No.” The sword is pulled out of his scabbard. “They hid Gojo Satoru well.” 

It embeds deeply in the junction between Naoya’s shoulder and his neck—and his scream is silent. Expression twisted into shock as those final words registered - Gojo Satoru. Even in death, he hears his name. 

Much louder than Naoya’s scream was the impact of his cold, dead body hitting the carpeted floor - and almost instantly, Prince Okkotsu Yuta enters the chambers. “I have recorded the confession, uncle, and the troops are storming the Zenin palace as we speak.”

“Good.” Michizane pulls his sword out and watches as blood creates a painting across the brick fireplace and floor. He wipes it off using what would have been Prince Naoya’s engagement robes, and places it back in his scabbard. 

Yuta takes a step closer to offer a clean wipe to his uncle, “Should I summon a court meeting at once?”

“No.” Michizane takes it and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he nods at Yuta to collect the bag of precious sapphires, “I have a far more important affair to attend to.”

.

.

.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

Both you and Gojo startle awake- and a single glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows reveals sunlight filtering in. A soft breeze rustles the sheer curtains…and Gojo’s beautiful locks right beside you.

It wasn’t the first time that you were waking up next to him.

But it was the first time it was…in such a manner.

You’re tugging on the satin blanket- of which you were wearing nothing underneath. Bare. Barely holding yourself back from him. And Gojo smiles to himself as the thought seems to occur to him, as well, reaching over to kiss you—before wincing at the red, red nail marks that twinged with movement. 

You’re leaning in as well—

But then two things occur to you:

It must have been at least midday.

Someone was at the door.

KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!

More insistent this time.

The two of you look at each other.

Then at the door.

Then at each other.

Gojo jumps to his feet, throwing off the blankets and attempting to dive underneath your bed- but you’re raising a hand to stop him. Shaking your head imperceptibly. “No…”

“My princess?” Gojo asks.

“I believe there comes a time where one must stop running.” You’re speaking, more to yourself. And in a quick fashion you cross the room to don your satin robe—Gojo manages to bunch up a few blankets that cover his bits. You shake your head and scour for one of his casual night garments from underneath your bed - throwing it at his head.

“For all the princess in the land-”

“Oh, perhaps I ought to hand you to the guards.” The guards that were surely outside. Perhaps waiting to accuse you of treason for shattering the Zenin union. Perhaps ready to embarrass you and your jester in front of the royal courts.

Whatever it shall be - whatever the price may be for loving Gojo Satoru - you’re raising your head high and taking it like a ruler. 

You open the doors, and outside stands…

Michizane?

He looks just as startled as you, though he manages out a rough smile. “May I see the ring?” 

You’re unsure what he means—and you’re considering telling your guards to escort him away, when Michizane peers inside your bedroom and locks eyes with Gojo. Gojo who seems to startle the instant that blue, blue gaze meets his. Perhaps…

And then he’s stepping forwards- pushing the door open ever-so-slightly further open.

And presenting his left hand - with the silver signet ring still upon it. A hollowed gasp leaves the older man, and he’s clasping Gojo’s hand in his own trembling, timid ones—holding it as though it was the most prized treasure in this world. Buried for eons. 

Gojo’s voice sounds scratchy, “I-it is not my possession to don-”

Michizane shakes his head. 

“I believe…” He looks between the two of you, bright eyes twinkling with tears. “-that there is much we need to speak of.”

.

.

.

There was to be a royal wedding.

There was to be a royal wedding.

There was to be a royal wedding.

The union between yourself and the long-lost prince of the Gojo kingdom. 

After Michizane had explained to you both - let alone an astounded court - that he was the uncle of your beloved jester, that he was titled royalty, and that Gojo himself…was the sole survivor of a gruesome attack that the Zenin family had orchestrated…Gojo didn’t believe it. Not at first.

Not that someone knew his life before this life.

Not that someone had come to…save him. Because Michizane didn’t - to Gojo, it had been you. And it forevermore shall be.

But you could see the fearful hope - almost unwelcome on his face - as Michizane explained that he hadn’t known about the status of the Gojo heir, his nephew, before the engagement ball. He was so young, he must have forced himself to forget such a traumatic ordeal. Thus, it had always been assumed that he had perished along with his brother and his wife—though Michizane couldn’t find a small body amongst the carnage. 

And so he had always hoped…always, always…

And it had been the signet ring (looted by the Zenins and gifted to your father, no doubt) that roused his suspicions. Then those eyes. That hair. That smile, like his mother’s.

It had to have been him.

Fearing such an attack, had the late Gojo royals not kept the birth of their son a secret, then his features would have gotten him poisoned before he even stepped foot into the royal court. The cap n’ bells masked more than one would think. 

The scheme to expose the Zenins had been planned beforehand - being the only reason that Michizane even attended the ball in-person. And he’d thought that perhaps finding his late nephew’s look-alike had been a good omen.

Had been…

Oh, he just had to confirm it for himself. Especially after Naoya had affirmed that the Zenin’s hadn’t been aware of any son. 

Michizane could see the Gojo name in the boy. And so he was right. 

Acceptance had taken long hours cooped up in the numerous palace libraries—poring over history books, and rewriting ones that misunderstood.

During this time was when you’d iron-handed your ministers into changing the law that ‘only a prince shall marry a princess’. Of course. 

Long days and longer conversations.

Gojo had finally accepted that he was the sole righteous heir to the throne of Gojo by the time he’d ascended to the throne. It had occurred during a coronation too grand for words - of which you were the honored guest, of course.

Michizane had accumulated vast sapphire mines during his time away, and the Gojo kingdom’s infrastructure was soon able to recuperate their losses. Though not all of it…certainly some wounds would take time.

But the first time that Gojo stepped through those familiar palace walls, he cried as if it were a dream. And he’d said as much—“I had believed it was a dream- oh, I believed this was all a dream. This is my home.” As he embraced you in the middle of the royal lobby, you could agree with the sentiment. “You are my home.”

The first portrait that one saw when they entered the palace - moved by Michizane from Gojo’s former chambers to the main hallways - was one of his mother, his father, and Gojo himself.

Just an infant with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile.

He had his father’s eyes, but his mother’s smile. 

After Gojo’s crowning, the borders of the Gojo kingdom were reestablished - all territories and citizens that surrounding kingdoms (as well as yours) had absorbed were handed to their rightful ruler.

His kingdom was new…but building. And fast.

Then Gojo had gotten to work helping right all of the Zenins’ wrongs. He aided in expanding the Inumakis’ agricultural lands, he returned the Cursed rubies that had been embedded in Naoya’s coronet to lord Sukuna, he promoted the Ijichi household’s titles twofold. 

And he rebuilt his own family. 

Of course, the Zenins themselves met their rightful fate. Prince Yuta had attacked their palace and numerous fortresses, causing those family members to be impounded. Some fled but were quickly caught—in part due to General Yaga’s tireless assistance. 

Gojo had insisted that the children grow up in his palace. And though you’d been befuddled at first - most certainly you wouldn’t allow them to be hurt…but as for raising them yourselves over placing them in noble homes - you quickly registered that Gojo simply didn’t want history to repeat itself.

Above all, he took in young Fushiguro Megumi as a ward.

The trials for the other family members were currently ongoing.

But, recently, there was a new event that shook your kingdom. 

The wedding. 

Not one of political nature…but rather love. No matter the class, position, or power the two of you held—you would always be his princess, and he your best friend- oh alright…your jester. But solely because Gojo still loved to act a-fool to make you laugh. 

Your father had no choice but to approve your wedding to such a powerful young King. Why would he risk such strong political ties? Why would he risk your abandonment?

Your people throw snow-white petals of gardenia as the wedding carriage passes through the streets- on its way to a honeymoon voyage before setting down in a newly-built palace between his kingdom and yours. Megumi would live there, too, and of course you’d convinced your most-trusted attendants—Utahime and everyone else that had readied Gojo that night of the engagement ball - to reside there, as well. 

Not as servers, but with titles. With General Yaga as your head of guards.

You couldn’t be happier. 

Gojo holds your hand. Wedding band on his left ring finger, the Gojo signet on his middle.  

Faces beamed and cheers soared as you two passed by in your dream-like carriage—upon a cloud. And though the kingdom had been decorated until one nearly couldn’t spot a single roof, Gojo only had eyes for you.

He’s unabashed as he leans down to publicly kiss you. 

Now that he finally could, the boy that had once been jester.

“Satoru.”

“My queen.”

The first left quietly. Said he was too loud.

The second left loudly. Said he was too quiet.

The third claimed she was frightened. The fourth didn't even give him a reason. Fifth and sixth were some ugly variation of all of the above.

Sukuna stopped caring.

He did care, at one point. That's why he let his coworker convince him to join this stupid 'hybrid nature rehabilitation program' in the first place, right? Because maybe tigers were too bold. Too frightening. Too much.

Too much. That's what the last one said.

Well, if he was too much for anyone, maybe they weren't enough for him.

The agent sighed. Pinching the bridge of his nose and probably contemplating why he chose to work for a facility that boasted a 100% rehabilitation record. Guess Sukuna was about to ruin that too. As he did most things.

"Look," the man said. His shoulders slumped. "We do not typically give up on our patients, but surely you understand that we've tried everything in the book for you, right?"

Sukuna didn't reply.

"Behavioural therapy. Group counselling. Mate pairings and courses. You've chased away every volunteer and potential mate. Somehow even frightened off your therapist last month."

"She was weak."

"She was doing her job. You act like. . ."

Sukuna grunted. His claws threatening to lash out and tear up his own shirt. "What?" He knew the answer. Knew that sickening word that they all used for him. "An animal?"

The man didn't answer. Didn't have to. He sighed again and checked his clipboard. "This is your last shot for clearance."

"And if I don't pass?"

"You'll be escorted to a private facility."

Hybrids were monitored under lock and key by the state. Sukuna guessed he couldn't really blame them. They were different. Unpredictable.

Animals.

Sukuna regretted ever approaching the program in the first place. If he knew what he knew now— that he was simply built to be on his own, he would have swallowed the furball and bit his own tail. Lived out the rest of his life without the feeling of being watched.

Now, they knew he was unstable. Now, they considered him a threat. Guess his claws really were clipped.

"Thanks to your last stunt, none of the volunteers stepped up for this," the man said, flipping through his clipboard.

Sukuna huffed. "What's the point then? Just ship me off already." At least he'd get to be alone, then.

"Because miraculously, one of our assistants offered to help." The man looked up. "She's new. And your last shot." He handed over the clipboard with a small picture clipped at the top right.

That's the first time Sukuna saw you.

The second time he saw you, you smiled at him. Stupid move, really. For someone so small, so frail— so breakable.

"It's nice to meet you," he's sure you lied as you stuck out your hand. Chirpier than a bird hybrid. Bright eyed as a squirrel. Were they sure that you were human?

"Yeah. Hi." He gruffed, not reaching for your hand. It looked too gentle for him.

You dropped your arm to your side, still smiling, but softer. Before you trotted off to lug the rest of your belongings into his home.

He helped you, of course. Tiny thing like you probably would sprain her spine if she did it all by herself. Pathetic.

This was his last hope? They might as well cage him and ship him off already.

Within a week, he was sharing his space again. The few days of blissful solitude had come to an end. Now, there was a canvas in his living room. Pink body wash and products littered across his bathroom counter. Books from authors he couldn't even pronounce occupying his empty shelves.

You were sweeter than the three spoons of sugar you dumped in your strawberry tea every morning. Softer than the dinner rolls you insisted on making every Wednesday and Friday. Shy. Gentle.

Too gentle for someone like him.

In the beginning, Sukuna had watched you. Like a tiger stalked its prey. Scouring for the first sign of discomfort. A hint of fear. Even those who started off strong couldn't keep up the act for long. Not with him.

Which was what made it so odd.

You were timid, sure. But not afraid of him. Guess he'd give it some time.

Because that's simply his fate now, right? Watch a new volunteer skip into his lair and run off with their tail between their legs once he got too much. No one stayed. Not like they did with everyone else.

Others made hybrid bonding look easy. They'd join circles and find mates in the same week. Same night, even. Claiming it all as 'the right timing'. The right person.

Sukuna was a wrong person. Therefore, no right person would fit. Like an unwanted puzzle piece.

Not that he cared. He didn't need to fit in with anyone. If he was too much for any twisted jigsaw of companionship then he'd simply be the missing piece. A corner piece no one looked for. The one that made no difference to the puzzle. The one that no one needed.

He preferred being alone, anyway.

If this last ditch effort blew up in smoke, he guessed he'd have his wish. Whatever facility they'd stuff him into— at least he would be alone. It was better that way.

By himself, he didn't have to soften his tongue. By himself, he didn't have to pretend that he did not have stripes, claws and canines. Didn't have to soften himself for someone who wouldn't soften for him.

Didn't have to watch anyone leave when he became too much.

You didn't leave.

A week went by. Then two. Three, before he knew it. You rooted yourself into his floorboards like a flourishing flower and offered him the same sunny smile every morning.

"How'd you sleep, Sukuna?" You'd ask, as if you cared.

"Fine." He'd grumble from the coffee machine. The bitter stain on his tongue refused to ever let him return the question.

Why should he bother with someone who was going to sign him off anyway? Might as well show her what she was getting herself into. His poor behaviour and slacking social skills, as his therapist put it.

You never flinched. Humans sure were resilient.

But he was hybrid. And everyone knew that tigers were ruthless.

He wouldn't shroud his nature to make himself more palatable for you. For anyone, ever again.

It's odd. You actually tried.

You adapted your body clock to him. Sukuna woke up drearily early. To catch the dawn on his ears during his morning run. He supposed you started waking up shortly after him. Giving you enough time to ready breakfast for him when he stepped back through the door.

Eggs. Bacon. Any raw protein you could think of. You were unfortunately, a good cook.

"This isn't necessary," he said from the counter, but still wolfed down your perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs.

"Waking up early has its perks." You mused, sipping your tea. Probably strawberry. Or rose. He hated that he now knew your favourites.

You made his bed whenever he wasn't looking. He scolded you for it, the first few times. You insisted it was fine. That you liked cleaning up.

You tried to watch movies with him. Plopped beside him on the sofa and struck him your signature smile.

"Wanna watch something?" You asked, soft. Already dangling the remote. Sukuna couldn't help but compare the size of your hand to his.

He scoffed. "What? Some romcom?"

"Or horror." You bashed.

His instincts told him that a gentle soul like you wouldn't last ten seconds with a horror movie. Still, he indulged you. The last thing he wanted was to endure some stupid hybrid hallmark film.

A slasher flick. He didn't pay attention to the name. All he knew was that you quivered halfway through it and that stirred an urge in his gut.

Urge to what? Now that, he once again had no answers to.

It was warm. Low. The same way he felt when kids dropped their ice creams and mothers tripped in grocery stores. He couldn't name it. But he did drape his arm over the back of the couch. Not grazing your shoulders but, there.

You'd probably have nightmares tonight. Silly girl. Now he would be obligated to return the favour.

Because you did, a few nights ago. When he tossed and turned. Creased his sheets and slashed his blankets. Sukuna wasn't one to dream— but he did have nightmares.

About the darkness. About the cold. About a void that for some, unfathomable reason, unsettled him.

"It's okay, shh." Your voice reached out to him through the shadow. Light against the darkness.

"It's okay. I'm here. Wake up, please."

You were luck he hadn't broken your arm.

His grip was too tight. Claws too wretched. Not lucid enough to realise that he snatched your wrist when he had woken up.

"Get out." His voice rumbled. Eyes bloodshot and pupils tight. Sweat burned his forehead.

It must have not sounded like a threat, or maybe it was your stupid human resilience. You leaned over him. One knee on his bed and your hand ghosting his shoulder.

"You're freezing," you whispered.

He jerked from you. Rolled over onto his side and refused to allow himself to be vulnerable under your gentle gaze.

"I'm fine." He said.

You insisted. Are you sure? — Can I get you anything? — All the things that people said to catch you off guard and then left anyway.

"I said I'm fine."

His voice boomed, final. It was the first time he'd seen you flinch. He did not bother calling out for you as you shuffled out of the room. Assumed your bags would be packed by the morning. Your pink body wash nowhere to be seen on his counters and your books vanished from his shelves.

You didn't leave. Here you were, a few days later, with shaky knees and a horror movie. But insisting that you were enjoying it for his sake.

You never turned tail. Never backed down. Maybe it was more than human resilience. Maybe it was stubbornness.

That's the only thing that made sense to him. Why else hadn't you disappeared regardless of how much steam he'd blown at you? Especially when he was too much.

"Let's get one thing straight."

You had said something stupid one day in the kitchen. Something about being there for him. Some empty promise he had heard mixed and minced several different ways until it lost all meaning.

As if his mood was not sour enough.

Your back pressed into the fridge. His strong forearm shoved above your head. Sukuna's hulking body shadowed yours. Perhaps this was it. Where you finally became apart of that void that haunted his dreams.

"You and I. Are not. Compatible." His ears pinned back to his head. Tail coiled tight. Like his jaw and teeth that clenched.

Still, you held his stare. Even when it burned.

"Not a thing. Not. Possible." He spat. "So stop acting like you aren't just gonna sign me off so I can be caged up."

"I'm not—"

"I want you to."

He cut you off. Sharp as his heave as he craned closer. Close enough to smell your cherry shampoo— but not a hint of fear.

What was wrong with you?

"I want you to sign me off. So that we can stop pretending like any of this is gonna work and that I'm anything but better off alone."

The fridge rattled as he shoved himself off. He expected your knees to shake. Expected you to clamber out of the kitchen and stuff whatever you could into a suitcase for the night.

Instead, you watched him storm off. With those same, achingly gentle eyes.

Why were you so gentle?

Why did you stay?

Why did he find himself being gentler, too?

Of course, Sukuna didn't want to snap at you. You were simply the closest thing. The softest thing. His hands weren't built to cherish the tender.

Yet, tender were his hands, as they cooked for you. If you handled breakfast, it was only fair that dinner was his responsibility. Even if all he exchanged with you were grunts and gruffs, as long as you went to bed full, he was content.

Content? Odd. That wasn't a word in his vocabulary anymore.

His voice dangered tender's territory on nights you'd be out. Work, friends, whatever he never bothered listening to but for some reason found himself worrying over when the street lights switched on.

"Do you need a lift back?" He asked into the phone. Taking note to look uninterested, even if you couldn't see him.

"I should be fine, Sukuna." You chirped.

"You sure? It's almost midnight."

"I'm sure! What's the worst that could happen?"

To a sweet thing like you? A lot. More than he'd like to imagine.

Morals, he told himself. He pulled up in the middle of the morning to pick you up because of his pesky morals.

"Sorry you had to come all this way," you said as you shut the passenger door.

Sukuna considered your dress. Hated himself for it.

"What?" His tongue clicked. "Were you expecting to walk all the way back?"

"What's the worst that could—"

"A lot."

It wasn't like the other times. His voice raised, but didn't roar. His brows narrowed, but didn't glare.

The car ride was silent.

Your smile was sickening.

Cute.

He watched you closer. Not as a tiger stalked prey. Not anymore. He couldn't name this.

He refused to call it gentle.

Even when he carefully observed the way you fixed your hair every morning. How he noted which of your curves that the sun bounced odd of. The soft plush of your body and how your thighs moulded into the couch cushions, or rounded perfectly in your shorts.

Never had he been one to appreciate art— though he stood in front of your canvases and stared at your paint patterns. Swirls of green and blotches of warmth. Illustrations of nature: jungles and wild flowers.

It called to something within him. He assumed his hybrid traits. A tiger yearned for jungle, that was his home.

Home.

Sukuna didn't have a home.

He had a house. He had you. Had pink body wash on his counters and books he'd learnt the names of on his shelves. Had a warm meal every morning and a warmer bed you still insisted on making.

He had movie nights. A running partner. Someone who finally rooted her heels to the floorboards and blossomed in his walls. Stubborn as she was shy.

But not a home.

It was only a matter of time. Until he said something that finally was the thing. Until he'd wake up to your paintings missing, and your shampoo gone. He'd come home to no protein, but a sheet of paper:

I've signed you off. Good riddance.

You told him that you wouldn't, after he insisted it that night in the kitchen.

You padded to doorway of his room, picking at your sleeves with a petal-soft voice.

"All we have to do is clear you for rehabilitation," you said.

Not once did your eyes meet his.

"Then what? I can finally be alone?" He asked, incredulous.

You nodded.

It's what he wanted. What he claimed to want. So why was your agreement a sharp pang between his ribs?

That was then. He assumed your plans hadn't changed much. A silent agreement that if he behaved, you'd leave him be by the end of it all.

That's why he was gentler, he told himself.

Just trying to ensure his goals, he insisted.

For now, he would take care of you as you did him. Whether conscious or not. If it meant that when it was through, he'd get what was best for him.

Solitude.

But if solitude was what he wanted, why did he hate seeing you in others' company?

It was late. Emergency work call. He missed his afternoon cat nap and only scuffed down half of his breakfast.

The sun peeped at him from its sprawl across the horizon. Glaring into the back of his head as he stalked home. Burning him hotter. Hot.

He felt so. Fucking. Hot.

It wasn't even summer yet. Spring had only perked its preppy head. The blossoms bloomed. Their nectar tickled his nose. Couples gifted their flowers.

Sukuna hated spring.

He hoped you hadn't cooked dinner yet. That was his job. His responsibility.

But no, you were outside. Prattling to a neighbour.

All smiles and soft. Cupping your hands in front of you as you listened to the man's stories. The irritable snow leopard that lived next door. With his baby blue eyes and boyish grin.

What were you even doing outside in the first place? Didn't he tell you it was dangerous once the street lights started switching on?

Sukuna did what he did best. He watched. Looming by the telephone wire. Feeling the sun stab into his head. His spine. Feeling the heat gurgle from his gut. Splutter up his lungs. Against the back of his teeth.

That spotted fucker touched your arm.

Sukuna scathed.

Blurred colours. A muffled yelp. His claw caught on your woolly sweater as he snatched your arm.

"Sukuna—!"

Your gasp drowned in the rumble of his growl. Grated from the back of his throat. The leopard backed off. Your muscles tensed under his calloused fingers.

"Inside. Now."

He didn't wait for you to agree nor disagree. Dragging you inside and rattling the walls as the door clattered! shut.

"Su—" he lodged your voice in your throat once more. Shoved your back into the nearest thing— the same splintering door.

Was it hotter inside? Or was that the anger?

A sweat drop sweltered between his brows.

"What the hell were you doing?" As if he had any right to ask. You weren't his mate.

Mate? Of course you weren't his mate.

Then why did his teeth crave to sink into your flesh? Mark you?

His stare hazed. Blinking rapidly. Heaving. The heat blistered into his nerves. Clenched his muscles. Suffocating. It was suffocating.

"Why were you. With him. Why—" he zeroed in. Mistake. Big mistake.

Your scent.

You weren't his mate. Why the hell did you smell like it, then?

Did you always smell this good?

Your gaped at him. Hands stiff on your sides and pressed flat into the wood. Your neck craned to account for the height difference. Were you watching him this time? Was he too much?

His eyes squeezed shut.

"Sukuna," you spoke. His name didn't deserve that gentleness. It ached him deeper today.

"I think you're. . ."

Snapping open his stare, he sucked in breath. Considered your words. The phrase your lips wrapped around.

Rut.

Shit.

He shoved himself away from the door. Away from you. The fire crawled up his throat. Thunked his heart. Thrummed a deep, dark chord in his gut.

The sweat slipping down his spine in the middle of spring confirmed it. He was in rut. With a poor, persistent, pretty human in claw's reach.

"Hey— hey it's okay," you attempted, stepping forward where he stumbled back.

"Don't."

He hissed.

You preserved.

Stubborn. Stubborn, sweet thing.

"Let me help." You offered.

"No."

He tried. Tried to stumble off. Lock himself in his room. He could hump the mattress for all he cared but he wasn't so much as touching—

You took him by the wrist. Might as well have taken his soul while you were at it.

Splintered his restraint.

The door rattled again. Creaked awfully with the weight of him. On you. The thickness of the air. The heat. Your wrists fit well in his big hands. Looked like they belonged there.

You looked like you belonged here. Pinned under him.

His chest heaved. Voice jagged, throaty.

"You don't know what you're getting into." He said.

You gulped. He paid too much attention to your throat. "I did when I signed up for this."

"Do you even know what a rut is?"

"I know you can't be alone right now."

Sukuna's breath hitched.

You relaxed your hips. Let them mould into his. Their plush softness drove him wild.

Lashes hung over deep maroons. The quiet thrummed with your heart beats. His, thundering and wanting. Yours, tender yet eager.

He craned closer. Tuffs of his pink hair tickled your forehead.

"I can do awful things to you." He whispered.

Still no flinches. You never did.

Your eyes batted at him.

"Is that so bad?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Even the kiss, burned.

Your lips really were petal-soft. Softer than he had imagined. He hated himself for imagining this in the first place.

The knot in his gut wound tight. Urging him to flush you further into the wood. Flush further into you. Patience slipped into the simmer between your mouths. Sukuna kissed you with violence. Nothing contained. Nothing hidden.

He told you that he wouldn't placate himself for you.

Abandoning your wrists, his grip sought your plush. Squeezing your thighs between his fingers gaps. Lifting you into his arms so that your heels pressed into his back. So that he could consume you. Tongues tangling and teeth tackling.

Your hands smacked at his shoulder. Breaths huffed through your nose. A desperate sound that plunged him deeper into heat.

He let you breathe. Barely.

"I can be good for you." Was what you used the privilege to gasp.

His chest rumbled. "Yeah?"

The slope of your throat was so pretty when you gulped.

Sukuna slipped a hand to your cheek. Rough. He couldn't be gentle. Not with you. Not now.

"Gonna be good for me, pretty girl?"

Eyes blown out. Jaw tight. If you said anything other than your whined little yes as his hips ground into yours, he might have lost his mind entirely.

His mouth attacked yours again. Sucking on whatever was left of your lychee lipgloss. Surely bruising your lips in the process. He didn't care. Let him mark you. Everywhere. So that stupid snow leopards didn't get the wrong idea. So that everyone knew what you were.

His.

The home blurred into vertigo colours. The floors creaked under the weight of his footsteps. Sukuna hoisted you with him. Haphazardly avoiding furniture in the stagger to his bedroom. Hands palming at whatever part of your flesh he could reach.

He almost stumbled in the hallway. Caught you against the doorway, one of your hands gripped at it while the other clutched the back of his neck. Fisted his hair between your fingers.

"Sukuna, careful." You whined.

He didn't listen. Too busy humping on your thighs that squished perfectly between his hard body and the cold door. Nurturing his bulge. Tucking its hot curve into the smooth crux of your skin.

"Said you'd be good for me." His growl rumbled on your pulse. Teeth mapping out his new territory: your velvet flesh. "So shut up and take it. Like a good girl, yeah?"

The door swung open. You must have palmed the handle. Feet fumbled in a clumsy waltz. Hands clinging for dear life. He caught you. Kept you pressed against his blazing body as he mouthed down your throat. Latched onto a tender spot. Marked you.

Sukuna handled his ruts the way he handled everything else: alone. His hand, a pillow, and a grotesque amount of tissue boxes. When last had he felt the soft touch of a partner? Held their warmth beneath him while his mind drove him wild with fire?

He was always too much. Too much to handle. Too aggressive. Too big.

But you.

You seemed to want everything.

In the way your nails curled on his shirt. In the pitiful way your neck arched to give him more access. Offering yourself up to him. A pretty deer who craved a tiger's claws in her. His maw latched to your throat.

"You're so eager," he groaned.

You whimpered, "I'm yours."

Fuck.

The mattress sunk. Creaking in retort to the callousness of his shove. Your body moulded into his sheets. Into him, as he staggered over you. Knees digging into the bed. Teeth clamped on the base of your throat.

You jerked. A gasped cry vibrating against his teeth. Palms knocking into his shoulders. To push him off?

No— to grip. Cling. To him. To your mate.

After all, you were his now, weren't you?

Bites bloomed across your neck. Over your collarbone. Down your shoulders. Your clothes threading like ribbons under Sukuna's claws. The sound of fabric tearing accentuated the rough pants and pitched whines in the humid air.

He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell you what a good girl you were being for him. Wanted to grunt into your skin about how perfect you were. Tell you that you were everything he'd been waiting for.

The words lodged in his throat. Sticky on the back of his tongue that could only muster out wet pants and deep growls as he feasted on your flesh.

Every inch of your skin revealed to him was another blessing. Your curves. The dips. The soft slopes of your body. Salivated him all the more.

Your bra never stood a chance. Clawed away. Probably ruined at the wire. He didn't care. He'd buy you a new one. Buy you whatever you wanted if you were gonna carry his cubs.

Cubs.

The word slipped into his mind with ease, and ruined it.

Pupils blown out. Lungs clenching. He made the mistake of eyeing your tummy.

Perfect, round, soft. You'd be the perfect mate. The perfect mother for his young.

The thought spurred his hands rougher. Tearing away offensive fabrics until you were laid completely bare before him. With big, doe eyes batting up at him. So pretty. So his.

From the corner of his eye he spotted your hands slipping. To cover up. Cover what was his. Your wrists were snatched in his hard grip.

"Don't," he warned. Lips assaulting yours. Stealing your breath and tonguing on your whimpers.

"Don't hide what's mine."

Your tits were softer under his tastebuds. Delicate to the harsh swirls of his tongue. So small when compared to his mouth that sought to consume, to claim.

Sweet sounds sighed from your kiss-bitten lips. Your spine curved so that you pressed back into him. Squishing your plush breasts into his face. His groan rumbled into the flesh.

So tender it was maddening. So perfect it was addicting.

Kisses, sucks, bites. He littered your tits in more claims. Feasting on your silk flesh. Fantasising about the image of them larger. Fat and swollen with milk— just as you were round with his cubs.

His cock strained thick in his pants. Flushed hot on your inner thigh. He ground into your warmth. Rutting wildly. Like the animal he always was.

Your hands delving into his hair almost broke him. Almost. He withdrew from your chest. Eyes glowing through the dark as he found your face.

"Taste so good. So sweet." A hand roughed down your side. Cupped your thigh and strung it round his waist.

"Up."

Raw strength scooped you into his palms. Flesh spilling between the gaps of his fingers as he squeezed for good measure.

Your little squeaks were so cute.

Teeth dragged on your flesh. Callous over bites sunk into your gentle flesh. He lapped on the indents of his own canines as he wrest you over him. Shoved your thighs higher. Urging you. Demanding.

"Face. Now. Fucking sit on my face."

Senseless. Each word was a growl. It's a miracle you understood him at all. Maybe you always would. That's how mates were, right?

The cotton of your panties dragged on his collarbone. Frantic eyes darted to your face as your hips locked. Unmoving.

Stubborn little human.

"What?" He husked. Scuffling to shove you over his awaiting face. "I said sit."

Your lips pressed together. Hands scrambling for the headboard. "Wait are you— are you sure? I'm—"

"—driving me mad." He hissed through clenched teeth. The throbbing in his groin pulsed the sickening heat hotter. Seared into the back of his skull. To his hands that groped your ass. To his eyes that narrowed.

"Said I wanna taste you. So get. On."

Was that too much?

Was he too much for you?

No, course not. You wanted to be his good girl. He saw it in your doe eyes batting at him. In the quiver of your lip and the tremors of your thighs. You shuffled over him. Pressing the cusp of your panties against his chin.

"Like this?" You meeked.

"Like this."

Sukuna tugged you over him. Knocking your thighs. You stumbled. Caught yourself with shaky fingers in his hair and an adorable yelp.

The musked cotton scrunched into his nose, his mouth, the rest of his hard face. Stuffing his nostrils with the sweet, intoxicating aroma. His eyes threatened to roll back.

A muffled curse rumbled into your heat. First came his tongue. Abrasive like everything else about him. Lapping on your folds. Drenching the fabric. Trying to suck in your taste through it.

Then came his teeth. Impatient. Tearing into your panties. His head wrest, violent. Claws ripping away the cloth in a feral affair.

Your sweet heat was his reward. Slicking up his face with your clit pressed into his nose.

"Fuck," his groan thrummed. Straight into your velvet. Leaking your pussy into his agitated mouth. "Knew you'd taste s'fucking sweet."

Hands slipped up your thighs. Cupped your ass. Sukuna sought to press kisses to your quivering slit— but you dangled above him. Not pressed, not sat. Hovered.

"Said. Fucking sit."

He hauled you into him. Cramped your thighs into his head. Smothered your pussy into his face. Even with his ears muffled by your plush, he heard your stunned gasp.

The weight was perfect on his head. Your hands were perfect in his hair. Pussy pretty, pulsing, perfect, on his tongue that stroked over your slit. Lathered you in saliva. All the way to your clit.

He darted the muscle. Circled on your bud. Trying to commit to a rhythm. A pattern. It scathed into the heat of his rut. The heat to take, to claim. To make you his. Finally.

Even if you hated him after this.

Even if you signed him off and he finally got what he wanted. Solitude.

Right now, all he wanted was your pussy.

Filthy squirts and sloshes squelched through the room. Brimming the hazed air together with your whines. Moans. Gasps of his name.

He always hated how gently you said it. Like it meant something. Like it ever could mean something. Hearing it broken sounded better. Shaky and whimpered as he fucked you on his tongue.

"S-Suk— kuna, ah."

Sweet. So sweet. Sweeter than he ever deserved. But Sukuna was a greedy man. So he gripped on your thighs, bit his nails into your flesh, and feasted to his heart's content.

"There ya go. C'mon, pretty girl, ride my face."

Spank! went his hand. Clamouring your ass and fisting the jiggles. Pulling you down, harder, closer— till he was suffocating. Suckling on your clit. Guiding your hips into a sinful sway.

Your hips fell into rhythm. Atta girl. Always so sweet for him. Always so obedient. Yeah, if you stayed, you'd make the perfect mate.

He hoped you stayed.

He could make you stay.

Keep you in his bed. Make a den for you. Hold you down and fuck you into his sheets day-in-and-day-out. Fill you up until your tummy grew even rounder. Softer. Until you were swollen. Until you were his.

No. Fuck. That's the rut talking.

The rut talking.

It's the rut that had him palming your ass and squeezing you into his face. The rut that had his mouth kissing, sucking, licking and laving through your creamy mess. The rut that had him fucking you on his tongue and bucking his hip into the air just as yours ground down into his face. Smearing mess all over him.

Yeah. That's the rut. But fuck, if he wasn't drunk on your pathetic moans. Your messy pussy.

Your clit spasmed under the flat of his harassing tongue. Your thighs clamped around his head. Fingers dug into his skull. Even your pain was sweet.

"Shit— kuna." Your voice croaked. Called to him as a mate should. "I'm gonna, fuck. Think 'm gonna. . . gonna—"

His eyes fluttered. Throat rasped.

"Gonna cum? Yeah? Gonna cum, hah, all over my face?"

From between the small gap of your thigh, Sukuna witnessed your face. Eyes rolled back. Jaw slack. Tits bouncing as you rode his face as if he was yours.

He was.

In this moment. In these blurred lines of his rut. Where he pictured you as his mate. Entertained the thought of wanting. Of being wanted. Of not being alone.

He was yours. Even if for a moment.

You sung his name through the haze. Tender even when he ripped you apart at the seams. Delicate even in his claws that threatened to tear into you. Mark you with scars and blood.

Your hips clumsily rocked. Once—twice—locked up in feverish tremors. Your hands bunching his hair. Clinging. Your body hunched over his. Shattering.

Sukuna rode you through an orgasm with his lips latched around your clit. Sucking harsh on its throbs. Teething on its twitches.

You splattered his face in warmth. Sweet, sickening warmth that doused him deeper into his rut's clutches.

"That's it. There you go. Fuck. Prettiest fucking pussy," he slurred into your wetness. Tongue delving between your puffy folds. Lapping up your cum. Greedy.

You toppled over him. Breaths ragged. One hand clutched in his hair and the other on the headboard.

"Wanna— wanna help. Wanna." To his surprise you pulled on his hair. Interrupting his creamy kisses on your slit.

Stares met. His hot. Yours warm. Wanting.

"Wanna make you feel good too."

How pretty you were when you quivered. Lips glossed by drool and lashes soaked with tears. It ached a deep chamber in his heart.

"Wanna be good for me?" He panted.

Your nod was doeish. As everything else about you was. His delicate girl. So fragile in his hands.

He couldn't wait to break you.

The bed creaked again. You squeaked as he hauled you down into the wrinkled sheets. On your back with his hulking weight pressing down on you. His mouth fixed to yours. Magnetic. Addicted. Letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

"That mean you gonna let me breed you too, baby?" Catching your lip between his teeth, he grunted. Pressing the swell of his cock between your legs. Staining his crotch in your slick. "Gonna let me breed this sweet pussy?"

Your response was sweet, shy, but oh so eager. A tepid nod, as your fingers slipped to his shoulders. So small. Smaller than him in every way. He took the moment to appreciate it.

You, spread and waiting for him. Your pussy, swollen and twitching. His bulge pressed on your glistening folds dwarfed you entirely.

Oh, how you'd squirm on his cock.

At last he shrugged his shirt off. Shivered when your touch feathered over his chest. He made the mistake of watching your eyes. How they mapped out scars that your fingers traced.

You didn't have to say anything. Your gaze spelt affection he wasn't ready to receive.

"Don't stare at me like that." He gruffed, kicking off his pants.

"Why not?" You asked.

"Makes me think you want me."

"I do want you, kuna."

Damn you.

Damn you and your tenderness. Damn you and that sweet nickname your sugar lips latched onto. Damn you and the way you made his cock throb hard in the strained fabric of his boxers.

He palmed your throat. Focused on your pulse. The control he held over you in the moment.

"Shut up." His hiss muffled with a kiss. Hot and open-mouthed on yours. As if he could suck the words from your tongue and swallow them into his gut that knew better.

Knew that he was better off alone. That this was only for the sake of his rut.

Bulging and angry, his tip nudged between your thighs. Soaking up your arousal. The slippery sensation of your pussy sent shivers down his spine. So wet. For him. Only him.

He let you pull away. Watching as your gaze lowered to his thick cock sandwiched between your folds. Sliding against your slit and dragging on your clit. Your wide eyes eased a chuckle from him.

"What?" He drawled. "Too big?"

"Well. . . yes."

"And every inch's gonna fucking breed you."

He pinned you back into the mattress. Flat on your back with your knees scooped into his big hands. Dwarfed you there too. He pressed them back into you so that they kissed your tits. Folding you in half and completely exposing you entirely to his hungry eyes.

Salivating. He was salivating. Your eyes were too kind for how lewd your pussy spread out for him. Leaking a string of mess. Calling for him. Wanting him.

"Keep your eyes on me, you got that?" Maroon burned into yours. Searching for hesitance. For fear. For something that could cut into this feverish rut and remind him that he didn't deserve you. But no.

You obeyed him.

You wanted him.

His cockhead slotted against your slit. Dipping in to feel the silky sin of your pussy. A deep groan rumbled from the depths of his chest. His brows furrowed. Fuck. When last had he had this?

Blunt nails dug into the backs of your thighs as he sunk in. One inch. Two inch. Three inch. Four— popping through the first tight ring of resistance. Eyes devouring yours the entire time.

He watched your face. How it scrunched up and your mouth parted. How tears clouded your eyes as he pushed past the halfway point.

He stopped.

"You good?" He huffed. Barely gentle.

Very. Gentle.

"Yeah it's— just. . . just a lot." You croaked.

"Too much?"

His face didn't falter, but his heart sure did. His grip loosening on your limbs. Ready to let you go. Free you from him.

But you shook your head. Teary eyed. Twitching smile.

"Not enough."

Hips possessed. Mind a mess. He slammed forward at those two, pretty little words. Till his tip smooched your cervix and his balls squished into your folds. Bottomed out. Filling you to the brim.

The sound you made was sin itself. A blessing. Heaven, hell, and everything in between.

"Oh fuck." You cried, head tossed back. Unable to see him gasping out the same exclaim.

Your syrupy cunt hugged around him. Tight, snug. Nursing on an underside vein and milking him around the tip. Every pulse was your heartbeat, and it devastated him.

Cussing, he pushed down onto you. His heart tugging itself towards yours. To press into your skin as his hips started rutting. Slow, eager.

"Fuck. Look at you take this cock. Like you were born for it," his words husked above you.

Your lashes fluttered. Brows knitting at the centre. He watched your tears threaten to slip as he humped on the sensitive ring that was your cervix.

His tongue clicked. Swapping out a hand on your thigh, he snatched you beneath the jaw instead. Wrenching your face to his hot one.

"Didn't I say keep your eyes on me?"

"M sorry."

"Don't apologise, just take it."

He withdrew. Halfway at first— then shoved back in. The second time was further. And further. Until his thrusts pulled to the tip and plunged back to your womb. Languid, but hard. Sure to make you feel every inch of him pressing into your pussy nerves.

You soaked up his thighs. Splashing his balls and leaking a puddle into the sheets already. The scent was intoxicating. Flared his nostrils and dizzied his head.

The mattress shook beneath the power of his thrusts. Your body bounced with it. He made sure to coil his tail tight around your waist. Held you down like a predator did prey as he fucked you open on his cock.

Pleasure built a knot in his gut. Hot, heavy. Urging his hips to snap harder and chase bruises on your jiggling ass.

Every sound was sin. Sweet. Cries, moans, a whimper than surged into a whine of his name when he removed his other hand from your thigh to instead hold them back with a steeled forearm. So that his palm could press on the bulge swelling up the base of your tummy.

"Fuuckkk," he growled. Ears pinned back to his hair. Jaw hung and canines glinting. "Look at that. See that, pretty girl? What's here?"

You hiccuped, "your— ah. Your cock!"

"Yeah? What's it doing?"

"It's—"

You couldn't answer. Slurred by moans and the delicious drive of his dick stretching you out. He watched your eyes go static.

Spank! his palm landed hot on your clit. Bulging your eyes and jerking your hips up into his frantic thrusts. He laid another. Two. Three— encouraging your pitiful whimpers.

"Asked you a fucking question. What's it doing?"

"It's— hah. B. . . Breeed—"

"Breeding you? Yeah?"

"Uhuh! Breeding. Breeding me s-so . . . s'goood."

Drool bubbled on your lips. Your hands that had tried to scramble on his shoulders and dig your mark into his flesh now fell flat on the pillow. Beside your head. Limp like the rest of your body that surrendered itself to him.

Heat surged down his spine as you clamped around him. Sucking the air from his scathing lungs. Staining his base in a thick, filthy ring of cream.

His hips rammed all the more faster. Harder. Imprinting you into his bed. Your slick. Your sweat. Your scent.

One of your weak hands slipped down. Meeking over to his larger one fixed on your stomach. Wrapping around two of his massive fingers. Or at least trying to.

It strung a deep chord in him. Thin and vulnerable. One he has thought he cut out long ago.

His half slipped over yours. Fingers laced. Pressing you against the bulge he plunged into your tummy. Holding your hand. Holding it tight.

"Sweet pussy's milking me," his grunt fanned your pulse as he swooped down. Mouthing on your neck. Searching for your pulse to feel it race beneath his lips. "Fuck. Wants my cum so bad. Wants my cubs."

"Please!" You slurred.

He swore he could do this for life.

Shoving all the way, Sukuna paused on your cervix. Sweat dripping from his hair. Cock drumming heavy. He clamped you down through your protesting whines.

"Yeah, yeah, shut it." It didn't sound harsh. Especially not with his firm squeeze on your hand.

Slipping out just enough, he watched your juices spray all over him. Mesmerising him. He worked on autopilot. Bundling you into his arms and manhandling you into a different position.

Tossing you to your side, Sukuna slotted behind you. Hips spooning your ass. One strong arm hooked around your neck, choking you on his bicep. While the other strung around your thigh. Wrenching you open for him and his massive cock, that bullied back into your cunt. Squelching your cum and sick in messy streams.

Your angelic cries resonated into his bicep. Making him squeeze it harder against your throat. Headlocking you into his greedy mouth that sucked hickies across your neck.

The angle was deeper. Filthier. Letting him feel so much more of you.

How much smaller you were than him. How you squeezed him just right. How perfect you were in his arms.

Like you belonged.

Shit. Don't go there.

Sukuna tried to drown it out. The returning thought of you. A permanent fixture in his life. Your pink body wash on his counter, that was now his. Your books on his shelves that he could read to you. You, in his living room, painting.

Painting the jungle. Painting home. Being his home.

His cock pulsed hard at the base and sweltered at the tip. The knot in his stomach wound tight. But that thought— that thought gutted him.

That you were here. That you had been here. Warm, and sweet, and soft and for the last few weeks. His.

You could be his.

"No," he wanted it to sound like a grunt. But he whimpered. Panting, heaving, mind dizzy and thrusts frantic—

Sukuna was whimpering.

Your face was pressed into his bicep. Head limp and hand still trying to hold his that clutched your thigh. Still calling his name so sweetly.

"N-No?" You breathed.

Still attuned to him even when he was fucking your brains out.

"Don't want you to leave."

Oh.

Oh.

He hadn't realised that it slipped from his lips. Hadn't realised that through his brutal thrusts— he was breaking. Lost in the burning bliss, the heat, and the warmth of what could be.

Sukuna lost his fucking mind.

"Don't wanna— fuck. Don't wanna be alone." His face fell into your neck. Arms squeezing your body into his. Trying to melt your skin into his. Tuck himself into your warm flesh and the selfish wish you gave him.

Hazed, and hot, and so heavenly yours.

Slick hair pressed into your cheek. His body collapsed onto yours. Pounding his cock up into your creamy cunt. Chasing his blazing nerves as his mouth rambled.

"Don't want you to leave. Don't. Shit. Don't leave me, please, please don't fucking leave me."

His thrusts lost rhythm. As frantic as his rushed whispers. Plunging into your cervix. Bruising your thighs. Clutching you closer. As close as he could muster. As close as it would take to keep you here forever.

"Say you won't— say you," he slurred. Eyes squeezed shut. Words melting into a clumsy splutter of curses. "Say. Say you won't. Say—"

"Won't. Won't. 'kuna I won't— hngahh. Promise!"

That single word. So raw. So true. Choked in a gasp as you tried to nudge your face closer to him.

It shattered whatever pride he had left.

"You promise?"

He croaked. Dangerously hopeful.

You nodded. Cried.

"Promise. I promise S'kuna. Breed me— please."

He should have known you'd be trouble from the moment you first smiled at him.

Heat trapped him. Seeped into every nerve and spasming muscle. Ears drooped. Tail clinging around your waist, as his arms did every inch of you.

He held your hand.

The ache in his hips nulled to the sound of your sweet voice. Tucking promises away in his heart and sealing them with attempted kisses, even when he was choking you.

He felt your orgasm shake through you. Your body locking up as you babbled his name into the humidity. And with that Sukuna finally— finally let go.

Ramming his cock up one, final time. He stilled. Deep and thrumming within you. Heat bursting from his gut and washing over him in a devastating wave of blissful carnage.

Loud and wrecked, his moan vibrated into your back. Hips rocking in small stutters as spluttering, white ropes creamed your cervix. Pouring his thick cum into every inch of your twitching cunt. Brimming you with him and his promise.

"Fucking. . . fuck. . . hah. Take it. Take all this cum in your pretty pussy." Slurs dragged up your throat, to your ear as you face limped into his arm. His voice husked, a vow.

"Just feel me breeding you full. Filling you with my cubs."

You whined, meekly rocking back into him. But he snatched your hips and pressed it down into the mattress with a soft hush.

The throbbing at his base thrummed into swelling. His knot bloomed until it lodged stiff in your cunt. Pulsing with your pathetic little twitches.

He watched your eyes widen and brows furrow. Your body locked up and a whimper strained from your swollen lips. "Mmm. That's your—"

"Mhhm. Just stay still."

Laving his tongue over one of the bites, Sukuna held you near. Savouring your warmth.

The silence finally didn't feel like a void. Even if it was heavy.

He held onto the moment. Clung to its peace as the warmth simmered into cooling sweat on your flesh.

You broke the quiet first.

"Did you mean that?"

He didn't answer you. But his hand cupped your tummy. Fingers still laced in yours as his face tucked against the back of your shoulder.

". . . Was it too much?"

He never thought his voice could ache.

You tried to shift again, and despite the lump in his throat, he clicked his tongue. Squeezed your thigh in warning. "I said stay still, didn't I?"

"You're never too much. Not for me, Sukuna."

There you went, saying his name like it meant something.

Nudging your face to his, Sukuna licked at the tears on your face. A tender act he never thought himself capable of. "Don't say shit like that."

"That I want you? Or that I love you?"

His breath hitched.

Once the knot settled, he pulled out. Hesitantly— especially with your heat still clinging to him.

"You love me?" He muttered, laying a kiss on your cheek. Then to your jaw. To your shoulder. Down your body until you were on your back.

Calloused thumbs swept your folds back. Eyeing the lewd streak of cum leaking out of you.

His eyes found yours as you spoke, tender.

"Do you want me to say it again?" One of your hands raked into his hair.

His face nudged between your thighs. His hummed approval followed the flat of his tongue. Laving up your slit. Licking away the mess and holding your thighs open amidst their intense shivers.

Even as you whined. With your eyes on the brink of tears. They were still soft for him.

"I love you."

You shouldn't.

He shouldn't.

But he still said it back.

"My mate."

Low, and grumbled, not those three words but something that spelt a deeper bond. One he finally had.

After licking you clean, Sukuna bundled you up into the sheets. Pushing himself from the bed and returning with a warm towel and a water bottle.

He cradled the back of your head as he gave you the water.

Worshipped your flesh as he wiped you down. Tracing over bruises and bites. His mark.

And when you were finally tucked into his arms. Dozing off with your head nestled on his heart that now beat for you. His tail curled around your leg and his claws soft on your curves. Sukuna understood.

That his too much was just enough for you.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/pixopix | art cred: @/cakkezzz ( twt )

Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.

It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you. 

You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say. 

The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”

He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”

You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?” 

You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name. 

Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head. 

He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness. 

“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk. 

“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.

“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?” 

You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”

He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but  you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”

You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“

“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks. 

He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.

Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”

You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building. 

You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.

Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face. 

“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.

“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.

 He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“

“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back. 

His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.  

“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful,  “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”

“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”

“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words.  You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was. 

He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both. 

Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you  weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude. 

“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish. 

“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds. 

He’s so polite, you could just die. 

You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.

You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.

But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.

 He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.

You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both. 

Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers. 

You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure. 

You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?

You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?

“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.

He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time. 

A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations. 

You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way  — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“

He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again. 

“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.

“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now. 

He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”

Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.

You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”

He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?” 

You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think  we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.

“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.

You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place. 

“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“

“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.” 

Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.” 

You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.” 

“Embarrassing how?”

For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.

“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one. 

You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.

 Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships.  And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year. 

But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.

His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again. 

Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.

You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing. 

So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.

Sort of.

Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage. 

“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up,  towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.” 

He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”

You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”

“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.

You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself —  but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe. 

Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him. 

“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer. 

The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself. 

You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—

“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.” 

The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.

He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.

Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.

Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”

You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.

You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“

He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“

Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.

Choso all but freezes, “What?”

Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No. 

“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.

You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.

 “Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.

You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.

“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves. 

A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”

***

It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”

You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top. 

There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”

“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”

At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”

Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”

She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.

Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”

She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”

“I don’t have a crush on him!”

She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”

“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”

“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”

You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”

“Y’know I love you.” She starts.

“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.

“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“

“What would Muta think…?”

She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”

You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”

She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?” 

You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“

“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”

She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”

You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax. 

You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think. 

“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.

You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her. 

Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along. 

“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat. 

“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering. 

“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.

You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.” 

It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”

Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion. 

She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”

She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. 

***

“—I think they never made any real contact.”

“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”

Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out. 

If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic.  At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.

“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”

“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say,  completing her sentence. 

“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.

She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table. 

“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.

“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”

“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.

You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.

There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest. 

There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?” 

You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways. 

You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”

It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him. 

A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group. 

“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him. 

“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”

You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”

 He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him. 

“My brother by the way. Same year though.” 

Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.

“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that. 

 “I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”

You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously. 

“We don’t look related do we?”

 Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“

“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”

“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”

“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features. 

“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.

The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement. 

***

It’s around 6:40pm  when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you. 

He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”

For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.

“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”

He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”

The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”

You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now. 

“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.

Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.

“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.” 

There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of.  I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.” 

You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”

After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.

“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”

You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.

“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”

At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”

He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”

“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip. 

He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?” 

Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it.  No going back. Remember? 

 “I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.” 

Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.

You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.” 

“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed. 

You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”

“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure. 

“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”

“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”

Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”

“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.

You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.” 

Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“

“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”

Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it.  “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“

“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”

The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”

***

The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings. 

Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away. 

He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“

You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.

He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment. 

It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor. 

“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he  takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.

“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.

“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“

“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him. 

It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.

He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.” 

Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought. 

On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.

He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face. 

An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.” 

You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.

He follows your gaze, “What?”

“You’re also thinking of something.”

His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”

You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”

Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.

Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.

 “Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out. 

He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out. 

“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”

He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes, 

“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating. 

“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him. 

“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“  You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough. 

“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment. 

He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.

“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But I wanna know for me,”

He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.

Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do?”

He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips. 

He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling. 

His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.” 

If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry. 

His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.

Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“  He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.

“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.

You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.

You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him,  mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.

He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.

You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors.  Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear. 

He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.

 You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod. 

You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”

His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.

 He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.  

“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”

He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.

He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him. 

You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue,  entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.

“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.

You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.

 “Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.

You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,

“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?” 

His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“

“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about. 

Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“

You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um,  anything.”

You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.

He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again. 

“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck. 

You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor. 

You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.

“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.

 His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.

You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster. 

You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection. 

You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.” 

You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”

You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”

And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“

 He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit. 

He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements.  He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.

Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“

“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up. 

You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely. 

You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”

Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off. 

He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself.  “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”

Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,” 

Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.

You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast.  You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”

Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“

“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“ 

He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.

And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”

His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?” 

You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”

He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between. 

He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”

You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.

Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material. 

“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy. 

You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.”  He says, discouraged. 

“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words. 

He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.

He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant. 

“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"

His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed. 

The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully. 

Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.

He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.

He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”

He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth. 

He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”

You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more. 

You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good. 

But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,” 

He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk” 

It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.

Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.

You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea. 

“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”

He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly.  “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“

He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”

It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”

“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.

“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.” 

The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“

He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“ 

He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.

“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina. 

Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“

“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim.  He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.

His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you. 

Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”

His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.

He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.

The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.

He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”

You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.

Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.

He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you. 

You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.

He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately. 

A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum.  Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face. 

Your chests are pumping against each other,  both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions. 

You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.

 “What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”

Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.

He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“ 

He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”

You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient. 

You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”

He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling, “Yeah.”

"Oh c'mon, prez. It's end semester." Satoru cooed, still finding the audacity to lean against one of the lockers despite the reprimand.

You stopped. Shoes placed exact centre on the grey tiles as you shot the delinquent a look. "The end of the semester is Friday. It's Monday."

Satoru grinned, pushing hand through his hair. "Always sooo dutiful. Lighten up a lil."

Sukuna heard it before you said it. Saw the trail of your eyes before you had even darted your gaze to their mess of uniforms. Satoru's blazer was tied around his waist. Toji was missing his entirely. Sukuna's belt hung low. Don't even get started on all three of their hairstyles that broke at least four regulations.

Yeah, delinquent was putting it lightly.

Sukuna was already mouthing your reprimand before it left your lips.

"Fix yourselves." Calm and controlled, coupled with that glare in your eye as you folded your arms. "Lest I file a complaint in the register."

"Over what? Looking good?" Toji teased.

You huffed. Snapping your sharp stare over to Sukuna who was all but waiting for it. Red eyes held yours in nonchalance. With a hint of something dangerously close to amusement. Admiration.

"You're the captain of the rugby team. Be an example to your teammates, Ryomen."

Oh, there's that tone he loved. That strict, smooth command that sent a shiver up his spine. He bit back a smirk.

Yeah, you all had your roles. And yours was maintaining order and, by the looks of it, eye-fucking him in the middle of the hallway.

"Yes Ma'am." He nodded, pushing himself from the locker to stand at his full height. Towering over you just to see if you'd flinch.

You didn't, of course. You never did. You held his stare with an arched brow and your chin never downturned. That's what he liked about you. A bold brat through and through.

"C'mon you two. One last class before practice." Sukuna nudged at Satoru's shoulder who was a little too preoccupied with the sliver of your thigh peeking out of your skirt. The sight clenched Sukuna's jaw, but he bit back comments in favour of wrangling dumb-and-dumber.

Halfway down the hallway, and yet, he could still feel your eyes. Pierced into his spine. He couldn't help but shoot you a glance over his shoulder. Meet that controlled stare that always rivalled his.

Guess it's the one time he let the stereotypes get to him. He wondered how much you'd keep up that bratty beauty if he had you under him.

The thought of you had grown from annoyance to arousal months ago. The perfect president with her commands as sharp as crystal and her glare prettier than them. Always proper. So poised.

He wondered what it'd take to break that little attitude.

Although, if he's being entirely honest. He was kinda into those mint manicured nails that always pointed at him. Not to mention that stare? How you tried to pretend that it never lingered on him?

He saw you again at practice. Even with the sun glaring his vision and his throat burning for water. Sweat dripping down his forehead as he chugged down a bottle.

You were impossible to miss. Even in his exhaustion. Strutting along the outer corridor. Probably on your way to file in reports while others called it a day.

He caught your stare, as he always did. Felt it creeping up his back and shoulders.

Just like in the hallway, he shot you a look. Locked eyes. Only this time, he cast you a little grin.

You turned away. Like the stubborn brat he was hopelessly attracted to.

Nothing beat the rush of a whistle whipping through the air and a successful try on the final second. 50 - 46. Another win by the skin of their teeth.

The cheers of the stadium, the flashing lights, the bruised and battered arms of teammates that tossed around each other as an excited roar ripped through haze. Yeah, nothing beat that.

Well, the celebration that came after was a close second.

Stars of the league once more, Sukuna's team was treated to relax. He'd say for once, but other than training, his band of misfits hardly did much. Slacking-off was their everyday. But at least they'd earned it this time.

The blaring cheers had blurred out into the blast of music. Rhythm and beat vibrating the college assembly hall cleared out just for them. Littered in bodies and alcohol. The coach saw to them well, organised everything with the student council beforehand since he never doubted the team once.

Flashing lights. Grinding bodies. More booze than a Shibuya pub. Sukuna migrated through, his sharp shoulders finally sagged. Spotting some of his teammate with either their tongues down throats or chugging down red solo cups still floating beer pongs.

Steering through the crowd and shrugging off a drunk Satoru who tried to harass him as per-usual, he searched for the drink table. He was far too sober for this celebration. Shitfaced and slurring was what he wanted to be by the end of the night. He deserved it for being able to wrangle the hooligans he called teammates all semester.

And then, he felt it. That stare creeping up his spine.

He glanced to the left and sure enough— there it was. Calm and collected. Calculated even out of that blazer pressed with pristine in every inch. A black dress hugged and complimented your features far better. Certainly more than three fingers above the knee. Not so dignified with a drink in your hand.

Not even your posture was refined— you leaned against the drink table. One arm still folded over you, shoulders still squared.

You stare still on him.

Oh, his night just got a whole lot better.

"How irresponsible, prez." Drawled Sukuna as he stepped up beside you. Snatching one of the cups into his large hand and propping himself next to you.

Deep maroons roved your figure. The curves and dips in all the right places. Damn, he was almost jealous of that dress.

His head quirked with the corner of his lips. "It's a good look on you."

"Don't start." You scoffed a chuckle, raising the red plastic to your lips. Was that lipstick? Red. He could get used to his favourite colour on you.

It was almost uncanny. Seeing you so relaxed. Drinking. Completely out of your element and yet still poised in every right. It thrummed something deep within him. Dark.

He watched your eyes rake over him in what he could only describe as shameless with the flashing shadows obscuring it. You asked, "shouldn't you be celebrating with your team, Ryomen?"

"Sukuna." He corrected, just to watch your eyes. Watch your shoulders that tensed all the more firmer. As if it would break conduct to call him by anything familiar.

His smirk curled higher, as he slumped back with a swig. "And nah. Not when there's a pretty girl all alone back here."

Gauging your reaction, Sukuna bit a grin into the plastic rim of his cup when he noticed you cleared your throat. Where's all that confidence now, huh?

". . .Could it be that the elusive rugby captain is flirting with me?" You mused.

Something ticked within him.

His hulking body slanted, angled towards you as he propped a forearm on the table. Watched as you turned to him, almost hesitantly.

"Could it be that the uptight princess president is entertaining me?" He returned.

Your nose curled, the lights flashed over your face just in time for him to catch the wrinkles. A smile trembled over your lips. "Princess, huh?"

"Got a problem with it?

"Watch it. I'm still your president."

"Dirty talking already?"

Sukuna watched as your breath hitched. Bickering with him often came with ease, but it was a whole different ballgame when he shifted the playing field from president and delinquent to a jock and a princess.

It was amusing, to say the least. Watching you struggle for a rebuttal. You bristled when you finally found something. Straightened your spine with that manicured finger of yours so ready to point at him as you always did—

Thump!

"What the hell!"

"Ah— sorry. Soorryyy."

Alcohol seeped into the front of your dress. Clinging to the dark fabric and permeating the shimmers. A drunken smile was your only apology.

Sukuna stood straight. Shot a glare at his wobbling teammate who'd just bumped into you and ruined that pretty dress of yours.

"For fucks sakes Fushiguro," he grunted, watching as Toji lifted his hands up in surrender and then staggered elsewhere before he could get a scolding.

Turning back to you, Sukuna watched as your jaw tightened and your hands balled at your sides. Was that a pout? Cute.

"Sorry about that," he caught himself apologising when you looked up to him with batting eyes. The light flashing over the both of you in what he could only describe as fluorescent fate.

The idea came quicker than a smother tackle.

"If you need a change of clothes. . . " he almost caught himself drawling. As he stepped forward. You didn't flinch. You never did.

But it looked like you wanted to.

"Maybe I can offer a shirt? Sure I can find one for you back in my dorm."

Your stares locked, as they always did. Rivalling, controlled. Two leaders fighting for dominance as always. Only this time, you were faltering.

He watched your shoulders sag. Your arms cross over your chest tighter. Your chin still lifted but your lips pressed in a thin line.

Sukuna would be lying if he said he wasn't surprised when you actually agreed.

You looked prettier under his cheap dorm light.

Standing in the middle of his room with your legs too pressed together and your arms folded too tight. Your stare still seeped into his shoulders as he dug through his wardrobe on the far right. Looking like a fish who willingly crawled onto land and forgot she only knew how to swim.

Sukuna's dorm wasn't anything grand. His scholarship paid for privacy, not for space. The bedroom bled into a small kitchen area on the left separated only by a small counter top. A cramped couch wedged against it. On the right was his cabinet with a door that led to the bathroom. The bed laid at the centre with a singular side-table beside it.

Small, but neat. Neater than anyone would expect some jock's room to be, he's sure.

Finally, he fished out a red shirt. He could have gone for the black, maybe the white, but that deep rouge on your lips was his favourite colour. And he wanted to see you in more of it.

"This fine?" He asked as he approached, dropping the shirt into your hands that scrambled to catch it.

You pressed your lips together. Held the clothing article up by the sleeves to observe it. Flickering your gaze between him and the red.

"It's. . . big," you murmured.

And oh, poor you. There weren't any eyes anymore to hinder him. No bubbling hallways. No delinquents and presidents.

Just a jock. And a princess.

"Well I'm a big guy, princess." His head crooked in a predatory curve as his hands shoved into his pockets. The name slipped from his tongue. Easy. As easy as it seemed to fluster you, by the looks of it.

He watched you bristle again. Chew your lip and glance at the drywall as you balled the red fabric against those once perfect manicured nails that were beginning to look like they trembled.

Cute.

"Well— yeah, that's true." You stood straight once more. Uttered something that sounded like a thank you before you shuffled to the side. Not quite putting space between the both of you. But not exactly approaching him, either.

You cast him a side eye. Brought the shirt closer like it was your new knight. Poor princess.

"Are you gonna, uh, give me a moment?"

"Not unless you want me to watch?"

Flushed. Again. Like a flustered little flower with your face blooming in heat. How odd. Where's that beautiful brat that pointed and paraded in the halls?

"What?" Sukuna drawled, taking another step forward. Towering over you as he always did. You didn't flinch. You never did.

But fuck, it might have looked cute if you did right now.

"Don't tell me that the esteemed president is actually considering it?"

His voice dripped with something other than booze. Something scarily sober. Something dangerously close to want.

Want. Yeah, he's always wanted the prestigious campus princess.

"That's— that's not what I said," you stuttered. Actually stuttered. You, the poised president with your commands as sharp as crystals and your glare prettier than them. Stuttering all because the delinquent you eagerly pointed fingers at finally got you alone.

He grinned, glinting more than the usual charm back at you. "Didn't have to, princess."

"What's with that name?"

"What?"

He was right in front of you now. Close enough to hear the stutter of your breath. Feel your nerves. The shivers. Not very perfect of you, was it?

Leaning down, Sukuna established the height difference once more. His broad shoulders casting a shadow over you as his grin loomed closer. Dangerously so.

He could smell your perfume. Cherry mixed with nervousness. Hear the stutter of your heart. Every clear of your throat as you scrambled to resurrect the status-quo. When you could stare him in the eye and shoot him a command without your knees trembling.

His murmur was low, inviting. "Seems you don't mind being my princess one bit, yeah?"

Finally, he let himself touch you. A calloused thumb stroking your cheekbone. Oddly tender. Promising something rougher.

Your eyes gaped. Wider than he'd ever seen them. Confidence drained into your wobbling knees and your hands that clung to the shirt.

He paused for the first time that night.

Watched your sorry excuse for a stare. The press of your lips. The tremor that felt foreign to your dignified strut down the college hallways. This was far from the brat he fantasised you would be when he got you alone.

Sukuna's head crooked. "What's with that look?"

"Sorry. . . . I just, uh." You chewed your inner cheek. Cute, but odd for someone like you. ". . . Haven't. Done anything like this before."

He blinked.

Spoke in that terribly stark way.

"You a virgin?"

"Must you be so blunt?"

A pink brow arched. He slowed another blink at you and watched your every move. Watched your throat bob and your shoulders sag as a shaky sigh passed your red lips. It didn't look so bold under his stare.

"Yeah— yeah I am. I don't really have time for this kind of. . . " you motioned to him and how close he was. To his hand that was now cupping your face. "Thing."

He's dealt with virgins before. Had many doe eyes and shaky hands under his belt. So why'd you go under his radar? How hadn't he noticed the signs before? He'd been so swept up by your smooth voice and controlled stare that he completely slipped the possibility that the uptight college princess was—

"Sorry if that's. Like a turn off, or something."

Your murmur cut his thoughts right off. He locked stares with you once again— or at least tried to. For once, you couldn't meet his eyes.

Sure, it wasn't what he was used to. Wasn't what he expected. But honestly?

The thought of the uptight student council president being awfully inexperienced stirred another fire within him. Something deeper. Darker.

Wouldn't it be fun to corrupt a princess?

"Hardly," he scoffed, his grin settling into an arrogant smirk as his free hand slipped down. Snatched you by the waist and dragged you against him in a rough pull.

You yelped. Dropped the shirt and scrambled your hands for the one on him instead. Damn, even the way you clung to him was pretty.

That crystal stare of yours had melted into soft edges as you batted your eyes up at him. Achingly adorable for the pain in his ass you had been for the entire semester.

Cupping your face firmer, he drew you closer. Pressing every perfect inch of you into his callouses.

His voice rumbled, "you ever kissed anyone?"

Your brows furrowed. Warmth spread through his chest at the familiar sight. There's his beautiful brat. Bristling as your fingers bunched tighter on him and you huffed.

"Obviously! I'm not that—"

His mouth shoved to yours. Rough lips sealing over your cherry ones as the hand on your waist squeezed. Feeling your softness against his jagged. Your innocence to his experience. The way you squirmed— whether trying to get closer or further, he wasn't sure. He didn't think you quite knew either.

It was funny, really. How snarky you were with that tongue of yours. Now? It trembled. Fumbled. Struggling to keep up with his kiss as he leaned into your space and flushed you into him.

Your hands slipped to the top of his shoulders. He felt your nails scratching into the skin there through his shirt. Manicure nervous where it once was confident.

The whimper was what forced him to part. Already missing your warmth as his hand on your face slipped to the back of your neck. Cupping, caressing.

"No, no. Not like that." He coaxed, dangerously soft as he peered at you through hanging lashes. His thumb traced over your pulse, reassuring. "Relax. I've got you."

He felt your body lock up against him— then ease. Felt the flutter of your heart against his and the gulp under his thumb.

No words. Just a silent stare. A small nod. Sukuna guided you back in. Still rough, but slower. His lips moulding over yours and easing you into the kiss. Giving you room to breathe. Room to feel.

The hand on your waist slipped. Arm hooking around the small of your back and hoisting you closer. Impossibly so. To feel that sigh of relief that eased out of you and the melting of your muscles.

"Atta girl," the words muffled against your lips before he could overthink them. As if it was natural to hold a pretty virgin in his hands and corrupt her with guidance. Maybe. Or maybe it was just you. The fact that he got to take control for once.

Hot kisses smeared from your mouth. Along your jaw. Down your throat. Both hands roved over your sides now. Feeling the dress that clung to you in all the right places. The body you hid under pristine uniform.

"Can't believe you were holding out on me, princess." He groaned, breath fanning your pulse. A shiver ran up his spine as your fingers delved into his messy hair. Scratching a bit on the undercut only to rake through the fluffy strands.

Your small sighs of bliss were everything to him. For once, you were quiet. No sharp reprimands. No cool commands. Just quiet. Just his. His pretty princess in his arms as his mouth poured fire into your veins.

Big hands smoothed over your hips. Venturing behind. Cupping your ass. Squeezing. Your little yelp rumbled a husked chuckle from the back of his throat.

His teeth dragged over your pulse. Nipped. "Can I?" His fingers flexed with his desire.

You nodded.

"Words." He firmed, with a small swat! to your ass just to feel you jolt again.

You squeaked. "Yes— yes."

Your thighs bundled in his hands. Fitting perfectly. Like you were made for him. With ease, he lifted you. Nudged your legs around his waist as his mouth found yours again. Hotter. Messier. Banking on your fumbling to spur the kiss into desperation as he carried you back.

Sukuna wanted to say he tossed you onto his bed. But he was gentle. Achingly gentle. Tipping you back into his sheets and roaming your shivering body with his eager hands.

He withdrew with saliva this time. Locked eyes with you to make sure you saw the sinful string. Grinned when you flushed again and tried to avert your stare.

"Eyes on me." He ushered, cupping your chin.

You struggled. You, the studious student council president, struggling to hold his eyes for once. But you managed.

He drawled. "Good girl."

Then pressed a chaste kiss to your smeared lipstick and ruined it all the way back down your neck. Tracing your shivers as his fingers slipped below your waist. Over your hips. Teasing your thighs. Until he hooked into the hem of your dress.

"Let's take care of this mess, yeah?" He muttered into the crook of your throat. Sliding the fabric up. Slow. Slower when he got to your hips. Your tummy. Your breasts— over your head. Until you were laid bare before him aside from your underwear.

Red, too.

Sukuna arched his brow. "That your favourite colour? Or is it just for me?" A hand traced down your side. Cupped it so that his thumb could trace over the corner of your bra. Right over your tit. His hands were big enough to encase them entirely.

He watched you through lidded-eyes. Watched as you tensed. As you shivered. Chewing your lip when you were unable to hurl back a rebuttal.

He could get used to this darling side of yours.

A kiss atop your breast. Then the other. He pulled one out of your bra to circle his thumb on the pebbled nipple. Only to replace it with a kiss when you grew too sensitive.

You squirmed. Whimpered. Sensitive. Guess you really were a virgin. The confirmation thrummed something dark within him. Ticked his smug smirk back to his lips that dragged further down. Over the valley of your breasts. To your tummy.

You twitched when he reached your thigh.

"Fingers or mouth?" He mumbled into the softness of your inner thigh. Long finger hooked into the waistband of your panties as he stared back up at you. "Pick your poison, princess."

"I— uhm. . ." Your breathing was shaky. Fluttered. Like a poor little bird as you squeezed your thighs together— he wedged them apart with a huff.

"Fingers. . . I think."

Such a soft croak. Nothing like the girl he knew you to be. Not a prestigious president when you were under him. Drunk on his kisses and trembling from his touches.

No, here? You were just his princess.

"Tell me what feels good," he whispered, eyes locked on yours even as you struggled to hold his stare now. Fingers slipping from the waistband to your centre. Featherlight as he stroked on your thigh. Nursed the shivers there together with his mouth in softer than expected kisses.

Before he reached your soft heat. Brushed over your clothed slit. Up, down. A small stroke of his thumb. Testing. Teasing.

The damp spot tugged his smirk wider. His thumb pressed into it. Just a little firmer. A little hotter. Stroking up to nestle under the crook of your finger. Circle just right—

You pitched a whine.

"There?" His murmur fanned your tummy. Your little nod squeezed something in his heart as he circled his thumb again. "Mmm. Y'know what that is, pretty?"

"I— Yeah. . . mnn. My clit—"

"That's right," he cooed. "Feels good when someone plays with it, huh?"

Filth dripped from every words. Sought to seep into your veins and corrupt your perfect little soul. Now wouldn't that be a sight? To taint the pinnacle of perfection you always were.

After massaging over your clothed cunt enough to soak through the fabric, he hooked two fingers into the corner of your panties. Dragged them to the side to finally— finally get a look at the other girl he'd been waiting for all semester.

Wet. Sopping. Dripping a cute little leak down your sensitive slit. All for him.

"Wet lil' thing for a virgin, aren't you?" The vibration of his voice seemed to spill more of your arousal, and he chuckled at the sight. Repeated the cycle until you squirming with a small, pitiful whine.

"I've gotcha, princess." His thumb swiped over your slick. Over your clit and slit in a slow, agonising stroke that wrecked your thighs into a squirm.

"Ryo—"

"Sukuna." His thumb trapped your clit. "I'm playing with your pussy right now. You call me Sukuna."

His free hand shot out. Ambushing your wriggles and holding you still against his mattress for his hand to work between your legs. Maroon eyes pouring heat into yours as he locked your stares. Forced you to maintain it.

"Su—" you croaked, stirring under his grip as his thumb became two fingers that stroked you oh so sinfully. "Kuna. . . mngh."

"There you go," he praised, soaking his fingers in your slick just a little more. Before he circled your slit with his index. Prodded. Tested. "If it hurts lemme know. Just. . . feel."

A kiss to your tummy. A distraction. As his thick finger slowly slipped inside. Breaching your gummy velvet that clamped around his knuckle immediately.

The sound that left you was pathetic. Nothing like the president he knew. Just his pitiful princess who squeezed her eyes shut and clambered at his broad shoulder.

He paused his hand. Waited. Feeling the pulse of your walls and the tight clamp around only one of his fingers. What a little thing you were.

"Princess," he cooed. Dragging his index out. Slow. Agonisingly slow— watching the stickiness glint on his finger before he pumped it back to the knuckle. Curled just right. "If you're clenching s'much round just one fingers how're you gonna take my dick?"

You whined. Pretty. Pathetic. Your hips trying to buck into his finger that eased into a languid pace. Steady as he worked you open. Got you used to the feeling.

So silky. So soft. Spilling all over and he hadn't even given you two yet. The sight of your pussy clenching around his knuckle grumbled a groan from deep within him.

"Pussy's so eager to get her cherry popped," he muttered, pressing another finger to your slit. Waiting, working you open. Just a little further, a little more—

Your head fell back as two of his beefy fingers slipped into you.

"S'kuna. . ." you croaked. Blinking those big eyes at his ceiling as your chest rose quick. Falling in stutters. Struggling to breathe. Your nails slipped from his shoulder to his elbow. Trying to hold him. Trembling.

"Sshhh, I've got you. Doing so good." The hand holding you down stroked up your thigh. To your side. Caressing so tenderly as his fingers pumped slow yet filthy. Stretching you out on just his middle and index. Leaking your stickiness all over his palm and wrist. Fuck.

"Messy girl." Another kiss pressed to your taut tummy. He pumped back into your squelching pussy a little harder. A little faster. When he gouged you could take it. When your moans told him you wanted more.

He observed you. The scrunch of your face. The knit of your brows and the way your lips parted. Whines mixing into whimpers mixing into moans. Thighs tense yet squirming. Into him. Away from him. Causing his fingers to bump and grind on several sensitive spots within you.

He curled. You croaked. Bucking your hips down into his palm in a display he could only describe as need. That neediness poor little virgins broke out into when they learnt what true pleasure was.

He grinned. Curled his fingers again. Searched for a spot— there.

"Fuck— there," you whined.

"Here princess? Righhttt here?" He drawled, fingers circling that gummy spot until your spine lifted off of the bed and he had to return to holding you down. "Oh, there it is." His fingers thrust. Once— twice— maddening. "That's the spot. The one that's gonna make you cum for me."

Spilling. Messily, helplessly. Your pussy soaked him with every pulse. Spasming when his thumb finally joined the mix. Flushed to your clit and stroked as his fingers found a fast pace. Pumping mercilessly and working you up to that first orgasm.

"I— 'm gonna. . . fuck, kuna—" you whimpered, teary. One hand fisting the sheets while another shot to his wrist, clinging to him feebly. "Gonna. . . I'm—"

"Gonna cum?" His grin smooched your tummy. Fingers worked faster. Stroking deadlier. Right into that spot as he swirled your clit. He watched your face. Watched you break.

"Yeah you are. Cum for me baby."

Your body bowed. Obeyed him. For once. Cunt clamping around his knuckles. Quivering into pronounced throbs as a sob crossed with a whine spilled from your lips.

Sukuna watched your body submit to the orgasm. Shaking in thralls of pleasure as your hips mindlessly ground into his hand that had long since stopped. Fingers curling and rubbing into that spot along with your pitiful grinds to ride you through your high.

His pretty president. Just a pathetic princess. Cumming all over his hand.

"There you go. That's it, just feel it. Lose yourself." He swirled your clit one more time for good measure. Just enough to feel it twitch weakly against his callous.

His fingers slipped out. Coated in your slick. He brought them to his mouth without a second thought. Watched you through the haze of your orgasm and how your eyes still tried to find his even when you were wrecked.

His tongue flicked out. Laved over your wetness as he held your stare. Made sure you watching him enjoy the mess that he had made you. The taste on his tongue. Fuck—

Sweet. So fucking sweet.

"Always knew you'd be so sweet." He huffed, breaths heaving as he took the moment to observe you. The far cry that he had broken you down into.

So pretty when you were ruined. Just as he thought you'd be.

But still speaking, it seemed.

"Sukuna. . ." you murmured, trying to look up despite your rattling thighs and your shaky breath. Your grip returned to his shoulders. Clinging to him.

"Want. . . wanna make you feel good too," your legs hooked around his waist. Squeezed. Oh fuck.

He shut his eyes. Reran your words in his hazed mind. How could he ever deny you?

"What an eager princess." His hands snatched you by the waist. Swung you over so that you squeaked at how easy it was for him to manhandle you.

Propped in his lap like a pretty thing like you should be. Slotted so perfectly and wedged against his burning bulge. Nudged just right into your messy cunt and dragging the slick all over his jeans. Seeping through and soaking into him.

His eyes fluttered. A grunt forced between his teeth as his hands splayed over your waist. Clamping down and grinding you into the rough rolls of his hips.

A large hand found your face again. Cradled it so gently while his body worked animalistically. "Yeah? Want me to feel good too? What're you gonna do for me?"

His lips fell back to yours. Smothering your answer into pretty little whines. His tongue ventured in this time. Dominating you in every way he could. Searing his mark into you. His princess. His.

"I— hngh. Kuna."

"You gonna whine like a brat? Huh?"

"Mngh."

His hand slipped behind you. Palmed your ass and squeezed it. Pressing you firm into him to spur the sparks between your crotches. Rubbing the heat into something feral until you were both bucking messily.

Hot kisses laved your neck. Over your throat. Your pulse. Sucking hickies in his wake as he caught your clit on the rift of his erection. Grinding just right until you whined his name in that prettily pathetic way again.

"Fuck," his huff fanned your jugular. "Gonna fuck that pretty pussy so good. Make her all mine."

Rough hands dwarfed yours. Encasing them as he dragged your fingers to his belt. Pressed them into the buckle with the demand clear in sight. The promise of what was to come. What he'd do to you.

Your hands froze.

So did he.

With a tender consideration so uncharacteristic of him, Sukuna pulled from your neck. Nudged you to face him. "Hey," his thumb pressed to your cheek. "You okay?"

Your eyes tried to avoid him. He saw it. Dragging your stare back to him at least three times before you finally held it again.

"I. . . I just. . . I don't know if I—"

His eyes softened.

"Nervous?" He murmured.

You stiffened. Unblinking. Before you cleared your throat and slowly, so achingly slowly, nodded your head.

Sukuna was no brute. No matter what the stereotypes said. So the little nod was all he needed before his hands slipped back to your waist and carefully pulled you off of him.

"That's okay," the assurance didn't even sound like his voice. Soft, for the elusive rugby captain everyone knew him as. "We don't have to do anything else. You did good."

A kiss to your temple. He felt you ease against him as he sat you on the edge of the bed and got up. Walked over to where you dropped the shirt he'd gotten you earlier and came back to pull it back over your head. Careful. Attentive.

The fabric fell over you. Hanging low like a dress. He couldn't help the quirk at the corner of his lips. Yeah, his colour looked good on you.

"We'll get you cleaned up in a bit. You're gonna need some water."

"I. . . thanks. Thank you."

"For being a decent human being?"

He scoffed at your big eyes. Long arms caging you in on the edge of the bed as he observed you. Your pouting lips and tear-streaked face.

Fuck. He could get used to this.

"Don't get to used to it," the tease fanned your lips. Just to hear that hitch in your breath again.

The pretty, prestigious president. His pitiful princess. All softness to his callouses and tender to his roughness.

His thumb and forefinger caught your chin. Nudged it up.

"Next time, I won't let you run away, yeah?"

A rough peck to your lips. It sounded like a threat, but when he pulled back, there was no denying it. The affection in his eyes.

The affection for you. His pretty pain in the ass.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/dollywons & @/pixopix. art cred: @/hunnismokah

but hell did touch him, and it wasn't the fire and brimstone he had half expected when his soul snapped free and tumbled into the sulfur choked void. instead, he materialized in a vast echoing chamber carved from obsidian and flickering flames where the air tasted like burnt sugar and regret. demons with too many eyes and not enough skin lounged on thrones of bone shuffling papers that glowed with every sin he had ever committed. satoru blinked, trying to summon that signature smirk. the one that got him out of every bad situation back on earth, but his body felt wrong already. translucent and flickering like bad reception on a beach cam. he thought this was it. the eternal barbecue for all the coke and the casual fucks and the way he had stared too long at every female surfer who paddled out beside him, especially you the one with the killer cutback and the wetsuit that hugged every curve like it was painted on. he had ogled you shamelessly during comps. eyes tracing the way your hips shifted when you popped up on the board the spray of saltwater catching in your hair while he pretended to focus on his own line but really he was imagining peeling that suit off later at the afterparty.

he figured the demons would drag him straight to the pits and roast him alive for all the times he had snorted enough coke to fund a small island and fucked anything with a pulse, or a convenient hole in some dingy surf shack or luxury hotel suite paid for by his familys money. the judge, a hulking thing with horns curling and a voice like grinding coral reefs cleared its throat and read from a scroll that unrolled forever. "satoru gojo, for your wicked slutty, cokehead ways you stand accused of ogling every female surfer who crossed your path, including the one you couldnt stop eye fucking during every heat, the talented rider whose form you reduced to nothing but tits and ass on a board. you stand accused of fucking anything with a hole no matter how fleeting or meaningless. chasing highs in beds and backseats and on the sand after dark. and most of all the constant snorting of coke until your nose was raw and your brain fried like it was just another wave to conquer."

satoru laughed or tried to the sound coming out hollow and echoing. come on. he thought this has to be a joke.

"im too pretty for eternal torment just give me the flames already i can handle it."

but the demon didnt smile. instead it leaned forward eyes gleaming with something almost amused.

"no burning for you gojo. that would be too easy. your punishment fits your crimes. you will be reincarnated as an object. a surfboard to be precise. baby blue like the clearest tropical wave with delicate pink flowers blooming across your surface hibiscus and plumeria motifs to mock the seasons you wasted chasing highs instead of meaning. you will be sentient. fully aware, trapped in fiberglass and resin, feeling every touch every drop of saltwater every scrape against the reef but unable to speak or move on your own. no more ogling no more fucking no more snorting. just the endless roll of the ocean beneath you while others use you exactly as you used them."

the words hit harder than any wipeout. satoru felt his form begin to shift. bones melting into smooth curves, muscles flattening into a perfect elongated shape designed for carving waves. panic surged through him as his six foot frame turned glossy and cool to the touch, the vibrant blue spreading from his center outward like dye in the ocean. pink flowers unfurled across what had once been his chest. delicate petals etched in permanent ink that shimmered under the hellfire light. he could still think. still feel the humiliation burning hotter than any flame as his arms fused to his sides legs straightening into the tail of the board his face the last to go eyes wide with realization before they sealed into the smooth deck. no more cocky grin no more infinity to keep the world at bay. just a board. sentient. cursed.

"you will remain this way" he heard the demon continue voice fading as the transformation locked in. "until you learn the true weight of objectification. until you experience what it means to be reduced to a tool for someone elses pleasure and power. only when you have atoned through selfless service, protecting the very surfer you once ogled so shamelessly from a wave that could claim her life only then will your soul be freed to try again. until that day you ride the currents as punishment and reminder."

the chamber spun and dissolved around him the heat of hell giving way to the cool salty tang of a mortal surf shop somewhere on a bustling coast. satoru gojo, the once untouchable surfer now rested propped on a display rack among dozens of other boards. his baby blue surface gleaming under fluorescent lights the pink flowers catching the eye of every passerby like they were made for spring swells and summer tournaments. he could feel everything the faint vibration of footsteps on the wooden floor, the distant crash of waves from the beach a mile away. the way the air conditioner hummed and made his resin 'skin' prickle. inside his mind he screamed curses and pleas but nothing came out. not even a ripple on his deck. this was it his new existence a fucking surfboard waiting for some rider to pick him up, wax him up and take him out into the break. he remembered the parties again in flashes, the way he had leaned against the bar at those after comp events coke still buzzing in his blood eyes locked on you as you laughed with your friends, wetsuit half unzipped exposing the line of your collarbone. he had wanted you then. not as a rival or a fellow surfer but as another conquest. another hole to fill before moving on to the next high. now here he was reduced to this and the irony tasted like saltwater and shame.

hours blurred into what felt like days, though time moved strangely in this form. customers came and went fingers trailing over his smooth surface, testing the flex commenting on the cute pink flowers that made him look so spring ready so perfect for the april waves rolling in this season. one guy almost bought him but set him back, muttering something about needing more rocker for a big surf. satoru seethed silently at the casual way they handled him like he was nothing more than equipment. this was the objectification the demon had promised. every touch a reminder of how he had treated bodies back when he was alive. he thought about you again the way your eyes had flicked to him once or twice during that last comp before the overdose. maybe you had felt his stare. maybe you had rolled your eyes at the infamous gojo slutting around the lineup like he owned every wave and every woman on it. now fate or hell or whatever cruel twist had placed him here, in this shop, and he wondered with a sinking dread if you would be the one to find him. if the universe was that twisted. if the rider who bought him would be you. the one he had reduced to fantasy fuel. the one whose form he had memorized without ever learning your name or your story or the dreams you chased on the water.

the bell chimed again and satoru felt a shift in the air. something electric like the moment before a set rolls in. he couldn't turn to look couldn't even twitch, but his consciousness strained toward the sound of footsteps light and familiar the faint scent of sunscreen and ocean clinging to whoever had just walked in. part of him hoped it wasnt you part of him the arrogant part that still lingered deep down almost wished it was so he could feel the full burn of karma when those hands that had once gripped a board in competition now gripped him. the baby blue and pink flowers seemed to mock him in the reflection of a nearby mirror. polished and pretty and utterly useless on his own. he was a surfboard, now sentient and trapped until redemption came in the form of a wave he couldn't ride himself. until he saved the one person he had never truly seen. the ocean called outside the shop windows. steady and unforgiving and for the first time in his existence, satoru gojo felt small beneath it all. waiting for the rider who would claim him and force him to learn what it meant to be ridden instead of the one doing the riding. the punishment had only just begun, and the waves of spring waited to test him in ways his old life never had.

he replayed the overdose again. the party, the laughter, the lines, the way everything had spiraled so fast because he never knew when to stop. the demon had been right. it fit too perfectly. this board form for a guy who had lived his life chasing the perfect ride on every level. now he was the ride. the pink flowers on his deck seemed almost cheerful in the shop light. a summer promise in every petal, but inside, satoru felt the first cracks of something like regret settling in like wax on a fresh board. he didnt know how long he would wait or what form atonement would take, but as the footsteps drew closer, he braced for whatever came next. the sentient surfboard once the surfer now nothing but a vessel for someone elses journey. and if it turned out to be you, well, hell had a sense of humor after all. the kind that left a man no choice but to float and feel every single thing he had once taken for granted.

the shop's bell jingled softly as you stepped inside. the familiar scent of neoprene and fresh wax wrapping around you like an old friend. it was one of those lazy april afternoons where the spring swell had been calling your name all morning, and you needed a new board. something light, responsive, and fun for the summer waves rolling in. your eyes scanned the rack until they landed on him: a sleek baby blue surfboard with delicate pink hibiscus and plumeria flowers blooming across the deck. it looked almost too pretty for serious riding, but something about it pulled at you. the vibrant colors, the smooth lines, the way it seemed to sit there waiting just for you. you ran your fingers along the resin, feeling the cool surface under your palm, and decided on the spot.

“you’re coming home with me,” you murmured, smiling as you lifted the board from the rack. the shop owner nodded, ringing you up without much fuss, and just like that satoru gojo the once cocky 'emperor of the waves' found himself carried out into the bright coastal sunlight, strapped to the roof of your car, heading toward the beach. inside his fiberglass prison he raged silently at first. this was it? bought like a piece of sporting equipment by the very surfer he used to eye fuck from the lineup? the humiliation burned hotter than hell’s flames. he could feel every bump in the road, every gust of wind tugging at his edges, and he swore to himself he would make this as miserable as possible for you. no way was he going to cooperate. not for the person who represented everything he had lost.

the first session out on the water was pure chaos. you paddled out on him that afternoon, the baby blue deck warm from the sun, pink flowers catching the light as you lay belly down and stroked through the incoming sets. satoru felt your weight settle onto him, the unfamiliar pressure of a rider’s body, and something twisted in his sentient core. he remembered ogling you before the overdose, the way your form cut through the water with effortless grace. now here he was beneath you, reduced to this. as you popped up on the first wave he decided to test his limits. mid-turn he tilted sharply to the left, throwing your balance completely. you wiped out hard, tumbling into the whitewash, saltwater flooding your senses as he spun away like a disobedient child. this fucking cunt.

you surfaced coughing, grabbing him by the leash and hauling him back. “what the hell was that?” you muttered to yourself, shaking water from your face. but you didn’t give up. you paddled back out, climbed on again, and tried once more. satoru refused to cooperate. every time you leaned into a carve he would resist, going stiff or suddenly flexing in the wrong direction. another wave, another deliberate wobble that sent you flying. he felt a dark satisfaction in it. the 'revenge' of a man who had once fucked and snorted his way through life now making your session a nightmare. you kept talking to him though, voice calm even after the third wipeout. “come on, board. work with me here. i know you’ve got potential.”

back on the sand after the disastrous session you didn’t curse him out or toss him aside. instead you rinsed him gently with fresh water, wiping away the salt with careful hands. you laid him flat on your towel and ran a soft cloth over his deck, tracing the pink flowers almost affectionately. “you’re new, huh? we’ll figure each other out,” you said quietly, voice carrying that chill beach girl warmth that came from someone who spent more time in the ocean than anywhere else. satoru stilled inside his form. no one had ever talked to their board like that back when he was alive. most riders treated them like tools disposable after a crack or a ding. but you spoke to him like he could hear you. like he mattered. you chose him again the next day, ignoring the other boards in your quiver, and strapped him to the roof once more.

the pattern repeated for the first few sessions. satoru remained a menace randomly tilting mid-bottom turn, refusing to hold a line, making you eat wave after wave. you would surface, laughing sometimes, other times muttering under your breath, but you never abandoned him. “alright, troublemaker,” you’d say while waxing his deck in the morning light, pressing the bar firmly into the blue surface. “let’s try again today. i believe in you.” the words lodged somewhere deep in his consciousness. he started noticing things. the way you always picked him first from the lineup of boards leaning against your wall, the gentle way you stored him after every surf, the quiet conversations you had with him while driving to the break as if you knew he could hear you. “you’re my favorite, you know that?” you told him one evening as you carried him down to the water, fingers brushing the pink petals. “even when you try to kill me.”

something shifted in him then, slow and reluctant at first. the arrogant nepo baby who had once reduced every female surfer including you to nothing but eye candy began to see the care in your actions. you weren’t using him the way he had used people as a human. you respected the ocean, respected your equipment, and somehow, that respect extended to him even when he fought you every step of the way. one morning during a solid spring swell, he stopped resisting. as you paddled into a clean right-hander, satoru felt your weight shift, and instead of tilting, he stabilized perfectly, flexing just enough to give you the perfect pop-up. you carved smoothly along the face, spray flying, and for the first time, he felt the thrill not of conquest but of harmony. you whooped as you rode it out, patting his deck when you finally kicked out. “that’s it! good board,” you laughed, voice bright. satoru’s sentient mind reeled. good board? who calls their damn board a 'good board'? the words sent an unexpected warmth through his fiberglass form if that was even possible. or maybe he was just crazy.

from that session onward, the change deepened. he started helping you win waves, reading the ocean through your movements, and adjusting instinctively. when you leaned into a cutback, he flowed with you, holding steady so you could slash hard without losing balance. on bigger sets, he dampened the chop, giving you a smoother ride than any board had a right to. you began winning small local heats, carving through competitors with a new confidence, and every time you returned to shore you talked to him more openly. “we’re a team now, aren’t we?” you’d say while rinsing him off, voice soft against the sound of crashing waves. “i don’t know what changed, but thank you.” satoru found himself craving those words, the quiet praise that filled the hollow space where his old ego used to roar. he was no longer the best surfer. he was your board, and strangely, that felt like freedom instead of chains.

the jealousy crept in later, subtle at first. one afternoon, you decided to test another board from your collection. an older shortboard that had served you well before him. satoru watched from the sand as you carried the other one down to the water, his pink flowers seeming to dull under the sun. inside he seethed. after all the sessions, after all the care, after he had finally synced with you perfectly, you were choosing another board? as you paddled out on the rival board, he felt a surge of possessive heat. when you tried to pop up, the other board suddenly felt off in your hands, wobbling unnaturally as if rejecting you. you wiped out quickly, shaking your head in confusion, and swam back to shore.

you returned to him instead, grabbing his leash with a small sigh. “guess it’s just you and me today,” you said, running your hand along his deck. the moment your fingers touched the baby blue surface satoru calmed, but the jealousy lingered. the next time you reached for another board he did it again a sudden malfunction, a weird flex that threw your timing completely. you laughed it off at first, but when it happened a third time you narrowed your focus back on him. “okay, you jealous little shit,” you muttered with a grin, though your tone held affection. “message received. no more trying the others.” satoru felt a twisted satisfaction as you chose him exclusively again, waxing his deck with extra care that evening. he stabilized even better after that, flowing with your every movement like he had been made for you alone. the pink flowers on his surface seemed brighter, almost glowing under your touch.

sessions blended into weeks of perfect synchronicity. you would paddle out together, him reading the waves through the pressure of your feet, adjusting rail to rail so you could thread barrels or launch clean airs on the smaller summer swells. he no longer tilted maliciously. instead he became an extension of you, responsive and alive in ways no inanimate board could match. you talked to him constantly now, sharing little stories between sets about past comps, about the ocean’s moods, about how good it felt to have a board that finally understood you. “you get me, don’t you?” you whispered one golden evening as the sun dipped low, trailing your fingers along the flowers. “i don’t know why, but it feels like you’re always listening, which is crazy because you're a surfboard.”

satoru listened. he absorbed every word, every gentle rinse, every time you chose him over convenience or nostalgia. the man who had once ogled you shamelessly now existed only to support your rides, to keep you safe when the waves turned mean, to feel the rush of your success as his own. the atonement the demon had spoken of began to take shape. not in grand gestures but in these quiet moments of service. he still carried the shame of his old life. the coke, the casual fucks, the way he had treated women like you as objects, but beneath you on the water he started to understand what it meant to be more than that. to be chosen. to be cared for. to protect instead of conquer.

one particularly crowded spring day, the lineup was thick with locals and tourists alike. you paddled out on him as usual, and satoru felt the familiar thrill of alignment as you dropped into a steep wave. he held steady through the drop, letting you bottom turn with power before projecting you into a smooth carve. spray exploded around you both, and for a second it felt like flying the way he had once flown through life on pure arrogance and chemicals. you kicked out laughing, patting his deck firmly. “we crushed that one,” you said, voice full of joy. he couldn’t reply, but the warmth in your tone was enough. later, when another rider nearby wiped out hard and nearly collided with you, satoru instinctively shifted, angling you safely away from the chaos. you didn’t even notice the near miss fully, but he did. he was there to keep you whole, just as the punishment demanded.

as the sun set that evening you carried him back up the beach, rinsing him once more with the same careful hands. “you’re stuck with me now,” you told him softly, a small smile in your voice. “best board i’ve ever had.” satoru gojo, baby blue with pink flowers, sentient and reformed, felt the first real cracks of redemption settle into his core. the menace had faded, replaced by something deeper. a bond forged in waves and quiet care. he still didn’t know how long this form would last or when the final atonement would come, but for now he was content to float beneath you, perfectly in sync, jealous of any other board that dared catch your eye. the ocean rolled on, spring giving way to summer promises, and in the silence of his fiberglass heart, the former surfer began to learn what it truly meant to ride, not for glory, but for someone else.

the morning started like any other perfect spring session, the ocean alive with clean lines rolling in under a bright april sky. you grabbed your favorite board, the baby blue one with the delicate pink flowers that had somehow become your lucky charm and headed down to the break. the swell had built overnight, bigger than the usual summer warm-ups but nothing you hadn’t handled before. satoru gojo, still trapped in fiberglass form, felt the familiar weight of you settling onto him as you paddled out, your movements synced with his after weeks of perfect harmony. he had stopped being a menace long ago, instead flowing with every shift of your body, reading the water through your feet like an extension of your own instincts. the pink hibiscus petals on his deck caught the sunlight as you dropped into the first wave, carving smooth and effortless while he stabilized every turn.

deeper in the lineup, the sets grew heavier, a rogue wave building farther out than expected. you spotted it late, paddling hard to get into position, but the ocean had other plans. the wave jacked up suddenly, lip pitching forward with brutal force. you popped up, but the section closed out faster than anyone could have predicted, the whitewater exploding like a freight train. the impact hit hard, slamming you forward and ripping you off the board in a violent wipeout. satoru felt the leash yank as you tumbled, the world a chaotic blur of bubbles and churning foam. you were held down, lungs burning, the pressure crushing against your chest while the wave ragdolled you like a doll in a washing machine. panic set in as another wave loomed, ready to compound the hold-down.

inside his sentient core, satoru’s mind screamed. this was the moment the demon had spoken of. the wave that could claim your life, the one he was supposed to protect you from as atonement for every ogle, every casual fuck, every line of coke that had defined his old existence. he couldn’t move on his own, couldn’t shout or paddle, but something primal surged through the resin and fiberglass. the leash stayed taut as he fought the chaos, angling his 'body' against the current with every ounce of will he possessed. instead of dragging you deeper he twisted, using his shape to create a pocket of calmer water, pushing upward with unnatural force. the board surged against the turbulence, breaking the surface just enough to give you a desperate gulp of air before the next wave hit. you grabbed for him instinctively, fingers wrapping around the rail as he stabilized beneath you, refusing to let the ocean pull you under again.

the hold-down felt eternal, but satoru wouldn’t yield. he absorbed the impacts, flexing his frame to shield your body from the worst of the reef and the pounding whitewash. when a third wave tried to bury you both he angled sharply, creating a flotation barrier that kept your head above the chaos for critical seconds. other surfers in the lineup shouted and paddled toward you, but it was him, your board, who bought the time. finally the set passed and you broke through to the surface, gasping and coughing, still clinging to his leash. hands from nearby riders helped haul you onto him, and you lay there belly down, chest heaving as the baby blue deck with its pink flowers kept you afloat like a loyal guardian. satoru felt the weight of your exhaustion, the way your breathing steadied against him, and something inside his cursed form cracked open wide. this was it the selfless service, the protection he had never offered anyone in life. the atonement settled over him like warm wax, heavy and final.

you made it back to shore shaken but alive, friends carry him up the beach while you sat on the sand catching your breath. “that board saved me,” you kept repeating quietly, running your hands over the deck, fingers tracing the pink petals as if checking for damage. “i don’t know how, but it did.” satoru couldn’t reply, but the praise warmed the hollow space where his old arrogance used to live. the session ended early, and you took him home with extra care, rinsing him gently in the outdoor shower before bringing him inside your apartment. you propped him carefully against the wall in the living room, talking to him the whole time in that soft, grateful voice. “thank you,” you whispered, pressing your palm flat to his surface. “i think you just saved my life out there.” then you showered, ate a quiet meal, and crashed hard into bed, the adrenaline finally giving way to deep, exhausted sleep.

night fell over the apartment, the only sounds the distant crash of waves and the hum of the fridge. satoru rested in the dim light, his baby blue form still and silent. but inside something shifted. the atonement had been fulfilled, the protection given without thought for himself, the object reduced to pure service. hell’s sentence began to unravel. the fiberglass softened first, colors bleeding and reshaping as bones reformed beneath the surface. the pink flowers faded into skin, the sleek lines stretching into limbs and torso. by midnight, the transformation completed, leaving satoru gojo fully human again, naked and sprawled on your living room floor where the board had been. he blinked up at the ceiling, six-foot frame aching like he had wiped out himself, white hair tousled and familiar cocky features softened by something new regret, exhaustion, and a reluctant humility. he didn’t move at first, just lay there processing the return of sensation the air on his skin, the solid floor beneath him, the quiet rhythm of your breathing from the next room.

he could have left. slipped out the door and disappeared back into whatever life waited for a reincarnated sinner. but the months as your board had changed him. the care you had shown, the way you talked to him, the way you chose him every single time it all weighed heavier than any punishment. so he stayed, pulling a throw blanket from the couch around his waist as he sat up against the wall, knees drawn up, staring at the floor with a pout he couldn’t quite hide. dawn crept in through the windows when you finally stirred, padding out of the bedroom still half-asleep and headed for the kitchen. your eyes landed on the empty spot where the board should have been, then flicked to the man sitting there on your floor tall, unmistakable, with that shock of white hair and the sharp blue eyes that had once stared at you from the lineup.

“what the fuck!?” the words burst out as you froze, heart slamming against your ribs. “gojo? satoru gojo?” recognition hit like another wave, memories of the infamous nepo surfer who had dominated comps before vanishing after that overdose rumor. he was supposed to be dead or gone, not sitting naked except for a blanket in your apartment where your favorite board had been last night. “how did you— how is this possible? my board, where is my board? and why the fuck aren't you dead!?”

satoru looked up at you, the old smirk trying and failing to form. instead his expression settled into something pouty, almost boyish, lips pressed together as he rubbed the back of his neck. the emperor of the waves reduced to this reluctant apology. “yeah… it’s me,” he muttered, voice rough from disuse, all lowercase in its quiet defeat. “the board. that was me. hell’s idea of a joke after the overdose. turned me into that thing as punishment for being a massive slutty cokehead who ogled you and every other girl in the water.” he paused, eyes flicking away like the confession physically hurt.

he shifted under the blanket, cheeks faintly flushed with embarrassment he had never felt in his old life. “today that wave. i couldn’t let it take you. pushed back, kept you up, shielded you as much as a stupid board could. that was the atonement, i guess. the demon said i’d stay that way until i protected you from something that could end you. and now… here i am.” his tone stayed pouty, shoulders slumping as he glanced at you again. “look, i know i was an asshole back then. treating the ocean and everyone on it like my personal playground. looking at you like you were just another conquest. snorting lines instead of actually surfing with respect. i’m sorry. for all of it. you didn’t have to be kind to a cursed piece of fiberglass, but you were... even if it IS kinda weird that you talk to your board i guess.”

the apartment fell quiet except for the distant waves outside. satoru didn’t stand up, didn’t try to charm his way out with the old confidence. he just sat there, waiting, the pout lingering like he expected you to kick him out or call the cops or both. his blue eyes held yours, raw and uncertain for the first time. “i don’t know what happens next. hell didn’t exactly leave a manual. but… thanks. for the wax jobs. for the talks. for not giving up on me even when i was trying to drown you.” he let out a small, reluctant huff, almost a laugh at how ridiculous it all sounded. “so yeah. forgiveness would be nice. or at least don’t throw me back in the ocean as a board again.”

you stood there processing, the morning light catching the scene the man who had once been your surfboard now very human, very real, and very much waiting for your reaction. the air between you felt charged with unfinished waves, the open question of what came after atonement hanging like the next set on the horizon. satoru gojo, reformed but still a little pouty, didn’t push. he simply watched you, blanket clutched around him, ready for whatever judgment or mercy the person who had ridden him through spring and summer decided to offer next.

the silence in your apartment stretched long enough for satoru gojo to start fidgeting under the throw blanket, his pout deepening into something that looked almost comically tragic on a man who used to strut around like he owned every wave on the planet. you stood there blinking, brain still short-circuiting between “my surfboard just turned into the cocky nepo surfer i used to side-eye in the lineup” and “he’s naked on my floor apologizing like a kicked puppy.” the ridiculousness of it all finally hit you, and a laugh bubbled up before you could stop it.

“you’re telling me,” you said, voice cracking with disbelief, “that the board i waxed every night, the one that randomly tried to murder me for the first two weeks and then decided to become my personal guardian angel during that hold-down… was you? satoru gojo? the guy who used to eye-fuck every girl within a hundred yards of the break while high on enough coke to sink a tanker?”

he winced, rubbing the back of his neck, white hair sticking up in every direction like he’d just been through a spin cycle. “yeah. guilty. hell has a fucked-up sense of humor. turned me into a baby blue shortboard with pink flowers because apparently that was peak april punishment for being a slutty coke addict.” he glanced down at the blanket barely covering his lap and let out a dramatic sigh. “and now i’m here. human again. still kinda pissed i don’t get to keep the infinite flex, but whatever.”

you crossed your arms, trying to look stern but failing because the whole situation was too absurd. the emperor of the waves reduced to pouting on your living room floor after saving your life as fiberglass. “so what now? you just… go back to snorting lines and chasing tail?”

“no,” he said quickly, the pout shifting into something more earnest, though still laced with that signature gojo dramatics. “i mean… i spent months feeling every single time you rinsed me off and talked to me like i mattered. you chose me over your other boards even when i was being a little shit. that kinda sticks with a guy. or a board. whatever.” he shrugged, the blanket slipping dangerously low before he yanked it back up. “i’m sorry. for real this time. not the hell-forced version. i was an asshole. i ogled you. i treated the whole ocean like my personal fuckpad. if you want me to leave, i’ll go. probably end up sleeping on the beach like a sad seal.”

the laugh escaped again. you couldn’t help it. the mental image of the once untouchable satoru gojo curled up on the sand like a homeless surfer was too much. “you’re an idiot,” you told him, shaking your head. “but… you did save me out there. and you listened. even when you couldn’t talk back. that counts for something.” you paused, letting the words settle. “i forgive you, gojo. just don’t make me regret it by turning back into a menace.”

his head snapped up, blue eyes widening like you’d just handed him the perfect barrel. “wait. seriously?” the pout vanished, replaced by a tentative grin that still carried a hint of his old cockiness. “you’re not gonna call the cops or throw me out the window?”

“not today,” you said, stepping closer. the absurdity of the morning was giving way to something warmer, something that had been building quietly during all those sessions where the board felt almost alive under you. “but if you start tilting mid-wave again, i’m waxing you myself. with sandpaper.”

he barked out a laugh, the sound bright and genuine. “deal. no more tilting. promise.” then the energy in the room shifted, the laughter fading into a charged quiet as he looked up at you from the floor, blanket still clutched around his waist like a shield. the months of being ridden, cared for, talked to they had stripped away the worst of his old armor, leaving something raw and surprisingly vulnerable underneath. and right now, sitting there human and very much naked under that blanket, he looked at you like you were the first real wave he’d ever wanted to respect instead of conquer.

“so,” he said, voice dropping a little, that playful lilt creeping back in, “does forgiving me come with any… benefits? or am i still just the board you ride when you feel like it?”

you raised an eyebrow, the crack fic energy of the entire situation making everything feel surreal and hilarious at once. “you’re really going there right after apologizing for being a slutty cokehead?”

“hey, old habits,” he shot back, grinning wider. “but i’m reformed. mostly. i can be a slutty reformed cokehead if you want.” he waggled his eyebrows, the gesture so ridiculous on someone who had spent weeks as a piece of sporting equipment that you had to laugh again.

the laughter pulled you closer until you were standing right in front of him. the air felt thick, the kind of thick that comes after a perfect session when adrenaline and relief mix into something electric. you reached down, tugging the blanket away with a teasing slowness that made his breath hitch. “careful, board boy. i know exactly how to handle you.”

satoru’s eyes darkened, but the grin stayed, playful and a little nervous, like he was half-expecting you to change your mind and turn him back into fiberglass. “fuck, that nickname is gonna stick, isn’t it?”

“absolutely,” you said, sinking down to straddle his lap right there on the living room floor. the morning light filtered in, warm and golden, catching the faint flush creeping up his neck. he was already half-hard from the sheer absurdity and tension of the moment, his body reacting with the kind of honest eagerness that came from months of sensory deprivation as an inanimate object. when your weight settled over him he let out a low groan, hands coming up to rest on your hips, fingers flexing like he was still learning how to touch instead of be touched.

“god, you feel real,” he muttered, voice rough as he tilted his head back against the wall. “after all that time being ridden and rinsed and talked to… this is fucking weird. good weird. but weird.” he laughed again, the sound breaking into a shaky breath when you rocked against him experimentally. “i used to fantasize about this back when i was ogling you from the lineup, but never like this. never after being your damn surfboard.”

the honesty mixed with the ridiculousness made it easy to keep things light. you leaned in, brushing your lips against his jaw. “you’re talking too much for someone who couldn’t talk at all for months.”

“blame the trauma,” he quipped, but his hands were already sliding up your back, pulling you closer with a gentleness that felt new on him, like he was still half-convinced his fiberglass prison might snap back into place if he moved too fast. the kiss started lazy and teasing, his mouth warm and a little clumsy from disuse, but it quickly turned hungry as months of silent sensory deprivation caught up with him. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mumbled against your lips between breaths, the words breaking into a soft laugh that vibrated through both of you. “way better than saltwater and regret.”

you pushed him back against the wall just enough to trail your mouth down his neck, nipping at the skin until he shivered and let out a dramatic little gasp. “keep talking and i’ll wax you again,” you warned, but there was no heat in it, only the absurdity of threatening a former surfboard while he was hard and human and very much under you. satoru’s head thunked back with a grin, eyes half-lidded as you kept going lower, kissing across his chest until your tongue flicked over one nipple, then the other, sucking lightly while your hand wrapped around his cock and stroked slow and deliberate. he bucked up into your fist with a surprised “shit—” his voice cracking like a teenager catching his first wave.

“sensitive much?” you teased, switching to the other nipple and rolling it between your teeth just enough to make him whine. he was fully hard now, thick and flushed, the head already slick when you thumbed over it. satoru’s fingers tangled in your hair, not guiding, just holding on like you might vanish.

“months as a board, remember? no touching, no nothing. i’m basically a virgin again,” he panted, the pout sneaking back into his tone even as his hips rolled shamelessly into your hand. “be nice to me or i’ll start tilting again. i swear.”

you laughed and slid lower, settling between his spread thighs on the living room floor. the first lick up the underside of his cock made his whole body jolt, and when you took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sinking down until he hit the back of your throat, satoru’s groan was loud and ridiculous. “holy fuck—your mouth is better than any barrel. i’m gonna cry. actually cry.” he kept up the running commentary, half-moans and half-jokes, while you worked him with slow, wet pulls, tongue swirling around the head every time you pulled back. one hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, and he nearly levitated off the floor. “okay, okay, i take back every evil tilt i ever did—mercy, i’ll be your good boy now, promise.”

he lasted longer than his earlier babbling suggested, but eventually he tugged you up with a shaky laugh, flipping the script before you could protest. “my turn, or i’ll sulk for a week.” you ended up on your back on the rug, legs hooked over his shoulders as he buried his face between your thighs like a man who had been starving. his tongue was relentless, licking broad stripes before focusing on your clit with tight little circles that had your hips twitching. two fingers slid inside you without warning, curling just right while he sucked, the wet sounds mixing with his muffled hums of approval. “you’re so fucking wet already,” he murmured against you, voice vibrating deliciously. “was it the nipple thing? the apology? or just me being tragically hot as a human again?”

you tried to answer but it came out as a moan when he added a third finger, pumping steadily while his mouth stayed glued to your clit. the pleasure built in lazy, rolling waves, his free hand reaching up to pinch and roll one of your nipples, then the other, twisting just enough to send sparks straight down. “gojo—fuck—” you managed, and he grinned against your skin, the expression pure menace and mischief.

“that’s it, say my name like i’m your favorite,” he teased, curling his fingers harder until your thighs started to shake. he didn’t stop until you came on his tongue, back arching off the floor while he licked you through it, humming happily like he’d just caught the wave of the day. when you finally caught your breath he was kneeling between your legs, cock shiny and leaking, looking far too proud of himself.

“condom?” he asked suddenly, the responsible note almost funny after everything. you shook your head and pulled him down instead, and he sank into you in one slow, deliberate glide, the stretch perfect and overwhelming after all the foreplay. “holy shit,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “this is better than any wave. and way better than being a board.”

you moved first, shifting your weight and his body so you could sink down onto him. the stretch was slow and full, his cock sliding in inch by inch until he bottomed out with a shared exhale that sounded almost surprised. satoru’s head thunked back against the wall you pushed him back against, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his hands found your waist and held on like he was scared you might vanish. “holy shit,” he breathed, voice rough. “this is… yeah. way better than being a board.”

you started rolling your hips in slow, lazy circles, testing the feel of him. the rhythm built gradually, lazy morning sex that still carried the strange newness of everything that had happened. he was surprisingly vocal, muttering half-coherent nonsense between breaths. “fuck, you’re tight… wait, is that weird to say after i was literally your equipment? shit, don’t answer that.”

you laughed, the sound melting into a moan when he thrust up to meet one of your rolls, the angle catching just right. “you’re still an idiot, gojo.”

“your idiot,” he corrected, a grin breaking across his face even as his voice cracked. “former board. current… whatever the hell this is.” his hands roamed over your sides, one eventually sliding between your bodies to rub slow, steady circles over your clit. the added pressure made your rhythm stutter and then pick up again, pleasure building in warm, rolling waves instead of anything frantic. every time he bottomed out he let out a little huff, like he still couldn’t quite believe he had a body again, let alone one buried inside you.

after a minute he tried to flip you again for more control, shifting his weight too fast. his elbow caught the edge of the coffee table with a loud thunk. “ow—fuck!” he cursed, then immediately started laughing, the sound vibrating through both of you and breaking the moment into something lighter. “okay, note to self: human bodies are fragile. no more fiberglass to save my dumb ass.”

“you were human most of your life, you drama queen,” you shot back, pushing his chest until he was flat on his back again. you rode him harder for a few moments, the wet sounds of skin meeting skin filling the quiet apartment along with your shared breathing. he groaned low and wrecked, hips jerking up involuntarily to chase the friction.

but satoru wasn’t done being impatient. with a playful growl he flipped you again, this time successfully, folding your legs up toward your shoulders into a mating press. the new angle let him drive deeper, his hips snapping forward with more force while he braced himself on his forearms. every thrust ground against your clit, sending sparks through you as he panted against your neck. “this okay?” he asked, voice strained but still carrying that teasing edge. “tell me if it’s too much or i’ll just stay a board forever out of guilt.”

you moaned your approval, hands gripping his shoulders, and he laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a groan as he started pounding harder. the slap of skin on skin was loud and obscene in the quiet morning light, but he kept the mood ridiculous. “god, you feel unreal,” he muttered between thrusts. “i used to dream about this when i was watching you from the lineup"

he kept the pace steady for a while, sweat starting to bead on his skin, before he slowed and pulled out with a reluctant sound. “turn over for me,” he said, voice husky as he helped guide you onto all fours. you settled on your hands and knees on the rug and he slid back in from behind in one smooth thrust, the new doggy position letting him hit even deeper. one of his hands stayed on your hip while the other reached around to keep rubbing your clit in tight circles. his chest pressed to your back as he mouthed lazy kisses along your shoulder. “can’t resist this view,” he teased, nipping lightly at your skin. “still jealous of any other board you might look at, by the way. just so we’re clear.”

you pushed back against him and he groaned, the pace turning rougher and more desperate while the banter stayed light. “if i come too fast blame the trauma,” he panted, hips snapping forward. “months of no pussy, only waves and your gentle hands waxing my deck every morning. it’s a lot—”

the orgasm built gradually, no fireworks or dramatic crescendos, just a steady climb that had both of you panting and occasionally laughing when he started babbling again. “i’m gonna—shit, i haven’t done this in forever. this is gonna be embarrassing if i last thirty seconds—”

“you lasted longer as a board,” you teased, deliberately clenching around him and grinding back.

“not helping,” he gasped, but the laugh dissolved into a deep, broken groan as he came first, hips stuttering hard against your ass while he buried his face in the crook of your neck, muttering curses and your name in the same breath. the feeling of him pulsing inside you, warm and real, pushed you over the edge moments later. your thighs trembled as the pleasure rolled through you in slow, satisfying waves that left you both collapsed on the rug, breathing hard.

afterward you stayed tangled together for a long moment, his arms wrapped loosely around you while the forgotten blanket lay somewhere nearby. satoru’s voice came out muffled and sleepy against your skin. “so… does this mean i get to stay? or are you trading me in for a new board with less emotional baggage?”

you chuckled, running your fingers through his messy white hair. “you’re staying. but if you start acting like a menace again, i’m taking you back to the shop and telling them you have a crack in your soul.”

he lifted his head, blue eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief, though softer around the edges now. “deal. but fair warning: i might still get jealous if you look at other boards. old habits die hard.”

the morning light kept warming the apartment, the distant sound of waves rolling in like a promise of more sessions ahead. satoru gojo, former surfboard, former cokehead, now very human and very much tangled up with you on the floor, pressed a lazy kiss to your collarbone and grinned. “best atonement ever. think hell gives out participation trophies?”

Sylus has always been passionate, but there’s something almost frantic in the flavor of his attention right now.

Something you’re powerless to deny.

So you loll your head to the side and melt into his touch. “Then have me,” you reply.

Between one breath and the next, he hoists you off your feet and deposits you onto the counter, gentle even in his urgency, and you part your legs to welcome him.

His countenance is one of exhaustion. Of irritation. Of a business deal gone sideways. He’s drawn up in stern angles and bone-deep tension, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, in his eyes, there’s only a plea. He reaches for you like a drowning man reaches for a rope, one hand going to your neck and the other to your waist as he steps forward and pulls you in for a kiss. Even like this, with you sitting on the counter, he towers over you, formidable as a Redwood.

You lean into his affection and let him set the pace. Later, there will be time later for talking. Right now, he needs something else.

Sweet, syrupy longing pools in your core as Sylus glides his fingers up your thighs, slow, just the way you like. He’s holding himself back— you know he is. It’s clear he wants to devour you, but, as always, he’s putting himself second, ever the knight in service of his queen.

If it was possible to fall more in love with him, you would.

A groan rolls through Sylus’s chest, followed by static tingling against your skin, and then your underwear is dissolving into nothing, consumed by his Evol. Eager to match him, you go for his belt, but he simply guides your hands back to his neck and tugs you impossibly closer.

Where you were expecting a waltz, he’s offered a tango.

All right then.

Suddenly, Sylus breaks the kiss— gazes down at you with unguarded desire, a promise written in piercing, brilliant crimson. Wordlessly, he lays you out, at once reverent and impatient as he kneels and drops a kiss to the inside of your knee. And then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and wicked.

You gasp, arching off the counter and tangling a hand in his hair to anchor yourself against his onslaught. It’s unfair how well he knows your body, how effortlessly he can rile you up.

So much for going slow.

Sylus drags his tongue through your folds, humming as he reacquaints himself with your taste. The shift in his demeanor is immediate, now that he’s taking refuge in you. Gone is the crease between his brows and the stiffness in his shoulders. Whatever was troubling him doesn’t exist in this pocket of bliss he’s carved out, and you’re glad for it.

Perhaps you’d say as much if you could hold onto a coherent thought, but want crests within you like a wave, molten and electric as it sluices through your limbs and settles in your gut.

Briefly, Sylus’s right eye flares a familiar shade of noxious, enticing red, but then he slams his eyes shut and groans, his voice vibrating against you in a way that makes you whimper. Nudges you closer to the edge.

You grind against him, asking for more, and he’s quick to give it to you, sealing his mouth around your cunt and focusing on your clit— fast, potent flicks that send you careening into oblivion.

He works you through it, gloriously steadfast despite your thrashing. But then it becomes too much.

And he’s not letting up.

“Sy-Sylus, w-wait—”

Mischief flashes in his eyes, and he tightens his hold on your hips.

Prickling, vindictive heat coalesces in your core— an engine fired back up too soon. You yank on his hair, and he fixes you with a reproving stare. Then whirling bands of his Evol twine around your wrists and pin your arms above your head.

“Sy—” The rest of his name is lost to a whine, your breaths turning shallow as he bullies a second orgasm out of you on the heels of your first. It’s meaner, this one— stinging through your veins like wildfire.

When you’re on the other side of it, your ears still ringing, Sylus’s voice reaches you, soft and adoring: “That’s my girl.”

The praise coaxes a pleasure-dumb noise out of you, and that’s all the respite you get before Sylus descends on you once more.

You squeak and try to wriggle away, but he’s not having it. He stands, taking you with him, an arm banded firmly around your hips and his mouth fastened just as firmly to your cunt. When he stops moving, your weight is concentrated on your shoulder blades and he’s looming over you, half illuminated by the still-open fridge.

Cool air wafts across your bare thigh, and you hiss. Shiver.

In response, Sylus cocks an eyebrow.

Oh no.

You recognize that face. It’s the face he makes when he’s scheming, and you see it the moment an idea takes root in his mind. As he continues to lap at you, he rotates his wrist inward to glance at his watch, then he grunts in annoyance—or maybe frustration—and seemingly abandons his plan, instead settling for tormenting you with his tongue.

You’re begging for mercy by the time you unravel for the third time, legs shaking, heart pounding. Sylus gives it to you in the shape of a chaste kiss to the crease of your hip. After, he carefully lowers you back down onto the counter and releases your wrists from the grip of his Evol.

You don’t move.

With a chuckle, he leans over your boneless form to press another kiss to the center of your chest.

And then he’s pulling away— rooting around in the fridge for something unknowable, his broad shoulders blocking your view as the clatter of plastic drawers echoes throughout the empty kitchen. He returns a moment later, kicking the fridge closed with his foot, and plunks a bottle of water near your head, a smirk plastered on his too-handsome face. Then he adds the container of cobbler and a pint of vanilla ice cream to his offerings.

you were trying to read, the book a heavy weight in your lap, but you were restless. you kept tossing, turning, shifting your weight from one hip to the other.

the movement a quiet, frustrated dance.

rafayel, sprawled in an armchair across from you, was supposedly skimming through a magazine. but his dual-coloured eyes were a thief, stealing glances at you.

he was a living sculpture of contrasts, his human form a well-tailored body he’d grown accustomed to, yet there was still something… undulating about him, a lemurian’s grace translated into long limbs and smooth movements.

his stare, usually as calm and deep as the sea, had a storm running beneath it.

why?

it was during one of your restless shifts — a turn that was just a little too sharp, a little too free — that the hem of your shorts hiked up, offering a brief yet startling glimpse of the valley between your thighs.

it was merely a moment, a flash of soft, shadowed skin, before the fabric fell back into place.

but it was enough.

the torrent lurking underneath his orbs brewed harsher.

“wait, wait.” he said, his voice a low and roughened whisper that cut through the sound of the unceasing waves. he put down his fashion magazine on the coffee table in front of him, his full attention now drew to your lower body.

“you– why don’t you wear panties?”

the question was so blunt, so direct, it should have been startling. but in the space between two good friends, with the sea’s rhythm and the golden light, it felt less like an intrusion and more like a natural curiosity.

you closed your book, marking the page by folding the upper corner, then tilted your head towards rafayel. there was no shame in you, only a hint of amusement.

like him catching you commando was something insignificant.

“they’re uncomfortable.” you said simply, your voice a soft hum. “i don’t understand why human women wear them. it’s like they’re enjoying feeling suffocated 24/7.”

“suffocated?” rafayel frowned, his brow knitting in genuine confusion. “but... you’re human now. doesn’t it feel… natural? to the way your body is shaped now?” his gaze shamelessly flickered down to the spot where your thighs met, a quick look at the place that made his ears burn slightly red.

he returned to your face soon though, seeking your answer.

“it’s different to me.” you admitted, sitting up slightly, the motion causing your tank top to stretch tensely across your chest. “when we were in the sea, we had... well, a slit. a mere fold, but nothing like this.” you gestured vaguely at your own lap. “this is more... intimate. it’s partly hidden, protected by folds of skin.”

“it feels weird to cover it with tight ass panties.”

rafayel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his interest palpable in his furrowed gaze. the golden light caught the curve of his lip, hinting at a devilish smirk. “hmm, i don’t know.” he muttered back, a sing-song tone dominating his words. “i’ve never had that issue.”

“maybe because your panties have nothing to strangle–”

“excuse you? matter of fact, i do–”

“you can’t really compare women’s and men’s anatomy. it’s all different.”

and with that, you hoped rafayel’s strange curiosity would be satisfied at once. you even extended your arm towards your previously abandoned book, ready to dive back into the section you’ve discarded.

but it was all put on hold as his unfathomable proposal filled your ears.

“show me then.” he said casually, his voice a low purr. despite the low intensity, it somehow managed to drown out the sound of the crashing waves, cracking goosebumps all over your skin and even making your thighs quiver with sudden arousal.

“i want to understand women’s anatomy too.”

this fucker.

you laughed, a light, bubbling sound that floated out of your constricted throat, trying to cover up the embarrassment such a request created. “no, you pervert. look it up on the internet like everyone else.”

but as much as you wanted to reject him, there was no real heat in the refusal. only a teasing challenge.

testing the waters.

“but you’re right here.” he persisted, his voice inflected with a sultry persuasion. his eyes, those beautiful, gleaming orbs, were darkened by his growing pupil — swallowing the colour as raw desire took over.

“you’re a living, breathing human woman. why would i want a lifeless picture on a screen when i can learn from the muse herself?”

and with that he stood, the motion smooth as a dolphin cutting through water, and moved to sit on the edge of coffee table, right in front of you.

rafayel was extremely close now, his knees almost brushing your closed ones. his presence was warm, salty like the sea.

and undoubtedly intoxicating.

“come onnnn.” he whispered, his voice a murmur of the ocean at night. tempting you. wooing you. “just a glimpse. just to satiate my curiosity. then i’ll stop being such a pest.”

the way he looked at you, with a mixture of adoration and restrained hunger, was your undoing. you felt the well-known heat of arousal pool in your own belly, a response to his intensity that you couldn’t quite ignore.

“fine.” you sighed, your own voice threaded with a nervous excitement. “but just a look. and then you stop.”

with slow, deliberate movements, you shifted on the couch, turning slightly so you were facing him more directly. parting your knees, you allowed rafayel to lean forward into your body. then, carefully, you hooked your thumbs around the center of your shorts, the barely-there material that covered your cunt, hesitated for a mere moment, and then gently pulled the gusset to the side.

“s-shit.”

the fabric slid aside like a curtain drawn back from a secret stage, revealing the most intimate part of you.

the golden light of the dying sun poured across your skin, illuminating every nook and cranny of your sex. the lips of your pussy were trembling slightly, showing a softer texture that deepened where they folded into one another, dewy and glistening with the faintest sheen of arousal.

arousal that had gathered there without your conscious permission.

you watched his face, waiting for the shock, the awkward retreat, the apology that would let you both laugh this off and return to your friendship.

rafayel did not retreat.

his breath caught — a sharp yet stuttered inhale that seemed to pull all the air from the room into his lungs. his eyes had gone utterly dark: the pupils had swallowed nearly everything, leaving only thin rims of color that burned with an intensity that made your stomach clench.

and more wetness to drip down.

“fucking hell.” he groaned, and the curse was more of a prayer.

he leaned closer, his elbows digging into his knees, his face now mere inches from the place you’d just exposed. you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your inner thighs, could smell him — salt and musk, the scent of lemurian waters stirred from their depths.

“rafayel–” you called out at his lack of words, your voice already thinner than you intended.

should you close your legs? should you–

“shh.” his hand came up right on time. not touching, just hovering. his fingers, long and elegant, trembled slightly as they traced an arc through the air above your skin. “let me look. just… let me look at you.”

the awe in his voice stole the protest from your lips.

“you’re so…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing as though language itself was failing him. “it’s not like the diagrams. not like the paintings.” his fingers drifted lower, still not touching, and you felt your thighs clench involuntarily at the nearness.

“it’s wet. you’re already wet, aren’t you?”

heat flooded your cheeks at his remark, your stomach flipping at his straightforwardness. “that’s– that’s just how it is. it’s normal.”

“is it?” he tilted his head, that curious, damn attractive motion he still had despite the passing of time. “or is it because of me? because you wanted me to look?” his lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, something sharper and darker.

the grin of a man that knew what he was doing to his target.

“you’re so delicate here. soft. like the inside of a shell.” his finger finally — finally — descended, tracing the outer seam of your folds without parting them fully, just skating along the edge where your thigh met your cunt. “and so warm. i can feel the heat coming off you.”

your hips jerked, an involuntary movement towards his touch that you couldn’t quite control. the sound that escaped you was embarrassingly close to a whimper, a clear indicator of the reaction your friend had on you.

“oh?” he said, and now there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. “you like that.”

“i said just a look.” you bit back immediately, but your voice had gone breathy, unrecognizably weak.

“you did.” he hummed as his finger traced back up, circling now, yet still not quite touching the parts that ached with need. “but then you moved. you wanted me to touch you, didn’t you? you could have pulled your shorts back. but you didn’t.” his eyes flicked up to yours, and in them you saw the storm fully consuming him.

“you want this as much as i do.”

before you could answer — before you could even formulate a denial that neither of you would believe — he moved.

his hand settled against your skin, palm flat against the top part of shorts, and his thumb found the hood of your clit with an accuracy that spoke of either instinct or careful study.

and to make it all worse (or actually better), he pressed down, just barely, making you see stars.

“there.” he mused, watching your face now instead of your cunt, labeling every micro-expression with the focus of a researcher and the hunger of a predator. “that’s the spot, isn’t it? that little pearl hidden up here.”

his thumb circled, agonizingly slow, and your hips chased the motion, twitching with every twist of his hinger. “raf–”

“what does it feel like…” he asked, genuinely curious, as though you weren’t falling apart beneath his hand right in front of his eyes. “when i do this?”

“it’s– hnn– ahhh– it’s sensitive. too sensitive.”

“too sensitive?” he lifted his thumb immediately, feigning worry, and the loss of contact made you whine, made you reach for his wrist.

“but you don’t want me to stop, do you? your body says something different.”

he wasn’t wrong.

you could feel yourself growing wetter, could feel the slickness spreading, making his eventual descent towards your quivering hole inevitable. your shorts were pushed so far to the side now they might as well not exist, material stretched to extremes, and your thighs had fallen open of their own accord, presenting yourself to him like an offering.

“please.” you heard yourself say, and you weren’t even sure what you were begging for.

“please what?” he leaned down, and you felt his lips brush the inside of your knee, feather-light. teasing you with his plush lips and wet tongue. “use your words, little siren. tell me what you need.”

“touch me. properly.”

his smile was devastating, earning another glob of slick from your sticky cunt. “properly. i like that.”

and then his fingers — two of them, clever and confident — slid through your folds, gathering the slickness there, spreading it upwards to where his thumb was already circling again.

the sound it made was obscene, a drenched, sticky noise that seemed to fill the quiet room, and you felt your face flame even as your hips rocked into his hand.

guiding him to penetration.

“that’s–” he paused, his fingers stilling at your entrance, and you could feel how close they were, how easily they could slip inside. “that’s the opening? that’s where you’d take me?”

“ughgh– rafayel.”

“i want to hear you say it.” his thumb pressed harder against your clit, making you jerk against the couch. “this is anatomy study, remember? tell me what i’m touching.”

you were going to kill him. or fuck him.

possibly both.

“that’s my vagina.” you gritted out, the clinical word feeling absurdly out of place with your hips grinding against his steady hand. “my cunt. my pussy. whatever you want to call it. now will you please–”

he pushed in.

two fingers slid inside you in one smooth motion, and whatever you were about to say dissolved into a choked cry. he filled you perfectly, his fingers, longer and thicker than your own, reaching places you’d never quite managed to find yourself.

the stretch was exquisite, the fullness sending sparks up your spine.

making your head lol back in pleasure.

“ohhh, fuckkkkk.” he breathed, and now his voice had lost its teasing edge, gone rough and needy. “nghh– that’s– you’re so tight. so hot inside. i can feel you squeezing me.”

he curled his fingers experimentally, and your vision whited out for a moment at the edges. only your moans and the blurry view of the ceiling were registered by your mushy brain. when it slowly materialized back to reality, you were gripping his forearm with both hands, your nails digging crescents into his skin.

and he was watching you with the most ferocious concentration you’d ever seen on his face.

“there.” he said, not asking. “that was the spot. i found it.”

rafayel pressed again, harder, and you cursed out loud, thighs convulsing harsh around his hand, threatening to close completely.

“raf– fuck– don’t stop, please don’t stop–”

“wasn’t planning to.” his thumb found your clit again, working it in tight circles while his fingers pumped slowly in and out, fucking you with a rhythm that was at once gentle and utterly relentless.

“you’re so wet. i can hear it. i can feel it dripping down my hand. is that all for me?”

“yes.” you sobbed.

because it was, it was all for him. every drop of slick, every flutter of your walls around his fingers, every desperate sound falling from your lips.

“good.” he leaned forward, and his lips brushed your inner thigh, his breath hot and uneven. “because i’ve wanted this. wanted to know what you’d sound like. what you’d look like. what it would feel like to have you fall apart on my fingers.”

his fingers crooked again, finding that spot inside you and pressing, pressing, pressing, and you felt the coil in your belly wind tighter than it ever had before.

“you’re close.” he observed, and there was awe in his voice. “i can feel you fluttering. you’re going to cum for me, aren’t you? going to soak my hand like the good little muse that you are.”

you couldn’t answer. couldn’t breathe. the world had narrowed to the place where his hands worked you open, to the swishing sounds he was pulling from your body, to the heat building behind your eyes and between your legs.

“come on.” he whispered, and his voice was like the pull of the tide. calling you to obey. “cum for me. show me what you look like when you fall.”

so you fell.

the orgasm crashed through you like a wave, like the ocean you’d left behind, endless and unstoppable.

you cried out — his name, maybe, or something wordless, you couldn’t tell — and your body arched into his hand, your cunt clenching around his fingers in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever. through it all, he held you, his fingers still pistoning inside you, his thumb still circling lazily, drawing out every last shudder, every last drop.

when you finally collapsed back against the couch, boneless and trembling, he withdrew his fingers slowly, carefully. and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he brought them to his lips.

“ra-raffff?!”

he tasted you without hesitation, his eyes closing as his lips engulfed his digits, a sound of pure pleasure rumbling in his chest.

“so so sweet, my siren.” he murmured, and when his eyes opened again, they were still hungry. but fueled by something more primal. “but now i wonder…”

he was already slanting over you, his body covering yours, his knee pushing between your thighs and opening you once more. and you could feel it — hard and ready against your hip, wanting to go beyond foreplay.

“you wonder...” you managed, breathless, eyes glued to the cock print in his loose pants. “what exactly?”

his laugh was dark and low, and when his palm found the soft curve of your tummy, his index and thumb spread. drawing an invisible line through your belly button.

“how many inches can go inside?”

©pearlescenthoney 2026. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

But instead of hitting the cold muddy ground below you, you’re caught by two strong arms around you and cradled against a warm, human body. You hesitantly open your eyes, expecting to see perhaps someone from your crew, but instead you see an unfamiliar man.

A handsome face peers down at you, violet eyes curious. They’re framed by wild, yet silky brown hair—you’re guessing his hair is well past his neck, though the leopard fur headdress that sits over his shoulders like a cloak, furry maw gaping around his head, hinders your view. Other than that, he seems bare, which is bizarre for a human out in these jungles.

His bare chest is heaving against you, you register, and you squeal, scrambling against him. How improper. Not too kind of a reaction for the man that saved you, but he doesn’t seem offended—instead, he places you down gently against a pile of leaves, before scaling up the tree effortlessly,

You gape after his departing body, which climbs skillfully from branch to branch, as if he’s an ape himself. The chimps shriek, dispersing in a scurry that has the treetops swaying, and the chase quiets as the group flees further away from you. You remain where you are, still trying to catch your breath, only the sounds of singing birds accompanying you.

Finally, you hear a crack of a branch behind you, and you swivel around. The underdressed man is prowling to you hesitantly, leather bookbag in hand.

With a sigh, you rise, taking the bag eagerly. “Thank you,” you manage, unable to stop your eyes from dropping down towards his bare, toned legs, to his—oh. Your eyes widen as you quickly glance up and away.

“Are you from the nearby village?” Curiosity always gets the better of you, as it does for any researcher. But the man just stares blankly.

You tilt your head. He doesn’t look native, with his lighter hair and eyes, but with the way he seemed so in tuned to the environment, he might as well be. You ask the question again in the language native to the area, grammar broken yet understandable, but the man still only gazes at you with an unnerving intensity.

“Oookay,” you clear your throat, fighting to avert your eyes from his state of undress. “Forgive me, Mr..?, I just can’t seem to understand how else you ended up here. Are you…lost?”

His eyes darken at that, and you remember that though this is a human you are dealing with, he still seemed like a more animalistic being, with his furs and impressive agility. You suppress a shiver. Perhaps you should be more careful.

“I need to return to my camp,” you explain fruitlessly. You beckon him with a hand gesture— a signal you know is used by humans and primates alike— but he only backs away, before disappearing entirely in some thick foliage.

“Wait-!” You pause, listening for any sign of where he could have gone, but you can only hear the buzzing of cicadas.

That was the first time you meet him.

The trek back to camp is hurried; the encounter with the strange wild man has unsettled you far more than you had previously thought, and the croaking of frogs signaled an incoming thunderstorm. Your team expresses concern and fretfulness over your prolonged absence from camp, but you quickly gather them in a tent to explain your findings in an overzealous recounting.

“A wild man.” Simone repeats flatly. “Who can swing from vines like an ape and is naked except for a fur over his shoulders.”

“Yes!” You nod, pausing in your wild hand gestures. “And he didn’t speak any human language. He rescued my journal for me and left!”

Tara fronts, leaning in closer to peer at the bump on your temple. “Are you sure that fruit didn’t hit your head too hard? Or maybe you did fall and got knocked out?”

You sigh. “I did not hallucinate it. There’s a wild man out there, and I know because I met him!”

“She might be right,” Xavier chimes in, settling beside you with a folder. You take it eagerly, skimming through what seems like newspaper clippings from decades ago.

“When doing research on the area before coming here, I came across these.” He explained. If anyone was thoroughly prepared, it was Xavier. “Maybe he came from this previous expedition.”

You skim the newspaper headings. Breaking: Aristocrats’ bodies recovered near West Coast, child still missing. It was hard to analyze the little boy in the grainy, aged papers, but he didn’t look too different from the wild man.

“Maybe,” you breathe, fingers grazing the page in thought.

“Whatever it is,” Tara cuts in, looking at you with concern; she knows how absorbed you can get in new discoveries. “Try to stay away from him if you encounter him alone. The thought of a feral man in those woods gives me the creeps.

Later, when everyone has gone to bed, you log the encounter in your journal, pen scratching the worn pages as you scribble out words to rephrase them, agonizing over the details. It is then that you notice one of your pages is missing, torn out surreptitiously.

As the downpour streams steadily against the tarp of the tent, you can’t help but think of the wild man, how exactly he’s staying out there in these conditions. And, more significantly, how he ended up here in the first place.

Of course, days later, you set on hiking near the site of your first meeting with the wild man under the guise of searching for potential gorilla families nearby. Tara should have known, danger or not, your curiosity won’t let you heed her warnings.

You’re just near the stream, right by where your journal was stolen last time (you have it securely in your pocket now), when you hear it— a cracking of a twig from what can only be a deliberate footstep. You swivel, excitement making your heart race.

“Hello? I know you’re out there.” At first, there’s nothing, and you feel foolish for calling out to what might’ve been the wind. But then, the dense foliage in front of you parts, and there straightens the wild man, suddenly extremely close.

He doesn’t don his fur this time; he really is completely bare, so you have the decency to flush, especially when he begins prowling closer. He looms close until your face is level to his chest. At that, you can’t help but stumble, but his hand follows to drag a rough palm uncouthly down the tender side of your face.

“Oh- I have a group of people looking for me, I can ensure they’re on their way now, so don’t try anything.” You’re unsure to why you’re blabbering threats to a man who doesn’t understand English, but you can’t help be a little flustered and on edge as he practically feels you up, big hands trailing down your thinner arms.

You inhale sharply, taking in his earthy scent as you do so, as he steps closer, nose burying in your hair to sniff at you like he’s some kind of animal. He is, you remind yourself. This must be his first time meeting another human. Which is why you tolerate when he noses down the edge of your jaw, down your throat in a way that makes you shiver.

But what you don’t expect is when he crouches down further, fingers curiously tugging at your dress so he can bury his face underneath your skirt.

“Oh!” You shriek, smacking at his head lightly in pure shock. The man is quick to pull back, startling away.

Your chest heaves in embarrassment, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry,” you clear your throat. “But you can’t just do that to a lady. We humans have rules, y’know.”

He backs up further, seemingly ready to flee. You watch with mounting despair.

“Wait,” you try to lower your voice to a more soothing, indulgent tone. It’s a pitch that you usually use to calm apes, but it seems to be working with him. He stops retreating, pausing in anticipation.

You open your book to the torn page, gesturing along with your words to convey meanings. “Did you take this?”

He turns, but slower, deliberately looking back at you to make sure you’re watching, before heading eastward.

You follow gingerly, ignoring the common sense in your head that this may not be a good idea. But you’re led to a seemingly harmless cave that looks well equipped for a shelter.

Instead of going in, you linger near the entry; it was unclear whether his temperament may spike if you entered his territory. You watch him come back out, holding the paper in a large fist, unnervingly close again.

“There it is,” you exhale in relief, reaching for it. But he snatches his hand back.

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion, then annoyance. “I don’t take lightly to my work being stolen, thank you very much. So hand it back, then.”

He blinks a few times in a way you’re surprised to find adorable, widening eyes peering down at the paper. Now, he looks almost innocent with wonder, eyebrows knit in concentration.

You pause for a moment, realization slowly dawning on you, and you suddenly feel bad. He can’t read. If he was the missing child like Xavier suggests, then his childhood was likely stolen from him due to an accident, forcing him to live in the woods with limited knowledge of civilization.

“I can teach you,” you blurt.

Now, you were thinking less of a scholar working with a case study, and more as a human aiding a fellow human. And perhaps, if he learned to speak, then he could reveal how exactly he survived like this, his life’s story.

He doesn’t understand your words, of course. But you grab his hand and lead him to sit with you on a nearby log.

Unfurling his first to reveal the paper, you begin. “See, this here is the date. The 7th. A few weeks ago. You chose a earlier entry to tear out.”

He watches you trace the dried ink with your fingers blankly. You sigh, starting simpler.

“Here, I wrote ‘the.’ T-H-E.”

You don’t know how long passes as you use the words in your journal entries to familiarize him with English. You’ve gone through many pages together, perhaps for hours. Just as you’re about to leave, you pause, opening up to the entry from the night you met him to refresh yourself on the notes you had about the newspaper clippings.

“Caleb,” you say aloud. The wild man looks up, a flash of what may be recognition in his deep eyes. “The newspaper mentioned a young boy named Caleb. Are you Caleb?”

He stares at you for a lengthy moment, and though he doesn’t verbalize his confirmation, you can see it in the way he perks up at the name, the far-away look in his gaze.

A month has passed since you’ve began acquainting yourself with Caleb. You told Tara, Simone, and Xavier a few days after you found out that he was the missing boy in the newspapers, much to their chagrin.

“I’m off,” you announce, gathering a couple of more books in your bag. Tara and Simone exchange a look.

“To teach Caleb more English?”

You nod in response, eager about heading eastward. Caleb was a fast learner, making the meetings with him all the more rewarding. He was also fascinating to be around: he had the astounding ability to understand more than you thought possible, through gestures and tones and facial expressions. That fact could be a breakthrough in scientific understanding in your field, but you felt uneasy at the idea of studies being conducted on him, however benign. He’d already been through enough.

“You really are consistent with him, huh?” Tara hums. You’d convinced your team weeks ago that he was harmless, and they allowed your daily meetings with caution, though they agreed it was best if you were the only one to interact with him for the time being as to not agitate him with too much human contact. He had been a bit moody as of late, when you think about it, those darkened eyes boring holes into you when he thought you weren’t looking. You wonder what that was about.

“Of course. We’re making great progress. Soon, he’ll be more accustomed to human culture, and his joining into civilization will be smoother.”

“Are you sure that’s all you two do back there?”

You flush. Caleb was handsome, that much was hard to deny. What made things worse was his constant nudity, though that couldn’t be helped much. But you weren’t the type to try anything with a wild man. Rule #2, never become entwined with your subjects.

But was Caleb really a subject to you anymore?

“Don’t suggest anything strange,” you huff, turning and heading eastward, Behind your back, you miss Tara and Simon exchanging another knowing glance.

You meet him by the stream again, taking a bandana out of your pocket to spread it out on the ground like a makeshift blanket, before settling down on the leafy floor. Caleb looks up from where he picks at the ground, offering a timid but intelligible “hello.”

You grin, pulling out your books. “Hey. I brought more reading books.”

His eyes rove the covers. Highly intelligent, Caleb was always hungry for knowledge. You wonder where he’d be right now if he remained in civilization. “More books. What kinds?”

“Some science, some stories.” You had brought an ethnology textbook, the vocabulary too advanced, but there were perhaps some diagrams he could understand to learn more about human social cues. You also brought a dictionary and a romance book— the only book you had that was for a lower reading level.

He begins reading, but not before he tugs you close to his side, nuzzling into your neck.

You blink. “Oh, right.” His physical affections were something consistent, too, that you were beginning to become accustomed to. You chalked it up to him not having anyone else for comfort; thus, you felt sorry for him and restrained from setting any boundaries.

You open up your journal, lounging beside him as you worked. While meeting with him only took 2-3 hours of your time, you still had the rest of the day to conduct observations on the gorillas— the main purpose you were here. Though, you’d be lying if you said the gorillas were the most interesting part of your day. Quickly, your time spent with Caleb was becoming more cherished than your own research. How strange.

You startled out of your thoughts when a book is jutted into your line of sight. “This word?” He points.

You peer down, eyes narrowing where his finger points to the word*.* Immediately, your eyes widen again.

You snatch the book out of his hands in a flash, face heating as you quickly scan the rest of the page. You’d forgotten how lewd this romance book was, having read it a while ago.

“Maybe you shouldn’t read this.”

Caleb takes the book back immediately before you can protest. “I want.”

The idea of letting him read degenerate smut seems very poor to you. “Caleb, no.”

He only makes a face, like a dog about to bare its teeth. Giving in this quickly was undesirable, but you knew Caleb’s stubbornness, could see it on his face. You still, before exhaling in defeat. “Fine.”

“What does it mean?”

You pause, debating if you should tell him. Well, you did say you would teach him, after all. Besides, it’s just a body part.

“Female organ,” you say simply, gesturing around your lower half.

His eyes follow, but they don’t seem curious and thoughtful like usual. No, instead they’re hungry, dim, and fixated solely on your face, like he knows already.

“Ah,” he says, licking over his sharp canines.

You look away, cheeks burning. It’s hard to avoid the man when he’s still cuddling you like you’re his personal stress ball, but you try your hardest. After a while, though, it becomes nearly impossible to ignore the way the air has shifted, how he’s looking at you differently now.

“I have to go,” you announce suddenly, cringing at the way his arms tighten around you.

“Already?”

“Yes,” you slip out of his arms with great difficulty, heart leaping when the act gets a low growl out of him. When you stand and look down at him, the look in his eyes is enough to get your heart pounding.

Dark, needy, feral.

“Sorry,” you squeak, already leaving him behind with an apologetic bow. You rush away so quickly you don’t even realize what you left behind.

It’s been three days since you’ve seen Caleb.

On top of the work piling on top of you and your team, it had dawned on you that day that you and Caleb’s relationship was shifting into dangerous territory. The way he had looked at you— has been looking at you, was too real for you to comprehend.

His hooded, hungry gaze makes your heart flutter faster like birds trapped in a bony cage, prey waiting to be caught by his sharp, gleaming maw. It’s something you want to run away from and leap towards at the same time.

You feel awful, but there is nothing you can do about your sudden business. Besides, the three large books you had given him should be enough to entertain him for the time being.

Later that evening, when all work is complete, you decide to finally head eastwards once again.

It’s a risky decision; the sun would set in nearly an hour, and the trek took 15 minutes in itself, but, well, you’ve always been a bit reckless.

You’re about to call his name, standing outside his little cave, but soft noises make you freeze.

Tiny whimpers, uneven breaths. He must be injured, you think, and immediately enter the cave, boots crunching on the dried glass clippings on the floor.

“Caleb, what—” His large body is hunched over away from you, broad shoulders trembling and shuddering. You flush when you see your bandana clutched in his hand, pressed against his face desperately. The other large hand moves back and forth, in a pumping motion.

He freezes at the sound of your voice. You stop in your tracks as well, realizing you have deeply, deeply misinterpreted the situation.

Slowly, Caleb turns. It takes everything in you to focus on his face only. Dark hair frames his face, his gleaming, predatory eyes. You swallow.

He speaks before you can. “You are back.”

You nod once. “Yes.”

Your heart pounds. Caleb drops your bandana on the hay, stalking close to you.

Strong arms wrap around you quickly like a vice, tugging you desperately to his warm body. You gasp, palms hesitantly sliding to rest against his pecs to steady yourself as he nuzzles close to your jaw.

You jerk in his hold when his tongue drags a lewd lick across your cheek.

“Oh my God,” you gulp, heart pounding in a mix of fear and arousal. He looked about ready to eat you. “Caleb—”

Your words are cut off into a choked whimper when those sharp teeth bite down on your neck, lips suckling a brutish hickey on your skin. He pulls back with a lewd pop, tongue raving over his lips like he just tasted something decadent.

“Need you,” he pants, pressing his lips against the blooming bruise, before peppering them down to your sternum. “Need you, need you—”

You tug at his hair, and he whimpers, before you direct his face upwards so you can slot your lips over his.

The kiss is messy. He practically devours your lips unceremoniously, tongue flicking over yours, teeth catching your bottom lip to suck to the point of pain.

A string of saliva bridges your mouths when he pulls away, like a part of him never wanted to leave. His chest heaves in front of your face as you trail your palms downwards, sliding them across his toned abs. Teasingly, you slowly shift to grasp his shaft, making him shudder. But he fights the urge to thrust into your grip, instead baring himself to your sweet, slow torture for a moment.

Face muffled in the crook of your neck, Caleb whines when your thumb brushes his leaky tip, the other hand pumping tight around his velvet shaft. Even without seeing it— he was basically smothering you with how close he was, till your only view was his chest— you could tell he was large.

Finally, he lifts his face with a ragged pant, jaw tense, eyebrows lowered in agrigation. With a low hiss of your name, he tugs you impossibly closer. His erection presses into you obscenely as he slips a hand down the front of your pants.

“Need you now,” he repeats, tongue laving up your neck. You gasp as he tugs your panties impatiently; you show him how it’s done, unzipping and removing your trousers, before slipping off your panties— ignoring how he whines when you stop touching his cock.

He’s on his knees in a millisecond, large hands cupping your thighs to lift them so you’re forced to lean against the rocky wall behind you for support. Fingertips digging into the fat, pushing back spreading your plush thighs open like they held his favorite meal, before burying his face whole between them.

You jerk, crying out in pleasure as he eats you out like he’s starved. Spread like this, you’re dependent on his strong hands to hold you up and at the mercy of his ravenous mouth. Tongue pushing through your tight ring of muscle, curling just right so your pussy walls clamp around his buds. Lips latched onto your clit, suckling until you squeal and squirm. His slimy tongue rears around again to lap languidly up your whole pussy, rough buds creating delicious friction against the bundle of nerves.

“C-Cay,” you hiccup, hands tangled in his messy locks, attempting to tug him off and shove him closer all at once. He only grunts in response, solely focused on one thing only.

He’s basically salivating, a mix of your arousal and his own spittle dribbling down his chin and glossy lips. Caleb whimpers again against your cunt, burying his face further between your thighs until you can only jerk and moan. Your poor pussy is swelling with his attention, especially when he nuzzles his nose just right against your clit.

“Please please please,” you twitch and whine, attempting to grind against his face without losing your support against the wall. “I’m so close, please.”

His mouth latches onto your clit one last time, suckling like your cunt was a fruit, and you’re cumming, gushing down his chin and lips with a broken moan.

Slowly, Caleb lowers you to the ground, until you’re resting back on the comfortable strawy grass. Your eyes flutter open, and his face is looming close, bottom half covered in slick.

“Good?” He pants, licking his lips again as he waits expectantly for your reply. You nod, and he lights up at the praise.

“Yeah, good,” you rasp, taking the moment to shed your shirt. Caleb thumbs at your bra curiously, eyes darkening as he eyes your cleavage.

You tug off your bra slowly, flushing when he stares intently at the way your tits bounce when released. Immediately, he’s on you, crawling over to palm your breasts, before taking a nipple into his warm mouth.

Moans spill from your lips as he switches from one tit to the next, kissing and tonguing until your nipples are glistening and hardened. You bury a hand in his hair, gaze dropping to how his cock seems painfully hard, bobbing up against his taut abs and an angry red color.

“Need you, Cay,” it seems arousal had also rendered your speech to the simplest form. But Caleb understands, detaching his hungry mouth from your tits, before mounting you fully from behind.

A large, bulging bicep comes down to nestle your face against the crook of his forearm, your cheeks pressed against hard muscle. His hips rut against the soft curve of your ass, dick slipping back and forth between your pussy folds with lewd squelches.

This was nothing you’ve taught him. Because the need for lust, for sex, was not anything to be learned. It was innate, biological, and animalistic.

And Caleb had always been animalistic.

Slowly, he begins trying to push in, his fat tip burning your poor cunt, splitting your walls open. You whimper, squirming against him, and he only nuzzles you soothingly in a gesture of comfort.

With a nudge of his hips, and because you’re so wet, his tip slips in with a lewd pop!

Your chest heaves with each heavy breath you inhale, struggling to take him, cheeks flushed as he peppers comforting kisses against it. Your slick walls quiver around his shroom-shaped head, and Caleb whimpers in response.

Slowly, he’s feeding in more, and more. As soon as he’s an inch in, your pussy is gripping him tight, wrenching a low sound from him.

“Mine, mine, mine,” he’s mumbling against your ear, long cock now entirely in your cunt. You hiccup and gasp at the way it’s already nudging just right against that spongy spot inside of you.

Slow rocks of his hips quickly speed up until he’s pounding into you with startling intensity, sending your body rocking against the floor. The obscene plap plap plap! of your bodies smacking against each other— accompanied by your pleasured squeals— bounce off the rocky walls of the cave.

Your pussy is leaking all over his cock, fluttering and sliding against every delicious vein and forming a frothy ring around his shaft. His bulbous tip kisses past your g-spot perfectly and rams straight into your cervix with an intensity you know will bruise, sparking white-hot tingles up your tummy.

More nips are delivered to your earlobe. “Mine, my mate,” he pants this time, desperately crushing you closer with his bodyweight. He’s feral, impossibly possessive with the way he cages you close.

“C-Caleb,” you manage, unable to decide if you should tell him to slow down or not. But the man seems gone anyways, with the way he bites down on your shoulder to muffle a whine-tinged snarl. Those teeth nip more marks down the side of your neck, possessive bruises blooming on your sweat-slicken skin.

The grass blades dig against your sensitive nipples with each thrust, the rough friction sending mixes of pleasure and pain down your spine. You barely register it, all focus on the way his strong body pins you to the floor as he ruts into you from behind, the way his sweaty pecs stick and slide against your arched back. Drool leaks from your kiss-bitten lips, getting all over his tensed bicep that’s got you in a headlock. You bite him as well, chomping on the ripe muscle in front of you to offset the intense pleasure. Caleb moans in approval.

The smacking of his hips against your ass picks up in tandem with your pussy’s flutters. You’re both close; Caleb whines openly now, letting out needy sounds against your neck when your cunt restricts hard.

“I’m, hah, gonna cum,” you babble, drooling nonsensically against his bicep.

“Cum- cum f’me, honey,” he grunts, and you wonder dazedly just how much he had learned in that romance book, before you cum hard with a squeal*.*

Your cunt squeezes and milks his tight shaft, squirting arousal down onto the grassy area below. Warmth floods you as Caleb cums with a broken whimper, chest shuddering against your shoulders. You stay there, limp and satisfied, eyes shut.

You hear the rustling of grass, and you groan weakly as your gently pulled to lay on your side, face nestled between his firm pecs.

A dotting of kisses on your cheeks awakens you slightly, enough to lift your chin and meet his concerned, puppy-eyed gaze.

“Okay?” He asks, brushing a rough finger across your drool-soaked lips. You smile sleepily, nuzzling against him.

“Great.”

Rounding the corner, his long legs making no accommodations for your shorter ones, he says, “No. If you wanted better results, you should have put in a better performance. Surely you’re smart enough to work out that that’s how life works.”

Hands grab his arm, yanking back with all your strength only to be dragged along with him and his burly body. Your heels scrape along the floor. People stare. You don’t care. “Don’t be an asshole. You know my essay was good. It was really good. Just give it a read. A proper one, and not the rushed job you do because you’re overworked and underpaid.”

He stops.

Your face bumps into this back, forehead nearly bruised by the hardness. 

His brows rise above his glasses as he fixes you a look. “Kid, your essay was good — decent introduction, clear structure, sufficient evidence — but it’s not good enough for the extra marks to push you into the top band. Your closing argument fell flat ‘cause of your wishy-washy writing style, you didn’t adequately humour the counter arguments and undermine them to strengthen your thesis, and, worst of all, you misspelt ‘complement.’”

A frown graces your features. 

“No, I didn’t. C. O. M. P. L. I. M—”

“No. With an I, it’s to flatter someone. With an E, it’s to enhance, pair well, or complete another thing.” Toji explains rather robotically, eyes still dead and voice monotone. “For example, if I said you’re a pretty girl, that’s a compliment. And if I said, your essay goes well with the trashcan over there, that’s a statement that suggests the two complement each other. See the difference?”

He’s already stalking off again, hands in his pockets, huge stature unwilling to accommodate the people walking down the hallway. 

You break into a jog, panting embarrassingly by the time you reach him. “Dude, we’ve known each other for three years. We’ve gone through a lot together. We’re basically friends. Can’t you do your best pal a solid?”

Toji glances down at you. He pushes a door open, holding it a second longer than he needed to. You follow behind him. Somewhat amused, he replies, “We know each other because we’re on the same course, not by choice. And I don’t know what you mean by the whole ‘we’ve gone through a lot together’ thing — the most dramatic thing we’ve faced is when the projector didn’t work and we had to go into a different hall. And we’re definitely not friends.”

Well, fuck, you’re running out of rope. 

“Then, let’s officially be friends,” you offer, elbowing him gently. “If you ever need help, buddy, I’ll always have your back.” Then, in an act of complete desperation, you begin shakily singing, “You’ve got a friend in me. You’ve got a friend in me. When the road looks tough ahead—”

A heavy hand shoves you away by your head. You stumble into a bulletin board.

“Enough,” he gruffs. “My day’s already fucked because the prof lost his papers and wants to blame me. I don’t need to lose my hearing on top of that.”

Your head flits around. “Did you guys see that?” People give you weird looks. “He just shoved me. The TA just shoved me. We need to protest his violent behaviour by demanding he remarks our papers. Who’s with me?”

Everyone walks past without another look at you.

Toji, on the other hand, lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face. Muttering something under his breath, he pushes a door open and holds out a hand before you can mindlessly follow. “It’s the men’s bathroom. Tell me you’re not shameless and stupid enough to come in here.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

His eye twitches. 

As though an idea comes to him, he straightens ever so slightly. “I’m gonna take a dump; you’ll be waiting a while.”

“That’s okay — I have no more classes so take your time but make sure you don’t stay sitting down longer than you need to,” you tell him, smiling innocently and standing aside to let a guy walk out, ignoring the freaked out face he makes at you. “You can get hemorrhoids."

He groans. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman.” 

That seems to be as much of you he can tolerate because he walks in without another word to you. Opposite the door, you lean against the wall, whistling and coming up with alternative lines you can pull on him. 

God, he’s so stubborn. 

It’s not like giving you the marks docks his pay or lowers the professor’s opinion of him. He’s clearly just being an ass. 

If he wasn’t such a good TA, a genuinely intelligent man, you would have gone above his head and asked for the prof’s personal assessment. But no, he has to be knowledgeable, a helpful source of information when you’re lost, someone who seems to know everything about any topic, who knows the exact pages of a textbook you should read to further your understanding, and who’s never declined a meeting for clarification on something you wrote. 

For years now, you two have had a friendship-like relationship, often sharing snacks and exchanging brief words before or after lectures and classes, despite what he says.

Everyone gets along with him, though you’ve never actually seen him hang out with friends or go to parties. Maybe he doesn’t have any. Word on the street is he works part time in a couple different places. Some say so he can afford drugs, some for tuition. 

The rumours never interested you, apart from any that mused about his love life, which seems to be nonexistent except for the many girls who hit on him. Not that you’re especially interested.

It’s just fun to be in the know.

Who knows how long has passed since he went in there. Your phone says fifteen minutes. Is that a normal amount of time for someone to be taking a dump?

Hesitantly, you push the door open and yell out, “Fushiguro? You doing okay? Is it stuck? For a couple extra marks, I’ll give you a hand.”

No one replies. 

Brows furrowing, you bend down, looking through the stalls. No feet. What the hell?

Ahead, a window is ajar. Big enough for a man to squeeze through. Well isn’t that convenient? The kind of convenient that exists only in fiction.

Aggrieved and feeling bamboozled, you stomp back to your dorm room, slamming the door, jumping face down on the bed and screaming into the pillows. You’d feel better if you knew he had a grudge on you, if you bumped into him the first day and spilled his coffee all over himself and he’d never forgotten it. Instead, he’s just like that: does things by the book, does his job well, and achieves the best grades with ease. 

Naturally, he’d become the professor’s assistant, a coveted position that seemed like it was made for him from the very beginning, and made your life a living hell because he won’t ever make concessions for you.

Sure, you shouldn’t ask him to, but it’s not like you’re asking for much. You’re generally a high performing student — punctual, hard working, ambitious — but you had one bad day which resulted in one bad essay and it lowered your average and now the internship you’d been eyeing could be snatched from your hands in a blink of an eye. 

“It’s just not fair,” you cry out to your teddy bear. “It’s three marks. Three! Would it kill him to reread my essay and find those three marks?”

Mr. Teddy stares back at you and says, “He’s a grumpy man. Don’t take it personally.”

You sit up, blinking and processing his reply.

“Teddy…you’re right. He is a grumpy man, a TA with broad shoulders, yummy arms, and thick thighs with a bubble butt, but a man nonetheless. If he won’t pull favours for me, student to student, maybe he’ll pull favours for me man to woman.”

The plushie falls to the bed as you stand, staring at yourself in the mirror and formulating a plan. 

With that you decide to seek him out the next day, sporting a new outfit and a different attitude.

.

.

.

“Hi.”

“Fuck off.”

The cafeteria’s busy. It always is. It’s loud enough that most people wouldn’t even hear the exchange — chairs banging on tile, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly at a table nearby. 

Toji’s hunched slightly over a bowl of udon noodles, chopsticks moving lazily as he slurps them down. Some sports clip plays on his phone, propped against his dented metal water bottle. Commentators yell about something you don’t understand. His sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, revealing ropey muscle and the faint silvery line of an old scar running across his wrist.

An old hoodie hangs off his shoulders over a plain white T-shirt. Distressed jeans, worn sneakers. He’s too big for the plastic chair, long legs spread under the table. When he saw you approach, his feet had hooked onto the chair legs, forcing you to fight to remove it from his clutches so you could take a seat.

So damn rude.

His glasses have fogged slightly from the steam of the noodles.

He doesn’t look up. But he knows it’s you. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens for half a second before he goes back to eating.

You snatch his phone away. His green eyes flick up, annoyed. You smile, arms pushing your breasts together so they spill over your tight top. Toji’s gaze doesn’t waver. He continues to stare at you like you’re a pest. 

“You can’t take no for an answer?” he asks though it’s not a question at all. “Might want to retake the consent course.”

Manicured fingers walk up his bare forearm before scratching down from his elbow. His skin is warm. Light dusting of hair tickling your fingertips. “Oh, Toj, have I ever told you how handsome you are? Because you really are. You’re so damn hot I can hardly focus on the lectures.”

He snorts, still eating his noodles and still refusing to look at your cleavage. “That’ll explain why you’re missing marks.”

Jaw dropping, you force yourself to recover quickly. A heeled foot brushes against his calf, sliding his jeans up. You bat your lashes, sultrily saying, “The only thing I’m missing is your cock in me, big boy.”

Toji meets your eyes again. His scarred lips twitch. “I don’t need to tell you that was bad, do I?”

You cringe, foot dropping and whole body slumping back into the chair. “Yeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.” Then you sit up, handing him his phone, and asks, “Are the noodles good? I’ve never had them.”

Phone pocketed, he shrugs. “They’re just the cheapest deal on the menu. Growing girl like you should get something more filling.”

The menu’s extensive, and the only thing sticking out to you is the chicken burger and chicken tenders meal deal. It seems to be especially popular today but you’re not sure you can finish the whole thing. 

“Hey, if I get the Meal Super Cluck Blaster, will you share it with me? I’ve got dinner plans later so I don’t want to fill up.”

That finally gets a reaction. Toji leans back a little and gives you a slow once-over. Tight top. Lacy bra peeking up. Glossy lips. More jewellery than usual. His eyebrow lifts. “That why you’re dressed like a hooker?” he asks lazily. “Hot date?”

“Nah,” you reply, waving him off. “Wore this for yo— Wait.” You lean forward, staring at him wide eyed. “Are you jealous? Are you in love with me already? Because for extra marks, I’ll cancel my dinner plans and promise myself to you for all eternity.”

Toji rolls his eyes. “Go get something to eat; you sound insane.”

You hop up. “Okay, but stay there, alright? Take my burger because I only want the tenders. Oh, and will you share a pot of cheesecake with me? I’m lactose-intolerant but I really want cheesecake right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He’s still here when you come back. 

As soon as you hand him the wrapped up burger, he scarfs it down the way big men do, like they haven’t eaten in days. You push him the tenders too. You’d actually gotten a double serving of everything so you have your own portion of tenders and he gets to eat another burger. There’s no way a man his size could survive on udon noodles.

“Also, let’s not act like you didn’t leave me hanging outside the men’s bathroom yesterday,” you bring up after sipping your juice. “Can’t believe you left through the bathroom window just so you could get away from me.”

“I didn’t,” he says, mouth full and adjusting his glasses. 

You frown, dipping a piece of chicken in hot honey. “No, you definitely did. I peeked and there were no feet in any of the stalls. Unless you’re telling me you can grow invisible.”

“Just lifted my legs when I heard you come in, which I knew your crazy ass would do, so I could finally leave in peace. Didn’t think it’d take you fifteen minutes though.”

A laugh escapes you. “You were waiting me out? Does that sound like the mature thing to do? Jeez, you need to act your age.”

Toji’s eyes meet yours. Your smile falters for the briefest second. “I’m not that much older than you,” he reminds you. “Only by two years.”

“And yet you call me kid or kiddo,” you retort, clearing your throat. Have his eyes always been that green and deep? And is his voice usually that husky and masculine? Because you could have sworn guys your age don’t sound like that.

He shrugs again, second burger finished in a blink of an eye. “Never hurts to remind yourself.”

“Remind yourself what?”

The legs of his chair screech as he pushes it back. He stands, picking up his tray, and answers, “Forget about it. Enjoy your dinner plans. And I’m taking the cheesecake — no one wants a gassy date.”

“Wait,” you call out before he can turn away. “My marks?”

A pat on the head ruffles your hair. 

“Still a no, kid.”

.

.

.

“What if I suck your dick?”

Toji lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’ve got a ton of papers to grade for another class; I don’t have time for you.”

The door shuts behind you. His office is bare, not a single decoration littering the place, not a plant nor a picture. 

His office is exactly how you remember it — disappointingly, aggressively empty. The walls are a dull institutional beige that makes the overhead fluorescent light feel even harsher. No posters. No photos. Not even a sad little plant struggling for life in the corner.

Just a desk. A filing cabinet. Two chairs that look like they were stolen from a waiting room. It’s the kind of office someone occupies temporarily, like he expects to leave at any moment and doesn’t see the point in settling in.

Leaning against the desk anyway, your fingers drum lazily along the edge.

You’ve been here before: once to argue about a paper he’d shredded with red ink, once because you’d missed an exam and needed him to sign a form, and once because you’d sworn you heard him swearing loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.

You grip his shoulder, squeezing as you scan the fat stack of papers on his desk — the prof’s particular about handwritten essays. There’s so much to read through; you do not want to be him. 

“God,” you mutter, flipping through a few pages of the stack. “There’s like fifty here.”

“Seventy-two,” Toji corrects without looking up. His handwriting is sharp and aggressive, red ink slashing through entire paragraphs like he’s committing academic murder. You wince in sympathy for whoever wrote the paper currently being dismantled.

“Good thing you can multitask, can’t you? I’ll suck your dick under the desk, you grade papers, and you bump me up a grade. Easy.”

He shrugs you off, hulking body hunched over and pen scratching on the papers, leaving harsh circles and comments like, ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and ‘you can’t just say perchance.’ 

Toji gruffs, “I’m serious. Take your jokes elsewhere.”

Nah, you think to yourself. 

With a massive struggle against his weight, you yank his chair back, wheeling him a distance from the desk and clambering under before he can fill the space again. He makes some noise above you but you pay him no mind. Your hands rest on his meaty thighs through his sweatpants, marvelling at the density, at the strength you find in them. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” His foot nudges your knee. “Get the fuck out. I’ll cropdust you if I have to.”

You call his bluff by clutching his clothed cock. He jolts, grunting. Laughing softly, you muse, “You say all that but you have a semi already — did my proposition get you hard, Toji?”

You’re rubbing his hard on, trying not to get flustered by how big he feels, and how fat the girth is. Of course he’s big. In hindsight, you really shouldn’t have been so surprised; he’s a big man so naturally the proportions will match up. 

“Suck my dick, don’t suck my dick, it doesn’t matter,” he says, sighing and probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not getting those marks.”

He thinks that’ll stave you off because he knows you’re whoring yourself out for a grade. What he doesn’t know is that your stupid little brain’s already forgotten about all of that the moment you felt his cock. Now all you can think about is how you’ll have to stretch your lips nice and wide to take him in, and even then, even when your throat is lax and loose, you won’t be able to take him to the base. 

Toji grunts again, peering down at you. “You mouthing at my dick? Did’ya not hear what I said?”

Like you’ve been possessed, you press kisses to where his tip is, humming around it. “I heard, but your dick’s saying other things to me, and I know which I prefer to listen to.”

“My dick’s not marking your paper, so get the fuck up,” he growls.

“Don’t wanna.”

“You’re fucking killing me here.”

A heavy hand bundles your hair up, pulling but you fight against it, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints. His boxers have a hole, and yet you only find it endearing. Freeing his cock so it bounces up and smacks your cheek, it leaves a wet mark on your skin. 

Tutting, he wipes away the wetness from your skin. 

Oh fuck, he really is big. 

With nothing between you and his dick, you can see him in all his glory in the partial shadow of under his desk — long, thick, flushed red, already shiny at the slit, veiny as hell, hairs at the base wild and unruly, with weighty balls to match. You’ve never seen anything better. 

Tongue out, you lick him from base to tip, prodding at his frenulum.

“Quit it,” he commands through gritted teeth. 

You moan wantonly, already addicted to the salt on his kin, to the texture of his veins, to the softness of his cockhead. “Toji, you’re so big. I don’t think this’ll fit inside me.”

The thing throbs, bobbing. A droplet oozes out and you quickly lick it up. The hand that was pulling your hair has grown slack, simply resting on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping the wood. 

Voice hoarse, he mutters, “If anyone can make it fit, it’ll be your stubborn ass.”

Your eyes meet his from under the desk, mischief sparkling in them you’re sure. His cock throbs again. “I thought you had papers to mark, Fushiguro. Maybe you should get on that, no?”

A calloused thumb presses down on your lips, shushing you. It slides down, bringing your bottom lip down with it, before releasing it so it’ll bounce back in place. That same thumb holds your jaw open, hand guiding your mouth to his tip. You know what he wants. You also know that he knows that you both know that you won this time. 

Wide as you can, you take as much of his length as possible. You don’t get much further than a third of the way, full beyond belief and overwhelmed by just how much of him there still is. Your nails dig into his thighs.

“If this is supposed to convince me to give you extra marks, then you’re failing real hard, doll,” he notes, gripping the base. “Can barely fit the head, can you?”

He’s acting like it’s your fault he’s so big. 

Challenged, you loosen your throat to take him an inch deeper. You gag around the length. Toji curses under his breath. “Careful,” he mutters. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You ignore him in favour of shallowly bobbing, sucking and licking what you can, as though he’s a lollipop. It’s actually kinda fun.

The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper and paper rubbing on paper echoes in the relatively quiet office. Only the wet sounds of your mouth sucking his cockhead pierces the silence. 

Growing more and more used to his size, you flick your tongue around the head, letting your hands wrap around the rest of him, squeezing and tugging in time with your mouth. Occasionally, he makes a couple breathy noises — low grunts when your tongue laps up his tip, gravelly groans when you hollow your cheek to suck, and rough exhales through his nose when you grip his balls, massaging them, thumb rubbing the seam. 

It becomes easier to forget why you were here in the first place; you’re just blowing him for your own entertainment now, wanting something to occupy your throat. 

Then, he asks, as though he’s making casual conversation, “How was the date?”

“Hmm?”

Toji rolls his eyes. “The date,” he repeats. “How was it? He pay for the meal? Open doors, see you to your door, kiss you goodnight and shit?”

Your lips stretch into a smile. You release him with a pop! “I didn’t go on a date,” you tell him. “My friends hosted a housewarming party because they moved in together. I had a great time, thanks for asking.”

Is he pleased? Unaffected? Genuinely just making conversation? Hard to tell, except for the pushing of his hand, urging you back to his dick, and taking him further inside your throat, till his tip bumps the back of the gummy walls. 

“Good,” he exhales out, thighs flexing around your body. “That’s real good.”

“My blowjob skills or that I had a great time?” you ask, words muffled and barely understandable.

“Both,” he answers. “Both, doll.”

A knock on the door has you both stiffening. Toji glares down at you and whispers, “It’s the prof. Do not make a sound.”

He didn’t need to tell you that — you’re well aware that if you get caught, you’ll both face disciplinary action, and will likely be kicked out of the university. That’s worse than not getting the internship. 

The office falls quiet so suddenly you can hear the ticking of the wall clock. Toji’s hand tightens briefly against the desk as the knock comes again. “Come in,” he calls, voice steady.

The door opens before he even finishes the word.

“Ah, Fushiguro, there you are,” the professor says, stepping inside with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d left already.”

From your position under the desk, you can only see shoes. Polished leather. Slow steps across the floor. You don’t slide his cock out of your throat, lest it makes a sloppy noise that’ll give you both away. So you breathe through your nose, being very, very quiet.

“No, I was just finishing up some grading,” Toji replies, cool as a cucumber.

His tone is annoyingly normal. Completely unbothered. He’s really convincing. Has he done this before? Is this a normal occurrence? Do a lot of girls offer to blow him for better marks, and does he take them up on it? Are you the one exception to his generosity? 

“Good, good.” Papers shuffle. A chair creaks as the professor sits across from the desk. “I actually wanted to ask about the research methods essays.”

Of course he did.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Toji shifts slightly above you — just enough that the movement brushes your shoulder — and then he leans back in his chair. “Yeah?” he says.

“I noticed something odd in the submissions this year,” the professor continues. “Half the class seems to misunderstand the section on sampling bias.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You mean where they’re supposed to explain the limitations of convenience sampling?”

“Exactly.”

A sheet of paper slides across the desk.

“You see this one here—”

From below, you hear Toji pick it up.

“—they describe the method correctly, but their conclusion contradicts their own analysis.”

There’s a pause whilst the TA reads. You stare at the underside of the desk and try not to shift your knees. God, this is like torture. Having a cock lodged in your throat and not being able to do anything with it is hell. Above the desk, they’re chatting away, talking about your fellow students, with the professor none the wiser that one such student’s under the desk. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “They’re treating correlation like it proves causation.”

“Precisely!” the professor says, sounding delighted. “It’s surprisingly common.” Another pause. You hear a pen tap the desk twice. “I was thinking next year we might restructure the lecture slightly,” the professor continues. “Maybe introduce a short case study before the assignment.”

“Could work,” Toji replies. “Give them something concrete, tangible, to analyse.”

Your legs are starting to cramp. Your lips tighten around his hot cock. Toji brushes your hair back from your face, a quiet act to show he hasn’t forgotten about you. The professor keeps talking, completely unaware.

“Also,” he says, shuffling more papers, “the literature review sections were stronger this year.”

“Mm.”

“I suspect the workshop helped.”

Toji lets out a quiet huff that might be agreement.

“You handled that well, by the way,” the professor adds. “The students seem to respond to your feedback.”

This is way too boring, you decide. In an act you might end up regretting for the rest of your life, your offended tongue prods his tip where he’s still leaking salty precum. 

He grunts, knee crashing up on the wood. 

The professor asks him if he’s alright, and Toji replies, “Fine. Sorry. Just had a cramp.”

A triumphant smile pulls at your lips, which is quickly wiped away by the sudden pinch at your cheek. You wince, unable to smack him in retaliation. 

A sigh fills the room. “I fear you work too hard, Fushiguro. You ought to take a break here and there. Do something fun and wild, or whatever it is people your age do nowadays.”

“I am having fun,” Toji says, hand coming back to rest on your head, growing heavier and heavier until you’re forced to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper. “In my own way.”

He’s filling you up more than he was before, now more insistent, no longer so passive. You’re struggling to take him but he’s not letting up. Fuck, you’re soaked between the legs. Who knew you had an oral fixation?

“Well, good,” the professor says. He pushes his chair back. Your heart jumps in joy. “I won’t keep you any longer, I know those papers won’t mark themselves. Boy do I not envy you.” He laughs. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, Professor.”

Footsteps move toward the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Two seconds pass.

Then Toji peers down, licking his scarred lips, and mutters under his breath, “You needy fucking girl. Couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t resist not being a pain my fucking ass. If you want cock so badly, then here you go.”

His hips thrust up, hand keeping you in place. Your eyes fly open, throat stretching to take all of him in. Oh, he was as pent up, as frustrated, as you were. The force in which he’s rutting inside your throat displays that nice and clear. 

“You’ll do anything for a good grade, won’t you? Even debase yourself like this. God, you drive me crazy.”

You gag around his cock but he doesn’t pay any mind to that. No, Toji’s just rutting inside your mouth over and over again, grunting louder and louder now. 

Meanwhile, your hand seeks out the heat between your legs. You grind against the heel of your palm, moaning around his length. The vibration has his balls tightening up.

“Fuck!”

Hot cum bursts inside, coating the walls of your throat and your tongue. 

Toji leans back in his chair, which creaks. You pull him out, coughing at the salty burn. Damn, even his loads are big. It’s like a cream puff exploded inside your mouth. 

Hands carry you up, sitting you on his thigh. One rubs your back in circles, the other wipes away the tears at your eyes, licking at the wetness he’s collected on his thumb. “You good, kid?” he asks, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah,” you respond, voice hoarse and not fooling anyone. “I’m good.”

You take a sip of his water from his water bottle, not caring about the fact that you’re drinking from where he had been, and if he cared that your mouth which had been sucking on his dick and cum is on his cup, he didn’t say.

He sighs, tucking himself back in and says, “Come by my place tonight. Hand me your essay again and I’ll reread it. But I’m not making any promises about finding extra marks, alright? It’s just a second chance, and the only one you’ll get.”

Dopily, you smile at him. “Throat game that good, huh?”

His lips twitch. He shoves you away, smacking your ass as you walk away.

“I’ll text you the time and place. Don’t be late.”

Nodding, you head for the door, not leaving however till you ask, “Should I wear matching underwear, or is this a strictly keep your clothes on meeting?”

“Fuck off before I regret it.”

“Lacy thong it is!”

.

.

.

“Should I spread my legs now or do you want me to fluff you first?”

Toji’s deadpan face meets you when he opens the door. He sighs as though he’s regretting this already. Regardless, he lets you in. 

You can tell he showered recently — there’s the scent of cheap soap lingering on his skin and his hair is still a little damp. 

His apartment is nice and clean, which surprises you somewhat. Most guys your age tend to be messy. But you should have known the TA would be neat and organised. 

“I’m serious,” you begin, snuggling up to his side and batting your lashes up at him, “what position do you want me? I’m not the most flexible but I’m not too bad.”

Shaking you off, he pushes you in the direction of the living room where the coffee table is covered with carefully laid out papers he no doubt carried from campus to continue working on. “Go sit down, you horny gremlin. Make some room for your essay and let’s get this over with.”

You do as he says, folding your legs so you can sit by the coffee table on the rug. You take the essay out of your bag, shoving all the others to the side. With a frown, you ask, “So we’re really not fucking?”

He folds himself down too, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours. “I don’t solicit sex in exchange for academic favours. Dunno why you’re so surprised by that — can’t recall having done anything to make you think otherwise.”

“Well, you did give in after I blew you, so…”

“I was gonna offer before you did all that,” he informs you, snorting. “Just never promised to give you the marks.”

Toji adjusts his glasses, taking your papers and starting his reassessment of it. His lips purses, brows furrows, and he stares at the thing like it could tell him the answers to the universe. That or it’s so bad he just can’t fathom what you were thinking. 

“Second paragraph, third line, why the hell is it so convoluted?” he asks, voice returning to that grumpy tone you’re more than familiar with now.

It’s the latter, it would seem. He really meant business. You shaved and everything for nothing. What a shame. 

Leaning over, you rest your head on his big bicep, and, with a pout, reply, “I thought it sounded smart; I was pretty proud of that line actually.”

“No, doll,” Toji says, sighing. “The simpler the better. Don’t purposefully complicate your syntax. Only do what’s necessary to get the point across. If I, an expert in this topic, can barely understand what you mean, how is the ordinary person supposed to?”

“Yeah, okay. Simple is better, I get it.”

He continues reading, red pen in hand and making annotations as he goes. Meanwhile, you’re worming your way into his lap: one hand resting on his thigh at first, then a leg thrown over his. He notices what you’re doing — there’s no way he doesn’t know — but he doesn’t put up a fight. Eventually, you’re sitting in his lap, his chin resting on your head, and his arms caging you in. 

Toji’s warm. He’s comfy to rest on despite all the muscles. Closer now, his soapy scent envelops you. It goes straight to your head. You find yourself squirming. 

“Keep still,” he reprimands, underlining a phrase twice for emphasis. “You can’t just use jargon if you’re not going to explain it. It’s bad practice.”

“Got it.” Fiddling with his spare hand, running your fingers down his and over his palm, you ask, “Are academics supposed to have calluses?”

“They bother you or something?”

“No, not at all. I’m just curious.”

He hums. “I do odd jobs here and there, some more manual than others so yeah I built up some calluses.” Without missing a beat, he pivots the topic. “Tell me again what the difference is between compliment and complement.”

You bring that hand up to your breast, imploring him to grope your tits as you reply, “With an I is to praise someone or something, and with an e is to say something matches well with another.”

A moan escapes your lips when he squeezes in approval. Toji mutters, “Good girl. Guess you do listen to me.” Thumb brushing your hardened nipple through the thin material of your top, you squirm in his lap. His lips move against the top of your head. “No bra?”

“I figured you were going to take it off me anyway so I didn’t bother,” you say, still pressing his hand to your tit, riding the motions of every grope and flick of your nipple. 

Another hum. 

Slowly, you guide that hand down lower. He must know what you’re doing, where you want it to end up, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t reprimand or put up any resistance; he’s curious to see how far you’re willing to go. And you’re curious to see how much restraint he has, how long he can hold out before his façade of nonchalance breaks and he’s fucking up inside you.

You tease yourself, and him, first — his fingers, with your guidance, tease your bare thighs, following the hem of your tight skirt. Growing breathless, you ask, “What kind of odd jobs do you do?”

Toji’s calluses tickle the sensitive skin in your inner thighs just right. He’s still marking your paper, occasionally fact-checking your ideas and his theories in a textbook on the table. Amused, he retorts, “You curious about me, doll?”

“Hmm, I want to know exactly whose cock will be stretching me out in a minute.”

He snorts, patting your clothed pussy. You jolt with every impact. “I tutor on the side. Fix up some cars in the garage in town. I’m a physical trainer for three clients at the local gym too. And when I’m low on money, I sell risqué pictures of myself. That disgust you?”

All while he answers, Toji’s blunt nails scrape your slit through your panties. He’s not applying much pressure at all, if any, and yet every skim, every travel up and down has goosebumps rising on your skin.

“N-no,” you answer quickly. “I think that’s really cool. If I had a body like yours, I’d take pictures all the time too.”

His laughter rumbles in his chest. An odd sense of pride warms your own. He says, “Your body’s more than good enough to sell too, you know. Don’t act like you don’t know guys give you double takes all the time, or that your ass could stop traffic.”

Giggling, you lean back, gazing up at him with a smile. “Do you stare at my ass sometimes, Toji?”

God, you’re soaked. You can tell, though you’re not embarrassed whatsoever. If anything, you’re just itching for him to pull your panties to the side and touch you skin to skin, to plunge inside your pussy and make a mess out of you.

“Tell me where you can, and should, insert a semi-colon in paragraph six, and I’ll give you an honest answer.” 

He nudges you with his chin. “Go on. Quit thinking with your pussy and give me the right answer.” A little aggrieved, you sit up straight, holding his wrist to keep his hand between your legs. Your eyes scan the section. Tentatively, you point to a full stop on the second line. Toji shakes his head and smacks your clothed pussy again. “Try again, and don’t guess.”

“Here,” you snarl, feeling way past pent up. “Now give me my reward.”

Toji huffs. “Semi-colons help for varying sentence structures. It’s in the little ways you can convey your points compellingly. Don’t underutilise the right punctuations.”

“Yeah, yeah, smarty pants. Rub my clit and answer my question already.”

Cool air brushes against your swollen, glistening lips. You sigh when his warm hand covers the entire slit barely a second later. His middle fingers are instantly coated in your wetness. He groans. “Fuck, doll, you’re dripping.” Toji doesn’t give you a moment to respond to that; his fingers rub at your throbbing clit in tight circles, drawing it out of his hood. You moan, back arching. 

Finally, he answers, “I stare at your ass all the fucking time after I glare at the losers whose eyes wander from their laptop screens . I’m a big, fucking hypocrite — that what you wanna hear?”

“Fuck yes!”

Rustling of paper reaches your ears. Then two hands are on you: one furiously rubbing the bundle of nerves and the other gripping your throat. He squeezes threateningly. Your vision spots, jaw dropping. “Look at you, all desperate to have my cock inside you. And for what? For a couple marks? You’re not ashamed?”

Your ass is grinding back on his boner, sandwiching the hard thing between your cheeks as your own answer. How could you be ashamed when he wants you so bad too?

“I’m horny! Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

In a split second, you find your world spinning. Your back falls on something hard. You’re staring up at the ceiling, papers scattered beneath you. Rough hands tug you down by your thighs. When you peer down, Toji’s staring up at you from between your lips.

“Yeah, I’m fucking you. You already knew I was gonna. You gonna let me taste your pussy first?” A challenging brow quirks up, like he’s waiting for you to push him away. 

Instead, your legs hook over his shoulders, ankles crossed. You grin at him.

Panties pulled to the side, his fingers spread your pussy for him. Those eyes scan every inch. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks flushed and Adam’s apple bobbing. “Even your pussy’s pretty. Fucking gorgeous.” Running a hand through his hair, he says, “You’re always such a pain, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help that every part of me’s pretty,” you reply, twirling your hair.

“Shut up and play with your tits — I like a show with my dinner.” Toji spits a fat dollop right on your clit. It slides down your slit but before it can disappear in the crevice of your ass, his tongue is collecting it and shoving it inside your cunt. 

You gasp. “Fuck, Toji!”

In spite of his aggressive tone, you pull down your top, letting your tits bounce out. Those eyes follow every jiggle. “Good girl,” he rasps. “Squeeze them for me nice and hard. Good. Real fucking good.”

His glasses are foggy now with your own humidity, rattling with every movement. He’s eating your pussy out like he’s starved, like he’s never tasted anything better, like he’s going to make sure not a single trace of you can be found in his apartment after he’s done with you. 

Growling, he spread your thighs wider. “Course you’ve got a sweet pussy,” he says, brows furrowing in what appears to be anger. “Course it’s sweeter than that fucking cheesecake. Course I’ll be craving you till I die.”

Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging for purchase. “Ngh, Toji, my clit…suck my clit!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Those scarred lips, the very ones you’ve stared at more times than you can count, wrap around your clit, sucking hard the way you did when you were blowing him under the desk. Electricity sparks inside, sending tremors up from your lower belly to your tits to the very tips of your fingers. “Oh fuck, that’s so good.”

Filthy squelches are being wrung out of you, and you know he’s doing it on purpose, addicted to how responsive your body is to him.

Two fingers worm their way through your pulsing hole, basking in the rough textures of your entrance, stretching your gummy walls on their way to curling against that spot that has you oozing more cum out. 

“You’re fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re gonna struggle taking all of me later.” Then he barks a laugh, spare hand pressing down on your belly where the pressure builds up. Your toes curl. “A better man would take pity on you, go slow or wait another day, but I’ve already had my tongue inside your cunt so I’ll spare you the gentleman act.”

More fingers shove in, ignoring the screech that you let out. You’ve never had more than two and yet all four of his thicker, longer fingers are inside pushing your walls to their very limits. 

Despite that, he remarks, entertained by the shock on your face which he studies through his glasses, “Suck it up, buttercup — my cock’s thicker than this, you know that.”

You do. 

It’s all you’ve been thinking about all day. Hours after, your jaw’s still stretched out, sore and creaking after the workout you put it through. The thought of having something even thicker, longer than his four fingers has you growing dizzy, head handing over the coffee table.

“Yeah, my cock can’t wait to feel you too,” Toji says, not to you but to your pussy which is squelching lewdly and loudly. “Had to resist jerking my dick raw all day so you better make it good for me.”

Is it seconds later, or minutes, maybe hours, when you cum?

How ever long it is no one can deny it’s the strongest orgasm of your life. 

Your entire body trembles, spasming beyond control. Are you screaming or silently moaning? Are your eyes shut or have you gone blind? And is he still pistoning his fingers inside you, damn near pushing all of his hand in? 

“Stop,” you cry out. “No more, please!”

Mercifully, he yanks his hand out. Unfortunately, it leaves you feeling so empty you immediately crave the feeling of his hand gripping you from inside. 

Lips and chin glistening, he kisses both inner thighs, which tremble. 

Toji gathers you with one arm, showing off his strength as he carries you off the table and to the glass door which leads out to the balcony. It’s dark out and all you can see are the lights of people’s rooms in the apartment across. There are families lounging, dogs sleeping, TV’s blaring. 

Behind you, you hear the rustling of his shirt as he throws it off carelessly. Bare skin grazes your own soon after his hands make quick work of the clothes you’re still wearing. In a flash, you’re naked. He bends down to pick up your fallen panties, inhaling the gusset deeply. Your legs cross tightly at the deeply satisfied groan he lets out. 

“Next office hour,” he starts, lazily spreading your pussy lips and smearing your juices around so he can listen to the squelches and keep your squirming, “you better leave your panties with me. Consider it payment.”

You laugh. “Sure.”

Groggily, you try to keep your head up, wondering what you’re doing by the window, still a little out of it. A hand clutches your jaw, aiding you. 

“I’m gonna fuck you against this window,” he announces, leaving no room for arguments. “You want those extra marks? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take my cock like a champ.”

Ass gyrating back against the hot, heavy thing still confined in sweatpants, you wonder, “Do you have an exhibitionism kink?”

He lets go of you. You have to catch yourself by pressing your palms to the cold glass. Toji drags your hips back, foot kicking your legs apart. His cock plops onto your ass, scalding. “No, I have a ‘get my time’s worth from shameless women who waste my time with demands for better grades by humiliating them’ kink.”

“Sounds long. We should get that shortened,” you drawl.

His cockhead slides through your pussy, coating itself in your wetness. The fat thing bumps against your clit. You shudder. 

Satisfied with your natural lubrication, he prods your entrance. “Yeah, we should. Let’s call it, Shut The Fuck Up And Take It.”

Then he enters you in one go.

You scream.

The window fogs up with your breath. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You’re taking so much of his length so quickly that it should be painful. Despite that, there’s not an ounce of pain, not one you didn’t like at least — only the overwhelming pleasure of being filled up is resonating. 

Toji grunts. “Almost had to fist this cunt and you’re -hah fuck- still too tight.”

Pummelling his cock in, his hips don’t pause for a second. You gasp for breath, palms slipping and sliding on the condensation that’s built up on the glass. It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, so impossibly deep, so hot, so intimidating. 

“God, it should be a crime to have a body like this,” he says, hands groping every part of your flesh he can reach. He slaps your ass to watch it jiggle for him. He’s an ass man, that much is clear.

The force of his thrusting has you pushed closer to the glass, so close now that almost your entire front is flush with the surface. The coldness grazes your nipples. You moan. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

He tugs you back to him, body sliding down the glass till your ass is jutted out. Toji carries your hips up so you can reach him, but it means your toes are only brushing the floor. You cling to the glass door as much as you can. Through the glossy haze, you see the marks you left on the glass, from the oils and sweat on your skin. You see the outline of your tits, all round and fat, the handprints you left and the smearing of them all over the place because you couldn’t grapple with one position to have them in. 

Are people watching? Are you flashing a poor old man, are you reigniting a sexual appetite in a pitiful divorcee, making a housewife jealous, creating fantasies for some guy your age? Are people rubbing one out to the flashes of ecstasy on your face, to the swaying of your tits, to the rippling of your ass?

Toji’s fingers creep under you, furiously teasing your clit. You whine. “I think I’m gonna cum again.”

“Go on, gorgeous,” he rasps. “Lemme feel you cum around my cock. Make my dreams come true.”

Two fingers gather the cream that’s formed a ring at his base. He draws three letters on the glass for you to stare at. It spells out c u m.

God, he’s dirty.

Another orgasm ripples through you. Your thighs shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Toji!”

He growls out, hands tightening their grip on your hips, threatening to bruise, “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum early.”

Without waiting for you to come down from your high, he flips you around. Your back thuds against the door. His cock reenters you in a clean, easy slide, cunt beyond soaked and stretched out. Your arms and legs wrap around him. 

Those glasses of him have fogged up so thickly now that they fail to serve their purpose. Toji takes it off with one hand, sliding it onto your head, like a headband keeping your face clear of your hair. “Don’t let them fall,” he orders. “They break and you won’t be getting that internship.”

And his lips?

They smack against yours.

He kisses you, all tongue and teeth and drool dripping down chins, like he’s been waiting weeks, months, perhaps years to do that. And you kiss him back just the same. 

Inside you, his cock throbs. Toji’s hips swing back and forth, pelvis grinding on yours, rubbing your clit and wringing our more obscene squeeeelches. 

“Oh god, I’m so full, Toji. You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re -hngh- t-taking me so well,” he praises, littering sloppy kisses all over your face and neck all while he pinches and rolls your nipples. “Moaning so adorably, all pretty and finally keeping this mouth quiet of smartass comments. You should be like this all the time.”

The rocking of his cock inside you is even better like this. The closeness, the warmth, the taste of him — you wonder why you waited so long to do this. 

Tits squashed to his chest, your nipples scrape his skin, slipping and sliding with the sweat beading down your bodies. The hard planes of his chest feel magnificent. Nothing about his muscles are for vanity only, and the knowledge of the strength he’s holding back has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“You’d miss my smartass comments,” you tell him, head thrown back and hips working their way down on his cock of their own volition.

Toji groans against your neck, licking droplets of sweat. “Yeah, maybe. I definitely wouldn’t miss your spelling errors though.”

Smiling, you tug his head up by his hair, and bite his bottom lip. You pull and let go so it’ll snap back into place like he’d done with your lip when you were under his desk. “Maybe if you taught me like this, I wouldn’t -hah- make so m-many mistakes— deeper, Toji! Fuck me deeper.”

His hips plough deeper inside, like you wanted, hitting that spot inside you till you’re sure it’ll be bruised in the morning. Moans after moans are fucked out of you; his neighbours will give him an earful tomorrow, you’re certain. 

“Book more office hours just to see me and not because you want something from me, then we can see if I can fuck your stupidity out of you,” he retorts. 

You peck his lips. “Aw, does poor, needy Toji want me to give him more attention? Does he miss me when I’m not there? What a cute little baby.”

“Yeah, he does, actually,” he says, smirking. “That a problem?”

“It will be if you don’t make me cum.”

Toji reminds you, “You’ve been cumming around my cock this entire time; you still want more? Greedy girl.”

He pulls away from the window, stalking over to the sofa instead. Each step burrows him deeper inside you, kissing your cervix and pushing out gasps from your lips, all of which he swallows. 

Carelessly, he throws you on the sofa. You bounce with an oomph!

Ankles held by one hand, he keeps your legs upright, hips lifted up to meet his. Toji presses a kiss to your ankle bone before he pushes his cock back inside. Your back arches with a mewl. Like this, his huge body becomes even more glaring — he’s casting a shadow over you, completely dwarfing you, reminding you how easily he could break you, how he could take whatever he wants from you. 

Every time he buries himself to the hilt, a bulge pops through your tummy, right under your belly button. 

“Look at that,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over it. You whine. “Feel me deep inside you? You’ll be feeling me inside for days, won’t you? Once it starts to fade, you can always come back for another fill, you know.”

“Promise?” you ask, grinning ear to ear. 

Toji pulls out, leaving just his tip before he slams back in, jostling you down on the sofa. His abs contract, cock throbbing at the sudden clenching of your walls around him. “Fuck, yes, doll. Promise. I fucking promise.”

His glasses have slid off, rattling somewhere on the sofa with the impact of every thrust. He doesn’t seem to care about them anymore. You’re nearing another orgasm, head whipping around at the intensity of the pressure building in your core. He’s bullying his cock relentlessly in your cunt, chasing after his own high and sending you to yours. 

When your eyes clash with his piercing, green ones, unobstructed by his glasses, you explode with a scream. 

“F-fuck,” he grunts, following soon after. 

Searing cum spurts inside you, cock pulsing, cum painting your walls. His thumb rubs your clit, aiding you through your orgasm. Your moans are vibrating against the walls, definitely disturbing his neighbours, but so are his groans. 

He slumps over, rolling the two of you on the sofa so you’re resting naked on his heated body, his heavy arm preventing you from falling off. Your pussy’s sore, a mix of your cum and his dribbling out and creating a sticky mess on your inner thighs. 

Absentmindedly, as you both catch your breath, he rubs your back. You draw shapes and letters on his chest. Toji combs his hair off of his forehead, chest rising up and down with his breathing. The dirty marks you two left are still on the glass, though it’s no longer foggy. 

Reaching up above him, he gracefully finds his glasses, sliding them on his face. You like him with and without them. 

“So,” you begin, “about those extra marks.”

Toji lifts his glasses up to rub a hand down his face. “Jesus, yes, you’ll get the marks.”

“Thanks!” you chirp. 

“God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

.

.

.

“Fuck, Toji,” you moan. “I already came three times. It’s too -hic- too much.”

Your TA ruts his cock inside you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are on your nose bridge, blurring your vision; he gets so frustrated when the thing gets in the way of kissing you or eating you out.

“Shut up,” he rasps, hand pressing down on your lower belly so you can feel him even more. “You’re the one who dragged me here. Take every orgasm I give you and be grateful.”

That’s true — you were supposed to have an office hour with him, which is really an excuse to see your boyfriend before you have to attend the internship induction session, but then you took one look at him and his amazing body and started soaking through your panties so here you two are.

Oh yes, you did say boyfriend.

After he blew your mind out, you’d been visiting his apartment after classes so often, you were practically living there, and he didn’t mind. It started out casual, but after realising you two would go grocery shopping, watch movies together, and text each other practically every day, you decided to just seal the deal and make it official. 

In short, he fucks good, and he can tolerate your personality, so you two stuck together. 

A month in, neither of you are really regretting it. At least, if his desperate thrusting and sloppy kisses to your neck’s anything to go by. 

“Missed you so much, Toji,” you whine, hips fucking back into him.

Toji groans, hand groping your tit from under your shit. “Yeah, baby?”

“Mmm.”

“Missed you too,” he confesses, licking a stripe up your neck and scraping his teeth down. Goosebumps rise on your arms. “Been wanting to see you all morning.”

You giggle, holding onto the stall for purchase and so his thrusting won’t make you smack face first onto the door. “You’re so cute w-when you’re needy.”

“Fuck off,” he says with no real heat to his words. 

In the near distance, the door to the men’s toilets opens with a dull metallic creak, the sound echoing faintly off the tiled walls. Feet pad in—slow, unhurried. The steady rhythm of someone who expects the place to be empty.

“Fushiguro?” a voice calls out. “You in here?”

The two of you go very, very still. Toji’s entire body stiffens behind you, muscles locking. His hand clamps firmly over your mouth for extra measure, warm palm pressing tight enough that you can feel the tension in his fingers.

Your heart slams against your ribs, loud enough that you’re half convinced it might echo under the stall. What the hell is the professor doing here?

“Susan told me she saw you walk in this direction. You got a minute?”

Toji releases a tense breath through his nose, annoyed at the interruption but left with no choice but to answer. He lifts you up so your feet hang over the floor and won’t be seen by the outsider. “Yeah, prof. But I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

The professor laughs. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. I do apologise for interrupting you. I was just locked out of my account and can’t send emails for the next hour. You know how terrible I am with technology.” He enters the stall next door. He unzips his pants. You cringe. “I only wanted to ask if you’re prepared to host the internship induction later.”

You go still, this time for a different reason. 

Your boyfriend releases your mouth. Fingers creep over to between your legs, where you’re still connected to him, where he’s still throbbing inside you. He slowly rubs your clit, keeping you from squirming in complaint with his strong arms. Toji responds, “Yeah, got all my notes ready.”

The bastard’s trying to distract you…

“Ah good, good,” the older man joyfully responds. His stream hits the water, and you fight the urge to face palm. “I had a look over the plans and the schedule. Very well organised, I must say. The competition was fierce, which is a testament to the success of the event, so props to you.”

Do men hold conversation so casually in the toilets?

Toji carefully begins moving in slow and shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over with his fat cockhead. You bite your lips to keep from moaning. Your nails dig into his thick arm. He ignores you. 

“Don’t mention it, Professor.”

The man zips himself back up and flushes, exiting the stall. Outside, the tap runs, and you’re both still as quiet as rocks, afraid that any sudden movement will out you both as sexual deviants. 

He adds, “Oh, and thank you for handling the applications for me; you know I hate all that paperwork nonsense.” 

Your jaw drops. 

Beyond tense, Toji replies like he’s aware of the weight every word exchange carries, “I do what I can do to help out.” 

“I couldn’t do what I do without you,” the professor continues, sincere and ignorant to the fact that you’re there. The rustling of paper towels echoes. “Well, I’ll see you later. Apologies again for interrupting.” 

The exit door swings open and you relax, but then his voice fills the space again. 

“Do say hello to your pretty, little girlfriend for me.” 

Your heart? 

Drops to the fucking floor.

Toji’s grip on you tightens just slightly, barely noticeable unless you’re pressed this close to him.

Your mind races. Did he see you come in? Did someone tell him? Did Susan, whoever the hell she is—

Toji speaks before you can spiral further, his tone sharper now, suspicion threading through it. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“Oh, you know, the girl you’ve been eyeing for a while now — she’s on the internship, yes?” Then he laughs the kind of laughter old men do, all paternal and wise. “Don’t worry, son, I’m not accusing you of pulling strings; I know she’s a very intelligent young woman. Ambitious too. Almost as ambitious as you. I hope you two work something out.”

Your heart slows its beating but you’re not any less tense. 

Sighing, Toji responds, “I’ll let you know if we do.”

“Yes, yes,” the professor says before he leaves for good. 

Finally, it’s just you two in the men’s toilets again. The silence and emptiness is maddeningly relieving. Although, you’re seething, practically vibrating with accusations and anger.  

Toji lets you down. Your feet touch the ground again. You pull him out, whirling on him with a disbelieving glare. You snatch his glasses off your face with one hand and smack his chest with the other. The man doesn’t budge.

“You sneaky piece of shit!”

He gathers both of your wrists with one hand, rolling his eyes. Toji takes his glasses from you and slides it on his face. Seeing you clearer now, he guides his cock back to your pussy, re-entering with ease. You moan, allowing him to hike your leg over his hip so he can press in deeper.

Kissing your lips, he mutters against your lips, “I did what I had to to get your attention. Sue me.”

“God, you’re the worst,” you breathe out, chest jutting out to his, nipples aching and clit throbbing. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m the big, bad wolf, and you’re creaming all over my dick right now. Let’s not act like you got the short end of the stick here.”

“Master manipulator,” you hiss, kissing him back, fingers tangling in his hair as soon he lets go of your wrists to grope your tit and ass.

“Whore,” he fires back.

Then the two of you smile, clutching each other tightly as you both rock into each other, nearing your mutual orgasm and riding the pleasure growing in your bodies. Fuck, he feels so good.

“We’re gonna be together forever and ever, aren’t we?” you ask.

Toji’s scar brushes your forehead with his kiss. 

“That’s the plan.”

you send a message back, saying you'll be there around noon.

another thumbs up emoji.

you're starting to worry again that these guys, or at least this one, might be weird. nevertheless, you can't waste any more time thinking about it, not when you need to start packing.

time really flies when you're exhausted and working non-stop.

you've barely slept and your whole body aches from packing, moving, and loading boxes into your car for almost twelve hours. but finally, you arrive outside the small, a little rundown, house that might be your new home. you're raising a fist to knock on the worn, wooden door when it swings open leaving you staring straight into two broad chests. your gaze trails up… and up… until it finally meets two sets of eyes belonging to two unrealistically attractive men.

suddenly, you're much more aware of the fact that you're wearing your adam sandler clothes and your eye bags are heavier than they've ever been, and much less aware of the fact that you just got dumped.

"uh, hi," you break the awkward silence, since they're both just standing there staring down at you with unreadable expressions. "i messaged someone named toji... you said you were looking for a third?"

the two men share a look, clearly finding the double entendre that slipped out to be humorous before the dark haired one speaks up, "not sure about a third, but a roommate, yeah."

the tattooed one snickers and you roll your eyes. they look like men but they're clearly children.

toji opens the door wider, but neither him nor the other man make any efforts to move, which makes your eye twitch when you have to duck under toji's arm to get into the house, brushing up against his side. once you enter the house though, you take one look and audibly groan. it's definitely not the worst you've seen, but you're used to having a clean house, one that's cutely decorated and smells nice. and this… was a far cry from that.

there's an old leather couch facing a tv that's definitely mounted crooked on the wall, and between them a wooden coffee table that's littered with so many water stains you might cry. and, a pair of dirty socks? yep. there's two dirty socks just strewn across the floor in the middle of the room, bunched up like someone slipped them off with their feet while walking to the couch.

your nose crinkles as you take in the sight, already scared to see the rest of the house. oh god, the bathroom. you're already picturing a stained porcelain tub, a toilet seat that's always left up, hair clippings stuck to the sides of the sink.

"is it a one bath?" the question flies out.

the man you now know is sukuna barks out a laugh. "such a princess, scared of a little mess?"

"this is more than a little," you clip back as you shoot him a glare.

he brushes off the look with a shrug. "well no one's forcin' you to live here if it bothers you that much."

"alright, you two. let's not get our panties in a twist," toji speaks up. he turns to you, "there's two bathrooms, yeah. you can have your own."

sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation. "what the hell? why do we have to share?"

pinching the bridge of his nose, toji's approaching his limit. "because she's a woman, she's not going to share a bathroom with one of us, sukuna."

your glare morphs into a smug grin, "exactly."

it doesn't even occur to you that you're talking like you've already agreed to live there, but at this point, it is pretty much a done deal. you can get over the issues with the rest of the house, so long as you can have your own space that stays clean.

that night, you've already started unpacking. you explained your situation to them and they were surprisingly sympathetic, helping you move in, carrying the heavy stuff for you. it was nice of them, and it was nice to watch them. biceps flexing, forearm veins protruding each time they picked up a box, the slight sheen of sweat on their foreheads, the way they'd grunt when they set the box back down.

yeah, you made the right decision.

the following weeks fly by. you'd quickly adjusted to your new living situation, falling into an easy rhythm with the two men. you and sukuna still bicker like an old married couple, and toji still tries to mediate, but it's lighthearted, most of the time. when you come home from work, you find them in the living room, feet propped up on the coffee table, heads craned stupidly at a diagonal, watching tv. you made fun of them for it at first, but when they invite you to hang out, you end up on the same couch with a beer, sandwiched between them, head tilted at the screen.

most nights it's cute, innocent. but there are still times when you can't pry your thoughts away from a darker place. nights where you become all too aware of the fact that you haven't been touched in months and you're shoulder to shoulder with two men whose bodies look as if cut from marble. it also didn't help that they're always dressed in loose sweatpants, the kind that slouch dangerously low off their hips, or five-inch inseam gym shorts that are just a little too tight, and no shirts. never shirts in the house.

it pisses you off sometimes because you know that they know that they're hot. you can't help but stare when they walk in the room, and when they catch you there's always a knowing grin spread across their faces, making your cheeks burn as you quickly avert your eyes.

you're sure they don't care, if anything, they probably relish in your gaze, it feeding their already overinflated egos. but that's what worries you. the knowledge that they like having your eyes on them, and the thought of them having theirs on you too, because you're not sure you trust yourself around them anymore.

and you were right not to trust yourself because the next time you see toji come out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, skin glistening and face flushed from the heat, only a towel wrapped around his waist, v-line and happy trail on display… there isn't even a second thought before you decide, you need him. and then sukuna comes out, in all his tattoos and glory, rubbing a towel on his hair. your eyes watch the way his muscles flex, before following the residual rivulets of water lower, and you wonder if he has any more tattoos or piercings.

fuck it, you need them.

so you do what any sane person would do if they lived with two hot men who they're hoping will pound them into oblivion ask them out. your clothes get skimpier, pajama pants and t-shirts turn into tank tops and shorts, bras become non-existent. you call them for everything.

"tojiii! i can't get this jar open." you pout, holding it out for him, arms pushing your tits together. he rolls his eyes but you see the way he stares at them first— he's not subtle. shamelessly looking at your chest, lips twitching into a smirk.

"sukunaaaa! can you get the pan from the top shelf?" you're on your tip-toes when he gets to the kitchen, poking your ass out as you lean over the counter, reaching up fruitlessly, midriff showing. the way his eyes scan your body, the way his tongue darts out to lick his lips, it's everything you'd hoped for.

you get more touchy. a hand on their arm when you thank them for helping you, sitting closer to them on the couch during your movie nights, light brushes up against them when you need to get around them even if there's more than enough room.

you know your little plan is working, not that you had any doubts, when they're pulling the same stunts. calling you whenever they 'forget' a towel after showering, a heavy hand on your lower back when they walk by. it's just enough to send a message, for a cloud of tension to settle between the three of you, and to leave your stomach tingling and your panties wet when you retreat to your room at the end of the night.

and when you're finally gone one night, the two men just look at one another.

toji breaks the silence first. "what're we gonna do about her?"

sukuna scoffs, "thought that much was obvious."

"yeah?" there's a grin on toji's face now.

"well yeah, i mean, you see the shit she's doin'. fuckin' playin' coy or whatever," his voice turns pitchy when he imitates you, "toji! sukuna! i need help!" toji snickers, letting sukuna continue as his voice drops down to it's usual octave. "like, come on, we both know what she really needs."

"i know man, but we gotta take it easy on her," toji reasons. he wants you as bad as sukuna does, if not more, but he doesn't want to scare you off.

"i know that, i'm just sayin'." sukuna grumbles.

the two sit there in silence again, contemplative looks on their faces as the tv plays softly in the background. when toji looks at sukuna again, it's with a sharp scrutiny. eyes raking over the other man, taking in all the information they can, and oh, is it intriguing. sukuna's brows are pinched, lower lip tugged between his teeth in a conflicted way. but also, there's the tips of his ears that are a shade matching that of his hair, and his oversized arms are wrapped tightly around a throw pillow on his lap.

"you're thinkin' about her right now," toji states as a matter-of-fact as he leans back to take in a better view of sukuna.

"huh?"

"well, you're hard, aren't you?" he asks, eyes flicking to the pillow and back up to sukuna's now scandalized face.

"shut up, man."

toji lets out a sharp laugh. "hey, i get it. she's hot."

sukuna feels his cock twitch and he's not sure if it's because of the thought of you or the sound of his older roommate's voice, and that scares the shit out of him. mortification etches itself deeper into his expression and the grip on his pillow tightens, holding it closer— a good idea in theory, except now the plush fabric is pressing against his crotch in a dangerous way.

"just take care of yourself, it's not a big deal."

sukuna chews his lip harder, contemplating the words, the fact that he'll have to stand up with a boner, crossing in front of toji to get to his room. but ultimately, the humiliation of that feels like it would be less painful than the throbbing in his cock right now.

"yeah, whatever." he mumbles, tossing the pillow at toji and moving to get up.

"stay." toji's voice sounds out, deep, laced with a tone of command that sukuna hardly expected from him.

sukuna freezes, turning to look at him. "you just said—"

"didn't say you could leave," toji cuts him off, "sit."

"i'm not a fuckin' dog," he snaps as he returns to his spot on the couch.

"you listen like a bitch though," toji laughs again.

sukuna's cheeks are burning so bright it's drawing a sweat to his forehead, and really, he's not sure how there's enough blood to flush his face when it feels like all of it's pooling between his legs.

he'd be lying if he said that there was never tension, that the occasional thought of the two of them didn't rush through his mind whenever they had to share the bathroom, the shower, but this was different. they never talked about it. ever. and yet, here they are, talking about it. the tent in sukuna's pants is becoming impossible to ignore, and as toji looks at him, his shorts start to feel tighter too.

"go on," the older man goads, "or are you waitin' for me to come over there?"

sukuna throbs at the thought, but he's already out of his element and not ready to admit any more discoveries about himself yet, so instead, he clicks his tongue, head turning away as a hand gingerly reaches for the waistband of his sweats.

snaking it beneath the fabric, he reaches lower until a sigh of relief falls from his lips when he finally wraps his hand around his aching cock. "fuck."

toji's palming at his bulge, half-hard already just from a little teasing, a little watching. but he just hadn't thought sukuna would be so obedient. big and loud as he was, toji expected him to be more difficult to wear down, yet here he was, sitting in front of him, stroking his cock because he was told to.

sukuna stares straight ahead, jaw locked, body tense as toji's gaze burns into him. he doesn't want to look at him. not now. if he doesn't look at him then it's like he's not even there. yeah. it's just him alone on the couch, thinking about his roommate. thinking about your supple skin, the warmth of your body when you lay against him, the curve of your ass, your hips when you bend over… short shorts, too tight tops, black hair, bulging muscles, green eyes.

"sh-shit," sukuna grunts.

another wave of embarrassment washes over him as he closes his eyes, head falling back against the wall. he's seething, teeth grinding together. it feels too good. he swipes his thumb across his slit, gathering more precum before pressing against his frenulum. it shouldn't feel this good. he squeezes, pumping himself slow and tight. he chances a look, opening his eyes just barely, glancing to the side.

his eyes find toji's locked on him like they never left, like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at, worth thinking about right now. his shorts have been pulled down beneath his hips, just enough to free his own length which he's stroking languidly.

even with his hand wrapped around it, sukuna can see enough. the angry, flushed head, the girth that was hidden away beneath toji's clothes. and fuck, if that's not a sight to behold. he'd never dared look at it before, even in a casual way. maybe because he knew this would his reaction— his cock throbbing in his hand, his muscles tensing in that uncomfortable way where he just can't get them to relax no matter how hard he tries, how deep he breathes, not until he's able to get his release.

"you wanna make a bet?"

sukuna's head pops up at the question, his curiosity is piqued. "huh?"

"whoever cums last gets to fuck her first."

sukuna laughs, low and strained, his fist slowing but never stopping as he briefly considers the proposition. when he answers, neither man is surprised. everyone knows that sukuna is never one to back away from a challenge, especially not one that's so enticing.

"say less."

"atta boy." toji's voice is gruff, deeper than before and laced with a new level of arousal and sukuna can't stop his cock from jumping at the sound. he doesn't dwell on it anymore though, he can't be bothered, not when he needs to focus on the task in hand. the stakes are too high.

the air in the room is charged, tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, a heavy humidity forming from the sheer intensity of their body heat, their breath, their sweat. quiet grunts and soft pants falling from both mouths, it feels like they're maddeningly loud, the only thing that sukuna can hear besides the sound of his own pulse ringing through his ears.

he can feel his composure slipping. no matter how hard he tries to fend off his orgasm, no matter how slow he drags his fist, no matter how hard he tenses his muscles or clenches his jaw. there's a tidal wave forming and it's threatening to take him out.

and the worst part?

whenever he thinks to himself, tries to remind himself that there's a bet on the line, that he needs to hold out, it only gets worse. and it's your fucking fault. or maybe it's toji's fault. all he can picture when he tries to scold himself is your face. his reward. your writhing body pinned beneath him. toji's shit-eating grin when he'd agreed to his stupid wager. the throbbing at the apex of his muscled thighs. what your moans would sound like. toji's calloused hands on his shaft. your soft lips around his tip. it was too much. too overwhelming. his mind was swirling and he couldn't get it to stop. did he even want it to stop?

fuck, it all felt so good.

did he even care if he lost?

no. yes.

"you 'bout to cum, pretty boy?"

toji's words snap sukuna from his spiraling thoughts. through lidded eyes and a furrowed brow he glances at the man and it's infuriating. he's the absolute picture of composure. a smug grin plastered on his face as he strokes himself steadily, expression unbothered, like this is any other moment, any other day.

"w-what the fuck," sukuna rasps out.

"hm?"

"how?" he can't manage to get much more out, his own impending release clouding his thoughts, clogging the words in his throat.

toji just laughs, he knows what sukuna's trying to ask. "i've got a few years on ya. 'm not gonna cum before a 20-something virgin."

"'m not— mmfuck— a v-virgin." the way he's stuttering has sukuna's ears burning. it's pathetic, really. he's never been like this, felt like this, but he can't help it. nor does he care anymore. he's so close.

"ya sure sound like one," toji chuckles.

"fuck you," sukuna grits out. he tightens his grip, pumping his dick harder and faster. sukuna knows that he's already lost and he's tired of waiting.

"yeah, you want that?"

toji starts to accelerate his own pace, allowing himself more relief now that he know's sukuna's teetering so close to the edge. their hands twist, glide, up, down, up, down, moving like they're in sync. sukuna's chest is heaving, a series of minuscule grunts tumbling out of him and toji can tell he just needs that last push.

"y'wanna know what it feels like? takin' my cock up your a—"

"fuck!" sukuna shouts, cutting him off. his whole body shudders, white spurts of cum coating his fist.

toji's own release takes him by surprise. but watching sukuna had more of an effect on him than he could've expected, his orgasm ripped from him like it belonged to the other man. his release spills onto his hand, onto his stomach, the waistband of his shorts.

both men reeling, heavy breathing is the only sound left in the room. whatever they'd been watching when you left was gone, the tv now asking them, "Are You Still Watching?"

sukuna's the first to move, stuffing himself back into his sweats. he expected it to be awkward. that their interactions now would be littered with uneasy chuckles and too-polite courtesies. surprisingly, though, and much to his relief, it was like nothing had changed. like the two of them didn't just jack off next to one another— no— with one another.

toji tucks himself away before standing, knees popping as he stretches with a loud groan. "i gotta shower."

"mhm." sukuna eyes him, licking his lips at the way his muscles ripple, the dried white spot on his abs.

"coming, pretty boy?"

the next movie night you join your roommates on the couch, sitting in your designated spot— the middle cushion. toji slings an arm around the back, resting it behind your head, and when sukuna comes and sits down it's too close. you're smushed between him, a thick tattooed thigh pressing against yours as sukuna man-spreads, forcing you further into toji, until you're practically cradled under his arm.

"what're we watching tonight?" sukuna asks, cracking open his beer.

"how 'bout that new movie — the action one," toji suggests, even though the both of them know you don't like action movies.

"i don't—" the rest of your sentence falls apart on your tongue when you feel a brush of toji's fingertips against the back of your neck. but when your head snaps to the side he's just looking at sukuna, expression blank, like he's bored.

"i'd be cool with that," sukuna replies casually, a false representation of the way he's feeling right now.

"guys, you know i don't like—" a heavy hand comes down on your thigh, patting the top of it.

"get the remote, will ya, princess?"

what the fuck is going on?

"okay…" you slide forward to reach for the remote on the coffee table, but sukuna's hand hasn't left your leg and now you're much too aware of the way your actions have shifted it higher, dangerously close to your core that's starting to feel like it's on fire. and when you slide back to your seat his hand moves with you, planted in place.

toji brings his arm around to take the remote from your hand, the other returning to your nape, gripping lightly, and you swear your heart is going to jump out of your chest.

"i got it, doll."

you miss the glance that the two men share above your head, too distracted by their words and the fact that sukuna's fingers are now slightly digging into the flesh of your thigh.

he knows it's forward but he can't help himself, not when he's been wanting to know the feeling of your supple skin since the day you moved in, and not when he sees the way toji's already sneaking his hands onto you.