mrs.qin

So if you're looking at the game right now and thinking: "We lost." Not at all! While yes, Valko hasn't come back yet..

They also tanked ~$28,000,000 on top of:

Deleting promotional and other completed content after production work had already been carried out. Including officially recorded voice work. [source]

Scrapping preplanned stories, costing them more money. [source]

Messily altering old memories (content some paid for) of outfits to remove numbers so we can't use it to refer to the 6th LI. [source1] [source2] [source3]

Removing specific segments of lore connected to Xavier, called "Number 25, Light into Dust" from the World Underneath archives. [source]

Got caught moving around banners so that Caleb takes the fall over Rafayel, their golden goose fish. [source]

So while they are looking sloppy as hell while simultaneously proving our point, it's not the same thing as saying nothing happened. Meanwhile we pulled off the seemingly impossible.  We have within ONE MONTH:

Funded wolf conservations.

Reached communities across the world.

Put Valko's name on international billboards.

Driven hundreds of thousands of people to sign a petition.

Reached creators outside our own fandom.

Redirected money away from the game and toward real-world causes.

Cost them over a quarter of a million in revenue in less than a month. 

Turned one character's cancellation into a conversation about how players are treated.

So please don't lose hope just because the final result hasn't happened yet.

We went into this knowing there was always a chance Valko wouldn't return..

So where is the harm in starving the company that refused to listen when we asked for QOL updates, better lighting for our POC players, more accommodating ways to earn diamonds, better shots of MC and our mains, new additions to any of our operations from U.N.I.C.O.R.N.S to our orbits. No, they removed our last love interest because an untrue rumor.

So, if Infold chooses to take this fight to the grave… THEN LET'S GO TO THE GRAVE.

✅ Keep fighting. ✅ Keep raising awareness. ✅ Keep supporting the causes this movement has created. ✅ Keep the tidal wave heading straight toward their wallets.

DON'T LOG IN.

DON'T SPEND.

DON'T LET THEM FORGET WHY.

#BreakTheSilence starts now and we are #IsolatingInfold for sabotaging our game and the future of MC and our Mains.

You had never been particularly talented at behaving like the daughter of a sorcerer family. At fourteen, you were attending school among non-sorcerers. You wore civilian clothes beneath formal robes whenever your mother insisted you attend clan ceremonies, then discarded the silk layers the moment no one important was looking.

You removed pins from your hair before attendants had even finished placing them and avoided demonstrations of your inherited technique; disappearing from receptions before elders could begin discussing your potential. 

Of course your parents complained about your behavior. They called you willful, inattentive, and far too interested in the world beyond jujutsu society. Yet, they allowed it anyway. 

At the time, you believed that meant they accepted you as you were, but your sister knew better. She was three years older and had always possessed the sort of courage that looked like disobedience to adults. 

When attendants pinned your hair too tightly, she loosened it herself. If you wanted to leave a ceremony, she would create distractions. During formal dinners, she whispered impressions of pompous sorcerers you both hated until you had to lower your face to conceal the laughter. 

She smuggled ordinary novels into your room and helped hide your school uniform whenever clan representatives visited. One day, you told her you wanted to attend university in Tokyo and she urged you to go farther. Then the next, you informed her that you might never marry a sorcerer.

“What about you?” You once asked.

She had been seventeen then, stretched across your bed with one foot hanging carelessly over the edge, “What about me?”

“Would you marry one?”

Her mouth twisted, “Not willingly.”

“You could refuse.”

She stared at you for a long moment, until she smiled and reached over to flick your forehead lovingly, “It’s adorable that you still think they ask.”

You hadn’t fully understood what she meant that day, but when the Zen’in men arrived, you finally did. 

You were fifteen when they came to collect her. 

It began with a door striking the wall hard enough to shake dust from the frame. You heard footsteps thunder above you; several pairs descended the staircase too quickly to be noncircumstantial, followed by your sister’s voice resonating through the residence. 

“No! Stop!”

At the sound of her blood-curdling screams, you abandoned the schoolwork spread across your lap. You already knew running inside the family home was improper, but most rules became remarkably unimportant whenever adults were shouting behind closed doors. 

You reached the central corridor as your sister tore herself from your father’s grasp—her wedding robes were unfinished. The outer layer hung loose around her shoulders, one sleeve empty and dragging along the floor. Half her hair had fallen from its pins; a decorative comb lay broken near the stairs. 

She was eighteen years old. Old enough, your parents had mused. Old enough to bring honor to the family by being handed over to a twenty-five year old man she had spent months begging them to not make her marry. 

“Stop behaving like this,” Your father ordered, anger dripping from every syllable. 

“I told you I won’t go!”

“The agreement has been finalized.”

“I don’t care!”

“You will care when your conduct disgraces this entire family.”

Two men bearing the Zen’in crest stood near the entrance. One looked irritated by the delay and the other watched your sister as if determining the easiest way to remove her without damaging the sacred silk she was wearing. 

Your mother stood beside them, absurdly calm, with her hands folded before her, “Please. You are startled because you do not yet understand what marriage requires.”

“I understand,” Your sister cried, tears streaming down her face, ruining whatever makeup had been there. 

“You do not.”

“I understand that you’re giving me to him!”

Your mother’s expression tightened, “You are joining one of the great three clans.”

“I don’t want to join them.”

“You will be the wife of Zen’in Naoya,” Your mother explained like that made any of this better. 

“I don’t want to be his wife!”

There it was. That word…Wife.

Growing up, you knew that wives left their childhood home. They wore white and drank sake beside men selected by their families. Their last names changed, they birthed children, and returned on formal visits carrying gifts from whichever household had absorbed them. 

You didn’t know why any of that required screaming. 

In the midst of her lamenting, your sister caught a glimpse of you standing there and her entire face changed. She twisted away from your father and ran, you barely managed to brace yourself before she collided with you. Her arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it hurt and her breath broke hot against your ear; tears soaked quickly through your collar. 

“I don’t want to go,” She sobbed, hiccupping between words.

“Then don’t,” Though, at fifteen, you naively believed refusal carried weight if spoken clearly enough. You clutched the back of her robes, “Tell them no.”

Her fingers clawed into your clothes, “I did…I told them every day.”

And before you could acknowledge that fact, hands seized her from behind. She screamed your name while you screamed hers. Someone threw an arm around your waist and pulled; you kicked backward, striking a shin so hard that it earned a curse from one of your older brothers. 

Your nails caught in your sister’s sleeve, silk tore beneath your fingers, “Let—Let her go!”

“You are making this worse, (Y/N),” Your father snapped.

“She doesn’t want to go!”

“That is enough.”

But you wouldn’t stop fighting for her, “She said no!”

Your sister’s grip slipped from your shoulders to your arms, and for one desperate, suspended moment, you held only each other’s hands. Adults pulled from both sides, her knuckles turned white from how frantically she hung on, “Listen to me.”

You shook your head, weeping as much as she was. You didn’t want to listen. The only thing you wanted was for your mother to remember that this was her daughter, and for your father to become the sort of man who could notice terror and decide an agreement was only paper.

Your sister looked directly into your eyes, “They will do this to you too.”

The corridor seemed to narrow when she said it, but your father brought you back to the present when his grip grew taut around your waist, “Do not frighten her.”

But your sister ignored him, “You have to leave before they can.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Run.”

The blood seemed to have left your mother’s face, “Stop—”

“Promise me,” Your sister pleaded through broken sobs.

“Why?”

“Just promise me,” She said one last time before one of the Zen’in men pried her fingers from yours. Your sister screamed again in protest, “Don’t let them do this to you!” 

Her hand finally slipped free and they carried her through the entrance while she fought them. She kicked and clawed and yelled your name until the doors closed between you. You tried to follow, but your family restrained you until the car disappeared beyond the gates. Only then did they release you. 

You stood in the courtyard with a torn piece of white silk balled inside your fist. No one explained what your sister had meant by her warnings. Your mother said she had been hysterical. Your father assured you that frightened brides often spoke irrationally. Your older brothers told you to forget whatever nonsense she spewed. 

However, you didn’t forget any of it. You couldn’t. 

You understood marriage after that day—very clearly. 

A wife was someone her family gave away. She could refuse until her voice strained and still be dressed, delivered, and congratulated like nothing ever happened. Though, most notably, a wife was a daughter that everyone agreed to stop protecting. And somewhere beyond the estate walls, your sister was being taken to a man she hated while every adult you ever trusted called it honor. 

You decided that you would never become one.

You would never be a wife.

After that day, your sister returned exactly three months later with her husband. Zen’in Naoya—you recognized him from formal gatherings. Blonde hair, narrow brown eyes, and the permanent countenance of a man who had never been denied anything he wanted. He was seven years older than your sister and part of you wondered what he’d ever have in common with a girl who had turned eighteen just eight days before their wedding. 

At dinner, he answered questions meant for her and she shockingly let him. It frightened you more than it should have. She wore Zen’in colors, her hair was arranged properly, her back remained straight even though she looked tired enough to fold in on herself. 

She had always hated mushrooms too, yet that evening, she ate every one placed in her bowl. You stared openly until she noticed that you were, “What?”

“...You hate those.”

Her chopsticks paused mid-bite, and across the table, Naoya glanced toward her. Your sister swiftly lowered her eyes, “They’re fine.”

“They make you sick.”

“Not anymore.”

Naoya returned to his conversation and she continued eating. Later on, you found her alone beside the garden and both of you stood there in silence until you threw your arms around her. Her entire body went rigid and you felt it happen—she didn’t react that way out of surprise, rather out of fear.

You stepped back immediately, “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then why did you—”

“I’m tired.”

You searched her face then, now up close you could see it. Powder concealed the shadows beneath her eyes and her collar sat higher than she usually wore it despite the summer month. When you reached toward a strand of hair caught under the fabric, she flinched again.

Your hand dropped, “Did he…hurt you?”

Her expression emptied, “He is my husband.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It is the only answer that matters now.”

You remembered the way she had screamed those three months ago, “You still hate him.”

Her gaze darted toward the residence, “Keep your voice down.”

“So you do?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.”

And for a brief second, the sister you knew surfaced. Her mouth trembled as tears brimmed on her lashline, “I hate him…” 

The confession was barely louder than the insects humming throughout the garden. You reached for her again, carefully this time, and she permitted you to hold her, “I’ll help you leave.”

A bitter noise escaped her, “And go where?”

“Anywhere.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

She pulled away from you with worry in her eyes, “You need to listen to what I told you.”

“About running?”

“Lower your voice,” She hissed, still paranoid that someone may overhear. 

“Why? What did you know?”

She looked toward the doors, “Nothing I can tell you.”

“Then tell me something.”

“I already did,” She said, taking both of your hands into hers, “You cannot wait until they come for you.”

Your heart punched against your ribs, “Who?”

“I—” She stopped, hesitant to say more than she already had, “I can’t—”

“Who’s coming?” You pressed, anxiety riddling your bones. 

Right as she was about to tell you, footsteps sounded behind the screen and your sister released you instantly. Naoya appeared at the edge of the veranda, “What are you whispering about?”

“Nothing,” She answered automatically, composure suddenly regained. 

He looked at you, then at her, “Come.”

Your sister obeyed his command without reluctance and before entering the house, she glanced back once. The look in her eyes said it all.

Run.

At this point, you had already attended ordinary school for more than a year. Before your sister’s wedding, school had merely been somewhere you enjoyed going. Afterward, it became an escape route. 

You began researching universities far from your family estate, even checking for opportunities abroad. You learned which schools provided housing and which programs might allow you to support yourself. You started saving money and listened closely whenever classmates discussed regular adulthood—part-time jobs, cramped apartments, exams, careers their parents disliked but couldn’t forbid them from pursuing. 

None of them knew your family name carried any sort of importance, blissfully unaware of jujutsu society. Nobody asked about your inherited technique or speculated about what abilities your children could potentially possess. Instead they worried about grades, university applications, weekend plans and complained about their parents despite the fact that they could choose their own work, homes, and partners. 

Their freedom seemed careless, unfathomable truly. A precious thing that they take for granted. 

Luckily, your parents continued allowing you to attend school and immerse yourself in that world, but you noticed that their tolerance had grown noticeably thinner with age. The closer you crept to adulthood, the more frequently they complained about your absences from ceremonies, your refusal of formal instruction, and the non-sorcerer habits you had accumulated so comfortably. Your mother began calling them embarrassing and your father chastised that you were becoming too attached to a life that was never meant to replace your obligations.

Still, neither of them actually stopped you. They grumbled, lectured, and disapproved, but the school uniform remained in your closet and the gates continued opening whenever you left.

You assumed their growing irritation was simply the usual frustration of parents watching their youngest daughter become increasingly independent. You also figured that your sister’s marriage had frightened them too. Perhaps they regretted what they had done—handing a sweet girl to an abuser. Maybe they decided their youngest daughter would be different.

Unfortunately…you mistook their lack of interference for permission.

The next time your sister returned home, she was pregnant. She had just turned nineteen years old. 

Your mother cried tears of joy and your father opened his most expensive bottle of sake. Your brothers congratulated Naoya, who accepted their praise as though creating the child had required some enormous sacrifice from him. Your sister sat among them with one hand resting on the slight curve of her stomach. 

She looked incredibly ill, but everyone called her radiant. 

You waited until you finally got her alone, “Are you happy?”

Her hand remained over her belly, “Of course.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Pregnancy is exhausting.”

You leaned in closer to ask, “Did you want this?”

Her face turned sour, “A child is a blessing.”

“That’s not what—”

“You ask too many questions,” She snapped, cutting you off before you could even say the words. 

You stared at her in disbelief, realizing, with horror, that the girl standing before you was no longer your sister, “...You used to like that about me.”

Her eyes filled before she turned away, “Things change.”

The baby was born before your sister turned twenty. 

A son.

The Zen’in clan rejoiced. 

Your parents spoke of the security motherhood would give her as if the child were a key rather than another lock and when she visited after the birth, she no longer whispered that she hated Naoya. 

She said he provided well, that marriage was difficult for everyone, becoming a mother had helped her understand her responsibilities. You wanted to ask whether understanding was why she still checked the doorway whenever she heard a man’s voice. 

Instead, you held your nephew. He was warm, sleeping, and a little innocent life born into a family so evil. Yet, you loved him immediately. 

That frightened you too. You now understood how a child could make escape feel impossible.

And a year later, you met the boy. A non-sorcerer in your class. 

He was irritating from the day you met him. He talked during lessons, borrowed pens without returning them although he promised he would, and possessed baffling confidence in jokes that were literally never funny. He was stupid too, if you were being honest. But, you liked him anyway. Partly because nothing about him was impressive at all. 

He had no cursed technique, no clan, no elders evaluating whether his bloodline complemented yours. When he looked at you, all he saw was a girl from school who argued with him about his taste in music and refused to laugh at his shitty jokes. 

Then the first time he kissed you, he stopped before your mouths touched, “Is this okay?” The question startled you and he instantly drew back, “Sorry—I should’ve asked before—”

“Yes.”

“What?” 

“Yes, it’s okay.”

He smiled, then he kissed you. There was no agreement made before your birth or witnesses assessing the value of the match. He kissed you because he wanted to and you let him because you wanted to. It was almost painfully simple. 

Over time, the two of you explored further. Hands grasping underneath clothing and breathless kisses interrupted by nervous laughter, discovering that desire could exist without fear curled inside it. 

He would ask and you would answer. Sometimes the answer was no, and whenever it was, he would stop. The first time that happened, you nearly cried. 

He froze, panicked, “D-Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then what happened?” He asked, voice unbearably soft. 

“N-Nothing,” You whispered, wiping away a stray tear.

He frowned, “People don’t usually cry over nothing.”

You couldn’t explain that the reason was because he had accepted one quiet refusal more easily than your entire family had accepted months of your sister screaming, so you kissed him again instead. 

That was when you began imagining an apartment in the city. A kitchen with mismatched plates and university and a job you grieved going to every morning, but at least you picked it. Maybe you’d marry him one day, though only if you both chose it. 

You hadn't told him everything about jujutsu society, only that your family was traditional and they expected too much. You didn’t tell him that your sister had once begged you to run before some unnamed, horrible future arrived to collect you too. You planned on telling him eventually, foolishly believing that there was still time. 

And by the time your sister turned twenty-one, she was pregnant again. 

She had become quite skilled at speaking without saying much of anything. 

Apparently, her husband was respectable. Her home was comfortable. Her son was healthy and her pregnancy was progressing well. According to her, she had also learned patience—matured. Though she never said she was happy unless someone asked directly, where she would smile, lie through her teeth, and answer yes as if it hurt to say. 

The girl who had screamed your name while adults ripped you apart now spoke in your mother’s voice; soft, almost broken. 

Maybe your sister still lives inside this stranger somewhere; trapped beneath silk, exhaustion, and rehearsed obedience, but you no longer knew how to reach her. 

However, despite all of this, the worst day came a day before your eighteenth birthday. Your mother asked you to return home immediately after school, so naturally, you assumed there was some sort of family emergency to deal with. 

Your father was there, waiting in the formal receiving room, so were your siblings. Your eldest brother wouldn’t look at you, neither would the other. Your eldest sister sat with her hands folded in her lap and beside her was the sister you had once tried to pry away from Zen’in men; one hand rested over her pregnant stomach. 

The sight of all of them told you that they knew—your parents had discovered your non-sorcerer boyfriend. 

You hesitantly sat down, “If this is about school—”

“It is not,” Your father assured.

“Then what is it?”

Your mother looked almost sympathetic, which both scared and confused you, “There is something we should have discussed with you sooner.”

Your pulse began to race, “What—what happened?”

“Nothing has happened,” Your father said, “An agreement is simply approaching its formal conclusion.”

“What agreement?”

Your sister shut her eyes and your mother inhaled slowly, “...A marriage agreement.”

The room shifted under you at the words. You looked toward the sister who had warned you, but she wouldn’t meet your gaze, “No.”

Your father’s mouth tightened, “You have not yet heard—”

“No.”

“You will conduct yourself appropriately.”

“I’m—I’m not marrying anyone.”

Your mother reached for your hand and you pulled it away, “The agreement was made shortly after your birth.”

After your birth. Before you could speak or walk. Before you knew that wives screamed when families arrived to abduct them.

“With whom?” You asked, though no one answered quickly enough. You looked around the room. 

Your brothers knew. Your sisters knew too. And your parents? They had always fucking known. 

Every person you trusted had watched you naively discuss a future that included university and freedom while carrying this secret between them. 

“With whom?” You asked again, voice rising sharper this time. 

Your father sighed as he straightened his spine, “Gojo Satoru.”

The name struck something loose inside your memory. Sunlight reflected over running water; a garden belonging to the Kamo clan, crowded with adults whose conversations never meant anything to you, especially not at age ten. There was a cat eating pieces of fish from your palm and it had noticed him before you did. 

The cat’s ears lifted, body going rigid as an immense pulse of cursed energy disturbed the afternoon. You had followed its gaze toward the opposite stream to be met with the sight of white hair and eyes so blue that distance had done nothing to dull them. 

You knew who he was automatically. Every child raised within jujutsu society knew Gojo Satoru. Adults spoke his name differently from everyone else’s—quietly, carefully, with the same kind of reverence reserved for gods. His birth had shifted the balance of the world so violently that curses themselves grew stronger in response. 

Still, when you saw him and he saw you, you had not been frightened. You only stared. 

He was supposed to be something beyond human, yet across the water, he looked like a boy your own age standing alone among adults. He watched you with an open curiosity that mirrored your own, and for a breath, you wondered whether he might cross the stream to speak to you. He had started to, but an elder stopped him before he took more than a step. 

Someone called your name soon afterward, and you left without thinking that the encounter held any sort of significance. 

You had seen Gojo Satoru once and then, simply, forgotten him. Or perhaps, you had forgotten that the memory mattered. 

Your eyes scanned slowly across the room now, landing on each member of your family in turn. They had fucking known. When you returned from the Kamo estate and spoke idly about seeing the Six Eyes child beside the stream, they knew why he had been watching you. 

And he had known too. The realization settled coldly inside your gut, “How long?”

Your mother frowned, “How long what?”

“How long has he known?” Everyone remained silent and that alone was answer enough, “...All this time,” You whispered. 

Gojo Satoru had spent years, maybe even his whole life, knowing that you would eventually become his wife whereas you spent those same years believing your life belonged to you. 

The memory turned rancid with the weight of that knowledge. What had once seemed like a harmless moment between two curious children now felt like the first time a future knew nothing about had reached for you. 

That was possibly why he wanted to cross the stream—because he already believed you belonged to him. Now? He has probably been waiting ever since, eagerly counting down the days until your eighteenth birthday since it meant your refusal would cease to matter. 

Your mother continued speaking, “You should understand what an extraordinary honor this is.”

You laughed, an ugly, broken noise, “An honor?”

“You will become the wife of Gojo Satoru,” Your eldest sister added, “There is no more prestigious match.”

“Then you marry him.”

Her countenance sharpened, “I am already married.”

“Oh, maybe he can have two wives,” You sneered, eyes narrowed, “Powerful men seem permitted whatever they want.”

“That is enough,” Your father warned. 

Your pregnant sister finally spoke, “You should be grateful.”

You turned toward her; she bore Zen’in colors and her stomach was rounded under the silk, “Grateful?”

“He is the Honored One.”

You rolled your eyes, “Then you marry him.”

Something flickered across her face, “I would.”

“Wonderful. Tell them.”

Her mouth flattened, “Unfortunately, they want you.”

You stared at her. Out of everyone present, she was the one person you expected to understand, “You told me to run.”

Her eyes shifted toward your parents, “You were fifteen.”

“You were screaming.”

“I did not understand what was expected of me.”

“You understood enough to warn me.”

“Do not compare the situations.”

“Why not?” Your voice rose, “Naoya was the Zen’in heir. Everyone called you fortunate too.”

“My husband has provided for me.”

“I don’t believe that bullshit,” You seethed angrily, unable to stop yourself.

Appalled by your foul language, your sister’s face hardened, “You know nothing about marriage.”

You shrugged, “I know that you used to hate him.”

“I grew up.”

“You’re only twenty-one.”

“And you are still a child,” The words struck you to the core because they sounded exactly like your mother. 

You looked at her stomach, then toward the small toddler sleeping against an attending beyond the open doors, “Is that what growing up means?”

Her hand moved protectively over the curvature of her belly, “Be careful—”

“Having children until there’s nowhere left to fucking run?”

Before you could even blink, her hand struck you right across the face; the sound cracked through the room and your cheek burned. For one second, your sister looked more shocked at herself than you felt. Her hand remained suspended in the air between you until she lowered it gently. 

You saw it in her expression, right there flickering in her eyes—Naoya. Living inside the reflex. 

Your frustration nearly fizzled out within the grief, “They broke you…”

Her face changed, then went back to what it was, “No. I accepted my life.”

“Because they gave you no other one.”

“That is enough!” Your father thundered. 

You stood up so quickly that the low table shifted as your vision began to blur. Your mother followed your movements and forced a small smile onto her face, “Listen to your sister—you should be grateful. We allowed you freedoms most girls in your position would never receive.”

Yeah, because none of it mattered. 

They let you attend school with non-sorcerers because no diploma could void the contract made before you learned to walk. They permitted city outings since every road would still lead back to the same estate. They tolerated your clothing, friends, absences from ceremonies, and plans that you would someday leave this world because they knew your rebellion had an expiration date. 

Your parents never needed to break your wild spirit…marriage would do it for them. 

Your mother stepped closer, spouting more bullshit as if it could ever convince you to want this, “Gojo-sama is near your age. This is not the same as your sister’s marriage.”

“He’s the strongest.”

“Yes,” Your father said, mistaking your horror for uncertainty, “You will be protected beyond measure.”

Your sister had been promised protection too. Naoya had required the Zen’in name to do whatever he wanted behind closed doors. Whenever your sister returned exhausted, bruised, or carrying another child she never wanted, the adults lowered their voices and called it duty. 

Gojo Satoru requires no one. 

Who could punish the strongest? Who would enter his rooms if you screamed? Who would tell him to stop if he decided your refusal was childish? 

Nobody. 

Instead they would dress you in white, place your hand in his, and leave you alone with a man the entire world had already agreed could do as he pleased. 

He could close the door, then walk through your technique as if it were nothing but a mere nuisance; hold you down without a single ounce of effort. He could decide that marriage made your body his and that your fear was simply disobedience that your parents should’ve corrected years ago. 

And afterward, when healers examined you for signs of conception, everyone would celebrate because you have served your role to the Gojo clan. If you returned pregnant and docile, they would say you had settled too. 

Your mother’s voice softened, “You have heard stories.”

“Everyone has.”

“Gojo Satoru is not some common criminal.”

Neither was Naoya. He was an honored son of the Zen’in clan—a sorcerer. But those words never protected your sister from him. They only protected him from consequences.

“What happens when I tell him no?”

The room fell silent, your father’s jaw ticked, “You will learn that marriage requires compromise.”

Right. Compromise. When violation turns into duty as long as the man wears a wedding ring.

Your sister looked away from you and that was when you started to cry; the tears came hot and furious, “I don’t want him!”

“You are frightened by stories,” Your mother noted.

“No—I’m scared because no one can stop him!”

“He has no reason to harm you.”

You hiccuped between sobs, “He—He doesn’t need a reason.”

Your father struck his palm against the table, “You will stop speaking of your future husband as though he is some rabid animal!”

You almost laughed at the sentiment. They could discuss your body, fertility, and potential children, but imagining what the man receiving all of it might do made you indecent, “I don’t want to marry him…”

“The agreement cannot be dissolved because you are upset.”

“I’m not upset!”

It was a ridiculous lie. You were terrified, however, anger was easier to carry.

Your father kept going on, speaking of obligation, alliances, protection and the children your union might create; you only heard fragments, each word divided your body among strangers. 

In that moment, you imagined Gojo sitting in a distant estate while elders described you to him. Perhaps they discussed your appearance, or they warned him that you were difficult and assured him that marriage would fix it. Maybe he wondered what you would look like under those silk wedding robes. What if he spent eighteen years anticipating the day he could finally exercise the rights men like Naoya believed a husband possessed?

You didn’t know him, which only meant that there was no limit to the horrors you could imagine marrying someone who could never be stopped.

Your mother informed you that you would meet him tomorrow afternoon, on the day of your birthday, and that the wedding would occur soon after. 

There was no time to run anymore. No time to explain the news to your boyfriend or become anything except the wife your family had decided you’d be before you learned your own name.

Gojo Satoru had spent years waiting to have you; and before you ever saw him again, you had already pictured his hands, his power, and the locked room in which nobody would care if you told him no. 

It took less than a minute for you to hate him.

“You’re rating this.” His voice has gone completely flat, the way it does when his brain is clearly trying to catch up. He still hasn’t let go, arms locked around you like his body never got the message that something has gone terribly wrong.

“I mean, someone has to keep you sharp.” 

“I wasn’t aware this was a performance.” He pulls back just enough to look down at you, expression unreadable except for the faint furrow between his brows. Oh, this is a challenge, because him and six out of ten? Unacceptable.

“Grip’s fine. You just let go too fast, usually.” You shrug, biting back a smile.

“I haven’t let go yet.”

“That’s—okay, that’s true, but historically—” 

“Historically.” He repeats the word like it has personally offended him. Then, without another word, he pulls you back in—tighter this time, holding you for longer, chin settling against your shoulder like he’s daring you to complain. “Now?”

“...Seven.” 

“Seven.” His jaw ticks, and he still doesn’t let go. If anything, his arms tighten slightly, like he’s recalculating the entire situation. Apparently, you’ve turned a hug into a problem he intends to solve. “What’s wrong with this one then?”

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just not a ten.” 

“Then tell me what a ten requires.” He’s completely serious, still holding you, still refusing to break position, apparently prepared to stay like this until he gets an answer he’s satisfied with. “I don’t want a seven.”

“You can’t just refuse a score—” You try to wriggle back, and he doesn’t budge an inch.

“Watch me.” He adjusts his hold again, slower this time, slightly tighter, one hand settling flat against your back like he’s actually been thinking about where to exactly position them. “Again.”

“You’re doing this in the hallway.”

“I’m aware of the location.” He is very clearly not planning to leave it. “Score it.”

“...Eight.” 

“Not ten?”

“You keep asking before I even finish reacting!” You huff, arms still looped around him despite your protest.

“Then react faster.” He’s completely serious about winning a hug contest against a number you made up thirty seconds ago, which somehow makes the whole thing even funnier. He pulls you back against him again, in the very specific way that says he’s not leaving until this is settled. “I have all afternoon.”

He then gives you a determined smile. “Come on, give me a ten.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

He’s got you close in the quiet of the room, one hand resting lightly against your back. There’s nothing complicated about the hug—it’s just comfortable, cozy, the kind you can settle into without thinking. You rest your head against his shoulder.

“Seven out of ten.”

His hand goes still. “...Sorry?”

“I’m giving this hug a seven.” 

He actually leans back to look at you. “You’re grading me.”

“Why not?” 

“I wasn’t aware this required grading.” He says it slowly, like he’s still deciding whether you’re serious or not. When your expression makes it clear that you are, his face shifts, like he’s looking over a chart that doesn’t quite make sense. “So, seven out of ten. Explain.”

“Technically solid, just a little stiff.” You tap a finger against his chest, as if marking notes on an invisible clipboard.

“Stiff.” He repeats the word like he’s not particularly pleased with the diagnosis. He doesn’t pull away, if anything, he holds you a little longer, clearly thinking it over like this is a problem he can actually solve. Then, he asks again, quieter; “Tell me what to fix.”

“That’s not really the p—” 

“Tell me.” His hands stay steady against your back as he waits for an answer. “I don’t like being average at giving you comfort.”

“It’s not a medical procedure, Doctor Zayne.” 

“Everything can be improved with the right method.” He draws you back in, and this time the hug feels different. His hand settles more fully against your back, and he dips his head until his cheek rests against your head. “Better?”

“...Nine.” 

“Not ten?”

“You’re overthinking it now. I can feel you overthinking it.” You poke lightly at his side.

That earns the faintest huff from him, almost a laugh. It’s quiet enough that you feel it more than hear it. “I’ll want the notes later. In writing, if possible.”

You blink up at him, half sure he’s serious. “You want a hug rubric?” 

“I want to not be a seven.” His arms settle around you again, like he’s already decided this is something he’ll figure out. “Help me get there.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

He’s got you tucked against the studio window, watching the half-full moon above the ocean. The whole thing feels soft and familiar, almost domestic, until you break the silence.

“Eight out of ten.”

He freezes. His hands stop halfway through whatever they were doing against your back. “Did you just rate me?”

“Mhm,” you bite back a grin, watching his expression crumble in real time, before correcting, “your hug, specifically.”

“You just rate my loving hug…” He pulls back so quickly you nearly get startled, staring at you like you’ve just delivered a devastating review of his entire body of work, “...an eight?”

“It was good! Just not perfect.” You hold your hands up in mock defense.

“Nothing I do is an eight.” He looks at you like you’ve personally betrayed him and insulted his hugging skills. “I’m a ten minimum in every category, always, that’s not ego talking, that’s just fact—”

“So prove it.” You cross your arms, egging him on.

That’s all it takes. He pulls you right back in, arms tightening immediately, and before you can even react, he presses an audible smooch to your cheek with a smug little flourish. “There. Bonus points.”

“That’s not part of a hug, that’s cheating!” You squirm, though you don’t actually pull away. How could you?

“It’s innovation.” Another kiss lands at your temple, delivered with the confidence of someone adding one last stroke to a painting. “Artists don’t follow the rules.”

“Rafayel—” 

“Shh, I’m working.” He sways you both slightly, far too pleased with himself, then drops a third kiss somewhere near your jaw purely because he feels like it. “Rescore me.”

“You haven’t stopped touching me long enough for me to think.” 

“Good. That’s the strategy.” He tightens his hold, cheek pressed against yours, making absolutely no effort to give you the space needed for an ‘objective evaluation’. “Now, was that an eight?”

“Mhm… ten.”

“Was that an eight, I hear?” He pretends not to hear you.

“Eleven! It was an eleven! Are you happy now?” 

“Ecstatic.” He finally loosens his grip, only to steal one more kiss at the corner of your mouth, grinning the entire time. “Should’ve started there. Would’ve saved us both the trouble.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

He pulls you into his side without a word, arm slipping around your waist like he’s already decided that’s where it belongs. It’s easy and effortless, the kind of certainty that seems to follow everything he does, including a simple hug. You let your head rest against him.

“This is nice... Seven out of ten.”

There’s a beat of silence. “Come again?”

“You heard me. Seven.” You keep your tone breezy, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

“So you’re reviewing me.” He tilts his head down to look at you properly, and the smirk in his expression quickly gives way to something almost delighted, like he wasn’t expecting this, but he’s already decided he’s going to have fun with it. “Didn’t peg you for the type to grade a hug.”

“Someone’s gotta keep you humble.” You pat his chest twice, like closing a case file.

“Bold assumption that you can.” He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, his arm settles a little more firmly around you, casual and completely sure of itself. “Seven, though. What knocked off the points?”

“Your hands are cold.”

“Noted.” His hands do not move. “Anything else, or was that the whole review?”

“You’re not even trying to fix it.” 

“Didn’t say I was trying to fix it.” A low chuckle brushes your ear, completely unbothered. There’s something smug about the way he says it that makes you want to argue just to see where he’ll take this. “I’m doing something better. My turn.”

“Your turn for what?” You narrow your eyes, already suspicious.

“To review you.” He tilts his head, looking you over like he’s already made up his mind. “Grip’s a bit loose. You keep almost pulling away, like you’re hesitating.”

“I’m not hesitating,” and you tighten your arms around him as if to prove it.

“You are.” He hums casually. “Six. For now.”

“You’re supposed to be the one under review here.” You huff, though you don’t loosen your hold either.

“We can do both.” He pulls you a little closer, chin settling on top of your head, perfectly comfortable there. “Besides, someone’s got to keep the scoring honest. You gave me a seven with a complaint in the same breath. Numbers don’t add up.”

“They add up just fine.” 

“Prove it.” His voice drops, just enough to make it sound like a challenge. His arms don’t move, so you tighten your grip just to make your point, and for half a second he actually goes still, slightly caught off-guard before that familiar smugness returns. “There it is. Eight, maybe. Getting warmer.”

“You’re not letting go either, you know. You’re still a seven.” 

“Never said I would.” He pats your lower back a few times. “Keep going. I’ve got time to wait for a ten.”

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

He wraps you up the second you’re close enough, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rests warm against your back. It’s the same hold you always seem to melt into, familiar enough that neither of you has to think about it anymore. You hum contentedly and mumble against his collar;

“Ten out of ten.”

“Obviously.” He shrugs it off, like you’re confirming something he already knew.

“Wait, you’re not even surprised I gave your hug a rating?” 

“Should I be?” He pulls back just enough to grin down at you, looking far too pleased with himself. “Experience over years, you know, like how long before you get squirmy and pretend it’s because you’re ’busy.’”

“I don’t get squirmy.” 

“You are squirming right now.”

“That’s different.” 

“Sure it is.” He pulls you back against him. It’s obvious he’s done this enough times to know exactly what works, and he’s clearly not tired of it. “Ten out of ten and no notes. Kind of a boring review, though.”

You pull back just enough to give him a look. “Excuse me?” 

“You’ve given me the same score for months.” His tone stays lighthearted with just enough complaint to make it obvious he’s fishing for something more interesting. “I want a challenge. Give me something to improve.”

“You’re asking me to critique a perfect score.” 

“I’m asking you not to let me get complacent.” His eyes narrow with interest, the expression he gets right before he does something that is probably going to be both reckless and charming. “Come on. Surprise me. What’s the next level?”

“I don’t know, variety, maybe? You do the exact same hug every single time.” You shrug, only half expecting him to take the bait.

“Say less.” He doesn’t even give you time to brace. He lifts you clean off your feet for a moment, spins you, then catches you again, pulling you in tighter and laughing at the surprised yelp that escapes you. “New variant. Rate it.”

“That’s just showing off!” You cling to his shoulders, breathless from the surprise of it.

“That’s a ten with flair.” He presses a kiss to your forehead, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?”

“...I liked the original just fine.” 

“Liar.” He settles back into that same familiar hold anyway, the one he knows works, arms loose and warm around you. “Give it a minute, and you’ll be asking for the variant again by tomorrow.”

You already know he’s probably right. You just aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying so.

Hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

The hotel bar's subdued lighting does nothing to hide the flush across Zayne's cheekbones—whether from the wine or his current predicament, you're not entirely sure.

He'd been doing so well at this conference networking dinner—answering questions about his recent publications, discussing surgical techniques with that perfect blend of expertise and humility—until that second glass of Merlot loosened his usually immaculate composure just enough for Carter to pounce.

“I know anatomy,” Zayne insists, jaw tight as Dr. Carter smirks into his drink. “I was simply—”

“Confusing the deltoid with the trapezius?” Carter’s eyebrow arches, gesturing at your shoulder. “For a cardiac surgeon of your reputation, Dr. Li…”

Zayne's fingers tighten around his glass. “I assure you, my knowledge is—”

“Intact when sober?” you offer sweetly, unable to help yourself from pressing the point with a mischievous smile.

His gaze snaps to you, intensity flickering in those green eyes—embarrassment, irritation, and something darker that makes your breath hitch. You bite your lip, suppressing your smile as his eyes narrow in on you dangerously.

“Perhaps you need a refresher course.” Carter continues, his eyes sliding to you appraisingly. The simple, black dress you're wearing—with thin straps that leave your shoulders exposed—suddenly feels too revealing under his clinical assessment. “Though with your companion’s definition, the deltoid would be easy to demonstrate—”

Zayne's hand finds the small of your back before Carter can continue. “We’re done here. My wife is exhausted. Long day.” His tone is entirely professional, but his hold on you is firm.

“No, I’m not—”

He leans in close, voice dropping low enough so that only you can hear him. “You will be.”

Then he straightens, addressing his rival with perfect politeness. “Good night, Dr. Carter.”

You manage a small nod to Carter before Zayne’s hand at your back guides you with controlled force toward the exit. His grip is just this side of too tight as he steers you to the elevators, the intent in his touch saying everything his mouth doesn’t:

Behave.

I’m not done with you, sweet girl.

You’ve had your fun. My turn’s coming.

—

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you both, and Zayne immediately loosens his tie with sharp, precise movements. You can see the tension between his brows, feel it in the way he's retreated into that controlled, distant place he goes when something bothers him.

“You're still thinking about it,” you observe, kicking off your heels as you step further into the room.

“No, I'm not.”

“You absolutely are.” You can't help the teasing lilt in your voice. “The great Dr. Zayne, bested by basic anatomy—”

“It was the alcohol.” He turns, and there's that look again—intense, focused, like you're a problem he needs to solve. “My knowledge is perfectly sound.”

“Is it, though?” You're playing with fire now, but the slight dishevelment of his usually perfect appearance is too appealing. “Because Carter seemed pretty confident when he offered to demonstrate. Maybe I should have let him—”

His jaw tenses visibly. “Don’t.”

“What? I'm just saying, if you're that rusty, maybe a refresher course wouldn't be the worst—”

“I could map every muscle in the human body with my eyes closed.” The words come out clipped and prideful. His fingers pause on his tie. “In fact…”

You watch, pulse quickening, as he pulls the silk free completely. “What are you doing, Zayne?”

“Proving a point.” He steps closer to you, tie dangling from his fingers. “Since you seem to think I need remedial education.”

“Oh, this should be good.” You don’t bother hiding your smile. “And what exactly are you proposing, doctor?”

“Demonstrating my knowledge.” His voice drops lower. “Thoroughly. Every muscle group. Without seeing.” His eyes meet yours, and, despite the alcohol softening his edges, there's nothing uncertain in his gaze. “On you.”

“That seems like cheating.” Your breath catches at the proposition, but you try to play it off. “You already know my body.”

“Exactly.” He takes another step closer. “Which makes it a fair test. I know you. And I'm going to prove it.”

“With a blindfold.” The skepticism is thick in your voice. “After you just mixed up basic anatomy in front of your colleagues.”

“I didn't mix it up. I misspoke. There's a difference.”

“Is there?” You have to look away to keep from laughing. “Because to me, it looked like—”

“I know what it looked like.” He closes the distance between you, guiding your face up with two fingers under your chin until you have no choice but to look at him. “Which is why I'm going to show you that I know exactly what I'm talking about.”

The challenge in his tone does something sinful to you. “Fine. Prove it.”

“Good.” He starts to raise the tie to his eyes, then pauses. “And when I do, you're going to admit you were wrong to laugh.”

“If you do—”

“When.” The finality in the single word leaves no room for argument.

You watch as he wraps the black silk around his own eyes, shutting out everything but touch. When he reaches for you, his hands find your shoulders with perfect accuracy despite the darkness.

“Now,” he murmurs, “let me show you what I know.”

His palms settle there on your shoulders, warm and sure. “The deltoid. Three distinct heads working together. Do you know how remarkable this muscle is?” His hands move slowly, tracing patterns over your bare skin. “The range of motion it provides, the strength combined with such precise control…”

His thumbs press gently, massaging the knot he’s found. “You carry tension here. Right at the anterior head. You always do after you come home from a mission.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I pay attention.” His hands slide down your arms, slow and exploratory. “The biceps brachii. Most people only associate it with strength, but the elegance of its function…” His fingers glide over the muscle with something like wonder. “The way it allows both power and the finest motor control. The same muscle that lets you lift and lets you touch.”

He demonstrates by lifting your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“The flexor tendons here.” His fingers ghost over your inner wrist. “So delicate. So easy to damage. But so essential.” He traces each tendon like it's precious. “These allow every small movement of your fingers. Every time you reach for me.”

The softness in his voice makes your chest ache. You lift your hand, cupping his cheek.

He stills completely. Then, slowly, he turns into your touch, nuzzling into your palm with a quiet exhale that sounds almost like relief. His eyes are still covered by the tie, but you can see his expression soften, that careful control melting away.

“Yes. Just like that,” he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is rougher now. “Every time you touch me like that, I…” He trails off, seeming to catch himself. But his cheek stays pressed to your palm, like he's anchoring himself there.

Your thumb brushes over his cheekbone, and you feel rather than see the way his breath hitches.

“Zayne,” you whisper.

“I've studied anatomy my entire adult life. Longer, actually.” He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to the center of your palm, lingering there. “But I don't think I truly appreciated the human body until I started learning yours. The way everything works together. The complexity of it.”

When he finally pulls back, the tips of his ears are red—and you know the wine can't take all the credit.

His palms press against your sides, feeling the movement of your breathing. “The intercostal muscles. External and internal. They expand with every breath.” He's quiet for a moment, just feeling you breathe. “Do you know I can tell your emotional state by your breathing patterns? When you're anxious, excited, content…”

“And what am I now?”

“Anticipating.” His voice drops lower, and you can hear the smile in it. “Your respirations are elevated. Shallow. Your heart rate is higher than usual—I can feel it here.” His hand moves to rest over your heart, teasing the underside of your breast over the smooth fabric of your dress. “The myocardium. Cardiac muscle. It never rests. Never stops.”

His thumb brushes over your sternum next. “This is what I work with every day. Hearts. But I've never found one as fascinating as yours.”

“That's incredibly sappy of you, doctor,” you manage.

“Blame the Merlot,” he counters, but he's grinning nonetheless.

One hand slides up your spine, making you arch into him. “Erector spinae. Latissimus dorsi.” His lips brush the shell of your ear, then move lower, finding your neck. “Trapezius—which, for the record, I know perfectly well.”

He traces the muscle with his mouth, then stops at the junction of your neck and shoulder. His lips press there, gentle at first, then with more intent—kissing, sucking, marking until you’re writhing under the slight sting, the heat of his claim.

“Zayne—” you gasp.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin. “Just making sure my point is clear.”

You turn in his arms, and even blindfolded, he responds instantly, hands framing your face with devastating accuracy.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to be impressed?” you tease breathlessly.

“Tough crowd,” he huffs out a low laugh, dragging a thumb across your bottom lip. “Guess I’ll have to try harder, then.”

His touch lingers there, tracing the curve. “The orbicularis oris. The muscle responsible for—” He presses gently in the center, and your lips part. “—this smart little mouth of yours.”

His thumb slips just inside, grazing your teeth, and his voice drops. “The tongue—intrinsic and extrinsic muscle groups working together. One of the most flexible muscles in the body…”

You let your tongue trace a slow circle around his thumb before drawing it deeper into the warmth of your mouth. Your cheeks hollow as you create suction, working your tongue attentively against his skin.

“Fuck.” He pulls his thumb free, the wet sound of it vulgar in the quiet room, and his grip tightens on your jaw. “...and apparently, very skilled at driving me insane.”

His thumb, wet from your mouth, sweeps over your bottom lip, and you can feel the electric tension radiating through his touch.

“You want to play games, sweetheart? Let’s play.” His voice drops to a command. “Give me your tongue.”

Anticipation coils deep in your core, but you obey, sticking your tongue out for him to observe. You feel suddenly vulnerable, exposed, standing there with your mouth open while he can't even see you.

He traces the length of it slowly. “Genioglossus. Hyoglossus. Styloglossus.” Each muscle is named with his touch. “You use these to be difficult. To tease me. But I think you’ve done enough of that for one night.”

“Now?” His thumb presses against your tongue firmly, and a small sound escapes the back of your throat. “You're going to hold still and take whatever I decide to give you.”

He tilts your face up toward him, positioning it directly under his own. Then, he leans closer—so close you can feel his breath warm against your lips, your exposed tongue, your waiting mouth. Without warning, a string of saliva drips from his mouth into yours, sliding hot and claiming down the back of your throat.

“Swallow.”

His hand curves around the column of your neck, feeling every muscle work under his palm. “The suprahyoid and infrahyoid groups, working in perfect coordination…”

He strokes along your pulse point, the strain audible in his breathing, but you barely hear the words anymore. They've become background noise as your mind goes hazy with want, with the intimacy of being held at his mercy.

“I don't need my sight to know how pretty you look right now. I can feel your heartbeat racing. Feel how beautifully you respond to me.” He’s quiet for a moment, just keeping you there. “You’ve completely undone me, angel. Do you realize that? How much power you have over me? You’ve got me wrapped so damn tight around your little finger, and you don’t even have a clue.”

You can't form words, can only lean into him, completely pliant and surrendered under his touch.

“Zygomaticus major—the smiling muscle.” His thumb outlines your cheekbone. “Though you're not laughing at me now, are you?”

“No,” you admit weakly, “not even close.”

“Good.” His hands slide into your hair, cradling your head tenderly. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, more honest. “The truth is…I didn't mind the mistake. I minded that for a moment, I seemed…” He pauses to kiss your temple. “Less than perfect to you. Less than certain.”

“Please, you know I don't need you to be perfect—”

“I know.” His forehead touches yours. “But I need to be careful with you. Precise. Because you're…” He trails off, and you realize his hands are trembling slightly where they thread in your hair. “Because when I touch you, I need to know exactly what I'm doing. I need every touch to be intentional. Meaningful.”

“It is, Zayne.” Your throat tightens. “It always is.”

“Let me finish.” There's a plea beneath the words. “Please.”

You nod against his forehead, and then he's kissing you, deep and possessive, like he's mapping the anatomy of your mouth with the same meticulous precision. When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

“The sternocleidomastoid,” he murmurs, already moving, lips trailing down your neck. “One of my favorite muscles. The way it flexes when you turn your head, when you—”

“Zayne.” Your voice comes out desperate. “Bed. Now.”

His smile is slow and satisfied and victorious. “But I haven't even covered the lower body yet. The quadriceps, the—”

You catch his face and kiss him to stop the words, and he surrenders with a groan that vibrates through both of you. He walks you backward without breaking contact, hands sure despite the blindfold, until your legs hit the bed.

“Show-off,” you gasp between kisses.

“Observant,” he corrects, lips quirking against yours as he lifts you onto the mattress. Already he’s pulling back, hands sliding down your legs with single-minded focus. “But I still have work to do.”

You watch in awe as he lowers himself to his knees before you, hands firm on your thighs as he spreads them apart to position himself between them. His hands curve around your calf worshipfully.

“The gastrocnemius. Two heads—medial and lateral.” His touch is firm but gentle as he maps the shape of it. “On you, the lateral head is slightly more defined. You favor your right leg when you're tired.”

Then his hands circle around your foot, and his touch becomes impossibly careful. “Twenty-six bones in the human foot. Thirty-three joints.” He traces the arch with reverent fingers. “On you, you have high arches. It means you carry weight on the balls of your feet, here—” He presses a kiss to the spot, then rubs it gently. “—and here.” A second kiss, followed by his thumb working at the sore area.

You make a soft sound, and his motions slow, becoming even more diligent.

“You wore those heels tonight. Those black ones you know I like,” he says roughly, still kneading your foot like he can't stop touching you. “You know what those do to me, don’t you? So tell me, is this what you wanted? Me on my knees?”

Whatever clever response you had dies on your lips when his thumb works at that perfect pressure point, drawing out a moan you can't suppress.

“Lovely.” You can feel his smile against your ankle, satisfied and dark. “Then we both got what we wanted.”

His hands continue their work, finding every sore spot with practiced precision. “But they hurt you. I can feel the tension, see the way your gait changes. I notice every time—the way you shift your weight, slip them off under the table when you think no one's watching.”

There's something remarkably intimate about him kneeling before you, blindfolded, tending to your feet with such focused care.

“You don't have to wear them for me,” he says quietly, pressing another slow kiss to your arch. “But I understand why you do. So the least I can do is this.”

He presses one more kiss to your ankle before his hands begin their journey back up your legs. “Better?” he asks softly.

“Much.”

“Mmm.”

The deep sound of approval makes you clench around nothing, and you’re too far gone to feel ashamed about it. His hands guide your hips, turning you to face away from him. You find yourself bent over the edge of the bed, heart hammering, acutely aware of every point of contact where he's positioned you.

“Zayne—”

“Patience.”

“This isn't fair,” you try.

“No?” His palms curve tighter around your hips. “You wanted me to prove my knowledge. I'm being thorough.”

“You're being a tease—”

“The gluteus maximus,” he continues as if you hadn't spoken, and you can hear the satisfied smile in his voice. “The largest muscle in the human body. Responsible for hip extension, external rotation, abduction. On you, the muscle definition is—”

“Zayne, please—”

“Please, what?” His thumbs press in, massaging slow circles where your ass meets the tops of your thighs. “I'm simply completing my demonstration.”

You try to push back against him, but his hands hold you steady.

“You're simply being impossible.”

“I prefer ‘meticulous.’” His fingers spread to span your hips. “The gluteus medius here. The tensor fasciae latae. All working together to stabilize the pelvis during movement.” He demonstrates by rocking you slightly into him, just enough to feel how hard he is through his slacks, just enough to make you gasp with need. “See? Perfectly functional.”

Your hands fist into the sheets, voice coming out breathier than you mean for it to. “You're really into this, huh?”

“I’m really into you.” His hands slide back up your waist, and you feel him lean closer, his breath warm against your spine. “I told you, I’m well acquainted with the human form. Yours most of all.”

“Really? Because it seems like a lot of theory to me.” You can’t resist the tease, the challenge as you twist to face him. “Not much practice.”

“Oh, you need a demonstration?” His voice is deceptively soft, mouth hot below your jaw. “You want me to show you exactly how these muscles work, sweetheart?”

“Well, you're supposed to be such an expert—”

“Careful.”

“I'm just saying, all this talking about anatomy—”

“Keep going,” he interrupts, and there's something predatory in his tone now. He grinds his hips against you harder now, with the precision of someone who won’t be questioned. “Please. Tell me more about how I'm all talk.”

You hesitate, sensing the trap, but you're already committed. “All this anatomy terminology is very academic, doctor. Very...scholarly, really. I just think maybe you're better at reading textbooks than—”

“Perfect.” He cuts you off, his grip on your hips nearly bruising. “Then allow me to educate you. Thoroughly.”

His palm connects with your ass in a sharp crack—muffled by the fabric, but still enough to make you gasp at the sting. His fingers find the zipper at your back immediately after, tugging it down partway.

“Take this off.” His hands leave you abruptly, and the loss is so sudden you actually whimper. “Then get on the bed. Hands and knees, facing the headboard.”

The command in his voice makes you ache to obey, makes you want to be good for him so badly it hurts. Your hands move to finish what he started, sliding the zipper down and letting the dress pool at your feet. You climb onto the mattress, positioning yourself as he directed, hyper-aware of every movement, of the way you know he's tracking you despite the blindfold.

“You can't even see me,” you point out breathlessly, trying to regain some ground. “How do you know I did what—”

”Because you need this as much as I do.” You hear the soft sound of fabric rustling behind you. A belt buckle, a zipper. His shirt being pulled free. Each sound winds the tension tighter, feeds the ache that's been building since before dinner—since he rolled his sleeves to his forearms and caught you watching in the mirror. “You want me to tell you exactly what to do. And you always surrender so perfectly.”

You can see his shadow on the headboard, the shift of light as he moves in closer behind you. Every second feels like an eternity as you wait, bare and bent to his will, desperate for whatever comes next.

“And I need to give it to you,” he continues, something raw in his words. “Need to feel you trust me completely. Need to know that here, with you, I don't have to be perfect—just have to be yours.”

The mattress dips behind you, the heat of him radiating at the backs of your legs.

“So, yes. I know exactly what you look like right now.” His voice is low and certain, sending a shiver down your spine. Still, he doesn’t touch you. “You're on your knees, and your back has that slight arch—God, you do that so perfectly. Your hands are shoulder-width apart, fingers curled into the sheets. And you're probably biting your lip the way you do when you're anticipating something.”

You freeze, becoming acutely aware of the way your teeth are pressed into your lower lip. You release it slowly, breath shaky, because he's right. He's always right about you.

“And I know you're doing your very best to stay exactly where I put you, but your body keeps betraying you.” His hands slide up your thighs, your trembling impossible to hide as he spreads them wider apart. “Poor thing, shaking already. You need this so badly, don’t you?”

He blows cool air onto your bare entrance, the sensation enough to make you curse under your breath. He inhales deeply with a groan, but still doesn’t touch. Not yet.

“I know that you’re dripping wet right now, aren’t you, angel? Your pretty pink cunt is so soaked that you’re shy about it—which is endearing, really, considering you know how impossible it is for me to resist you like this.” His hands work your inner thighs with agonizing leisure, massaging higher and higher, stopping just short of where you need him. “Or maybe you need a reminder?”

Before you can answer, his hands leave your body, and you have to swallow down a sound of protest. You hear the soft slide of silk, and then the tie—his blindfold—is being wrapped around your eyes instead.

“My turn to see,” he murmurs against your ear, and you feel every hard inch of him as he leans over you to knot the blindfold—his chest against your back, thighs bracketing yours, cock pressed flush against your ass. “Your turn to feel.”

His palm settles between your shoulder blades, pressing gently but firmly, adjusting your position to his liking.

“Lower, just like that. Perfect,” he quietly approves. “You're going to stay exactly like this—exactly where I put you—until I’m satisfied that I’ve proved my point. Understood?”

You give a shaky nod, but the hand between your shoulders presses more firmly in warning.

“I said, understood?”

“Yes,” you manage.

“Yes, what?” His hand traces down your spine slowly, a reminder of exactly how exposed you are like this.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good girl.” The praise comes with a gentle squeeze to your hip, and you feel him shift behind you, settling into position.

One strong arm wraps around your waist, palm flat against your stomach, pulling you back against his body.

“Now, what was that about me being all theory?” His touch remains maddeningly light as it finally, finally, meets your clit, teasing, gathering the moisture between your thighs and spreading it in slow circles as he whispers in your ear. “Because the evidence suggests otherwise.”

A strangled sound escapes you, met by the warmth of his smile against your shoulder blade. But when you try to shift toward his touch, he pulls away.

“Ah ah,” he tsks. “You’re going to stay exactly where I put you, remember? This is a demonstration, not a negotiation.”

There’s a pause. Silence, stretching as you’re strung tight, waiting for his next move. You don’t know where he is. You hate that you like not knowing where he is, what he’ll do to you next.

“The key to understanding anatomy lies in grasping cause and effect. Stimulus…” Then—contact, splitting you exquisitely down the middle. “...and response.”

The slow, easy drag of the head of his cock through your swollen folds is unmistakable, maddening, unbearable. You can feel him twitch as you clench around the inch he’s given you, damning proof that he’s not as unaffected as he may seem. But Zayne always takes his time with things that matter to him.

And you’ve always mattered most of all.

“For instance, when I touch you here—” His hand slides under to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between deft fingers. “—your breathing changes.”

The tiny gasp he coaxes out of you betrays everything you’re trying to control.

“And when I apply pressure here—” he grinds against you, pressing his cock firmly against your clit, and your head falls back in unfiltered pleasure. “—you forget how to think.”

“I think you like teasing me more than actually proving your point.”

He thrusts languidly between your legs now, savoring the way his cock is coated in your wet pleasure, the way you arch into him each time the tip catches on your clit.

“Oh, I'm proving it, angel.” His breath is hot against your neck. “You're just impatient.”

“Come on, I’m—”

“Behave.” The command is soft but absolute as he pulls away with a sharp spank to your backside. He soothes it with his palm just as quickly. “The final muscle group demands your full attention.”

For a long moment, there's nothing—just the sound of your shared breathing, the beat of your pulse thrumming between your ears, and the obscene, cruel temptation of skin against skin as he strokes his cock just inches away from where you need it most.

“The levator ani. These muscles support your pelvic organs,” he says, breaking the taut silence. “On you, I can feel when these muscles contract. When you tense. When you—”

He’s inside of you before you can process the words, every thick inch of him stretching against your tight, trembling walls. You instinctively cry out his name, clench around him like your body’s afraid he’ll leave.

“Shit—when you…react to me.” He drags out and in once more, reveling in the way your muscles tense around him, the way they pull him deeper inside like they were made for him alone. “Just like that. Exactly like that.”

“If you really knew anatomy, you’d know I’m not even close.” You can barely get the lie out past your gritted teeth.

“Not even close, hm?” He stills mid-motion, arms moving to wrap around yours like a cage, his large hands fisting the sheets beside your smaller ones. “That’s the thing about anatomy, sweetheart. It doesn’t lie.”

He moves in impossibly closer, catching your earlobe between his teeth. He tugs at it, light and teasing, and pleasure shoots through you so sharply you forget how to breathe.

“You do.”

He presses a kiss behind your ear, gentle and innocent. Like he isn’t methodically unraveling you bit by bit. Like he isn’t tormenting you with the heavy, unyielding pressure of his cock buried deep inside you. “Let’s fix that, shall we? Until the only words you remember are 'Zayne' and 'please' and 'I'm sorry for being a brat.'”

“I'm not a—”

“Yes, you are.” His voice is certain, almost amused. “You’ve been trying to get under my skin all night. You love seeing how far you can go before I do something about it.”

He's right, damn him. You do love this—the challenge, the inevitability, the way he knows you well enough to make it decadent torture. The way he takes you apart so carefully and puts you back together again, and again, and again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you attempt, but the words come out ragged, barely coherent.

“No?” You can hear the smugness in the word, feel it in the way his hand snakes around to find your clit once more. “All of that giggling at Carter's jokes. All of that biting your lip, trying not to laugh at your poor husband. And that little thing you do with your hair when you’re being charming.”

He teases your sensitive skin with slow circles that grow more urgent with each recounted offense. “You've been pushing and pushing, waiting to see what would happen. So let me tell you what’s going to happen.”

His hand stirs to a stop, the stillness pulling a soft whimper from your throat before you can stop it.

“You’re going to ask me for exactly what you want. And you’re going to beg nicely, or you’re not getting anything at all.”

You manage to shake your head, clinging to the last shred of defiance you have left, even as your dripping wet cunt pulses helplessly around the unmoving length of him.

“Still being difficult?” There's warmth beneath the command in his voice, and you know he's enjoying this as much as you are. “You know what I want to hear, angel. And I'm a very patient man.”

You tilt your head ever so slightly, and your hair shifts just enough to bare your neck–just enough for the light to catch the mark he made there earlier tonight.

Exposed. Waiting.

His.

And you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Make me.”

The two words land like a match struck and thrown, trembling to ignite, desperate to catch flame—and he’s ready to watch you burn.

“Oh, sweet girl.” There's dark promise in his voice as he brushes his lips over the tender mark. “Wrong answer.”

One hand gathers both of your wrists, holding you captive between his body and the mattress. The other moves between your legs, charged with wicked intent.

“Do you know what it’s like, bringing you to these conferences?” His voice is rough, thick as he catches his breath. His hand drifts to your lower abdomen, palm pressing flat against the soft skin there just hard enough to make you whimper. “You fit into every room, every conversation, like you belong there more than anyone. You're the most capable person I’ve ever known.”

He still doesn’t move his hips, not really. Just angles himself inside you so that his hand at your belly applies pressure at just the right spot, right where his cock sits heavy against your front walls.

“Sometimes I look at you across the room and I can't believe you're real. That you're with me.” His voice deepens, becomes almost awed as you writhe under his grasp. “That I’m the one who gets to come home to you every night.”

He pushes harder on your stomach and you cry aloud, the sound caught between pleasure and hunger and ache. You try to grind back, try to find some relief, but he denies you, holding you right where he wants you.

“How—” His forehead drops to your shoulder, damp with sweat, and you feel his breath shudder out. The small change in position is agonizing, your muscles clenching involuntarily around him in response to the movement. “How am I supposed to focus on cardiac research when you exist? How can I concentrate on lectures when all I can think about is this—touching you everywhere, hearing you say my name, having you come undone for me just like this?"

You know he doesn’t mean to rock slightly into you, know he would never intentionally let his iron control slip like that. But for a fleeting second, he falters, hips jerking just barely against yours—and you savor every moment of it.

“Everyone at this conference is drawn to you. You’re magnetic.” You feel him shake his head into the nape of your neck, as if you’re something he’ll never get used to. His hold on your wrists grows more possessive, almost crushing. “And I know they all look at us and wonder how someone like me got so lucky.”

His touch becomes urgent, alternating between fingers teasing your clit and palm pushing flat against the area just above your hips, like he’s consumed by the desire to drown in every little sound you make, in every small twitch he can draw out of your throat.

“I barely believe it myself.”

It’s all too much—how thoroughly he knows you, every physical tell and emotional need. How his hands move with certainty while his words lay you bare. Being seen this completely, loved this wholly…it's almost frightening in its perfection. The feeling builds and builds until you're shaking with more than just carnal need, until you feel like you might break apart from the intensity of it.

“Zayne, please, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He eases out of you slowly, like the loss pains him, too. “You will. But not yet.”

He flips you onto your back with easy strength, at last relieving you of the blindfold before tossing the black silk aside. “Need to see you when you fall apart for me.”

His hands roam your body, but his attention stays fixated on your face, unwilling to miss even the smallest reaction.

“There she is.” He says it like a revelation, like he’s been waiting all this time to see you exactly like this. “My beautiful, brilliant wife.”

The way he towers above you from this angle makes your breath stutter, and for a heartbeat, all you can do is take him in with wide eyes and wonder, like you’re seeing him for the first time again.

“Say it,” he murmurs with a tilt of his head. “Tell me you’re smart.”

You know the rhythm of this game, know that this is his favorite part—the quiet command, watching you squirm under the weight of his praise—and the knowledge only makes you ache for him more.

You swallow, nerves fluttering. “I–I’m smart.”

“Louder,” he orders, hands stilling where they sit at your waist.

“I’m smart,” you try again, but words still feel foreign in your mouth.

He knows how small you feel at these conferences, surrounded by surgeons and researchers and people with way more degrees than you’d know what to do with. It’s why he says it like this, why he makes you say it back. Not just for the thrill of it—but to remind you of what he never forgets.

“Say it like you believe it. Because it's true.” His voice is firm as he soothes his hands down your sides. “You're clever and exceptional and the smartest person in every room you walk into.”

He positions his cock at your entrance, taunting you with the promise of more, of everything he’ll give you if you tell him what he wants to hear.

“Now say it.”

“I’m smart!” Your voice breaks but holds.

“That’s my girl.” He rewards you with shallow thrusts—a vow, not a gift. You know you’ll have to earn the rest, inch by aching inch. “Now say, ‘I’m beautiful.’”

“I’m—ah—I’m beautiful.”

He gives you just enough to breathe, to hope, before pulling back, smiling like he already knows you’ll come chasing the rest.

“Again.”

“I’m beautiful!” The words burst out sharp and desperate, knowing it’s the only way to earn his approval, wanting to please him as much as yourself.

He lets out a low, almost growling hum of satisfaction that shoots straight to your core. “Damn right.”

When he finally gives in, it’s not with restraint. He fucks into you like you’ve earned this, like he needs to give it to you, like he’s making up for every second he made you wait.

“And don’t you ever forget it.” His eyes soften with affection, thumb outlining your cheekbone lovingly as he drives into you in a steady rhythm. “Now, ‘I love my perfect husband, Zayne L—’”

You stick your tongue out with a playful pout before he can finish, and he takes full advantage—claiming it with his own, licking into you like it’s the first time, like it’s the last time, like there could never be enough times in this life.

You blink up at him when he eventually pulls away, the two of you locking eyes—really, truly looking at each other—for the first time since he covered them with the tie. You know he didn’t mean for you to repeat those final words. But the way he’s looking at you now, the way he fucks you like you’re holy, you can’t help the way they fall:

“I love my perfect husband, Zayne Li.”

Your smile comes easily, light and full of teasing warmth. The corner of his mouth twitches upward, matching your expression with a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

“He’s the smartest man alive,” you continue with quiet certainty. “I’d bet my life on it.”

He responds with a kiss to your temple, his thrusts morphing into something slow and fervently intimate.

“He’s so handsome it hurts—like, too perfect to be real. It's unfair, actually, how pretty he is.”

His eyes darken just a little, a challenge and an invitation. “Go on.”

“He treats me so well—fuck, he’s so—so good to me. He makes me feel safe and loved and—and happy.”

He fucks into you harder, like he’s eager to make your words undeniable. “Is that right?”

You nod, throat tight with emotion you can’t hide. “I’m so proud to be his wife. So—mmm—so goddamn proud.”

He groans into your neck, forearms caging around your head with fierce tenderness and a hint of possession.

“Fuck, angel, you’re—”

You wrap your legs around him tighter, pulling him toward you with unstoppable need, desperate to keep him tethered to you, always.

“And I need him to come inside me.” Your fingers thread through his hair, cradling his face as you meet his eyes, foreheads pressed together in quiet connection. “I need to feel his cum so deep inside me that it drips down my thighs tomorrow, when I’m sitting pretty at the conference, watching him present that important work of his like he does so well—god, so well.

The air between you dissolves as your breathing becomes one, each inhale bringing you nearer, each exhale letting go of everything that isn't this moment.

"My husband. Mine.”

His lips find yours with a hunger that can’t wait, like he needs to taste the truth of your words. He kisses you with the weight of all his awe, all his disbelief, all the silent gratitude that lives too deep for language.

“You’re everything to me.” There’s an obsession in the way he holds you—a need to claim this love again and again, to treasure the sacred certainty of you in his arms. “Everything.”

His climax lands with unrelenting force, burying his head into your neck as he pulses inside of you, hot and deep and claiming. He mouths your name against your skin as he spills into you—once, twice, three times, each press of his lips like a promise you can feel deep in your bones.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t stop thrusting, not until your own orgasm shatters through you, not until everything else fades and you’re lost in the passion of his claim, the devotion in his words, the way he loves you more than you ever thought you’d be allowed to feel.

“Everything.”

Afterward, you don’t say much. You don't need to. He moves you to lie on his chest, one hand rubbing warm circles at the small of your back as the other tangles gently in your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then another, lazier, just below your ear. You feel the way his body settles around yours, like he’s safe. Like he’s home.

You're just beginning to drift off in his arms when his hand slides along your neck with a small, satisfied sound.

“Don't,” you warn.

“Don't what?” But his fingers are already tracing over what you know must be the mark he left there.

“Don't be smug about it.”

“I'm not being smug.” He absolutely is. “I'm simply…observing. Clinically.”

“There is nothing clinical about the way you're looking at that hickey.”

“Isn't there?” His smile is dangerous. “I'm observing the effects of applied pressure on delicate tissue. The resulting vascular response. The visible evidence of—”

“Zayne.”

“—of my very thorough demonstration.” He looks deeply satisfied, like he just stitched you back together and signed his name on the scar. “Right there, where everyone will see it tomorrow at breakfast.”

“You sound way too pleased about that.”

He kisses the spot, then captures your lips as he pulls you tighter against his chest. “I am way too pleased about it. You're mine. I enjoy when it shows.” He pauses, studying your face. “Unless you genuinely mind? I can—”

“I don't mind.” Your fingers trace his jawline. “I just think you're feeling very proud of yourself.”

“Perhaps.” He doesn't even try to deny it. “Though I think I’ve earned it. You still owe me that apology, you know.”

“I think you proved yourself just fine.”

His fingers thread through your hair, untangling the strands with gentle precision. “Then you should have no problem saying it.”

“Saying what?”

“That you were wrong to laugh.” His hand stills in your hair, waiting for you to follow through on your promise.

You chew on your lip, considering it. But his touch is making it hard to hold onto your pride.

“I'm waiting,” he prompts, voice warm with amusement.

“Fine. I was wrong to laugh.” You lean into his touch despite yourself. “You win this round. But don’t get too cocky.”

“Not a chance.” He grins when you roll your eyes, his hand sliding from your hair to trace the shell of your ear before leaning in closer to whisper. “You should wear your hair up tomorrow—that bun you do that drives me crazy. You know the one.” His fingers ghost along your neck, finding where the mark sits. “And that pink sweater—you packed that one, correct? The one that's low cut and—”

“Zayne!” you gasp, swatting at his chest as he laughs the hardest he has all night. “You’re terrible.”

“Mmm.” He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before letting his fingers find their way back to your hair, playing with the ends. “But you love me anyway.”

“Against my better judgment.”

He smiles, tucking a strand behind your ear, the touch soft and lingering. “Say it properly.”

And you do, with all the weight and warmth in your chest. “I love you, Zayne.”

“I love you most.” His grin softens to something gentler, eyes lingering on you like he still can’t believe you’re real and here and his. He brushes his knuckles over the mark once more, wincing slightly at his own handiwork. “Let me get you some ice. Twenty minutes of cold compress should minimize inflammation. Stay here.”

—

The bruise lingers by morning, though mostly shielded by your hair. But when you sit in the front row for Zayne's presentation, you make sure to tie it back in a low bun, taking your time with the motion, making sure he’s watching as you bare your neck—trapezius, rather—to the room.

And he catches your eye, just briefly, just enough to let you know he noticed. The corner of his mouth lifts, a small secret reserved just for you.

You sit back, legs crossed, pen in hand, like any other attentive conferencegoer. But you both know you’re here for him. Not just for him—for this version of him you rarely get to witness: commanding a room from a podium, completely in his element, so fluent in the science it sounds like poetry.

You watch him move through the slides, the questions, the subtle pivot when someone tries to challenge his findings. You watch the way the crowd hangs on his words, how effortlessly he holds their attention, how he navigates the complexity of his work like it’s second nature.

God, he’s good.

And he knows you're watching.

He’s not performing for them. Not really. His brilliance is for everyone else, sure—but the precision? The control? The way he walks the room like he owns it?

That’s for you.

And when the applause fades, you don’t need to say a word. You just stand, smooth your skirt, and watch with pride as colleagues swarm him with questions and praise. But even as he's fielding questions, his eyes search for and find yours. Something in his expression gentles immediately.

Everyone sees the renowned Dr. Li, admired for his expertise, his rigor, his meticulous attention to detail. You see the man who demonstrated that very mastery on your body last night—not to prove his skill, but as a tender expression of the deep, deliberate love he holds only for you.

...And, fine, maybe to prove a point. Just a little.

You knew something was off the moment the front door opened more hurriedly than normal.

He normally came home quietly. Shoes neatly placed by the door, coat hung up, keys placed in the little dish by the entrance.

Tonight?

His shoes were approximately three feet apart. His coat was hanging halfway off the coat rack. And Zayne was standing in the hallway staring at you.

You looked up from the couch.

“…Zayne?”

He blinked a few times as if surprised by your presence. Then smiled. A very soft, very sleepy smile.

“Hello.”

You stared at him, “You’ve been drinking.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

He frowned thoughtfully, “Maybe.”

You laughed.

“How much did you drink?”

“An appropriate amount.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He walked toward you with all the careful concentration of someone navigating a very complicated obstacle course.

When he reached the couch, he stopped. And stared at you again. You raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“You are very beautiful.” He smiled.

You immediately knew where this was going.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy. Difference.”

He very carefully sat beside you. Then turned toward you with the solemn expression of someone about to discuss something incredibly important.

“I need to tell you something.”

You bit back a smile. “Okay.”

Zayne took a breath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.” He nodded seriously. “I’ve considered several appropriate ways to approach the subject.”

You glanced at the wedding ring on his finger. Then at yours.

“Right.”

“But I think honesty is best.”

“Probably.”

He reached over and took your hand. His thumb brushed over your wedding ring. He stared at it for a long moment but didn’t seem to truly register what it was.

“I love you.”

You smiled.

“I love you too.”

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“You don’t understand.” He leaned closer. “This is very serious.”

You had to press your lips together to stop yourself from laughing.

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“I have fallen in love with you.”

You stared at him.

“…You’ve fallen in love with me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

He thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” His brows furrowed. “That’s the problem.”

You were starting to realize something. He had completely forgotten. Not who you were. Not your name. Not that he loved you.

He’d just somehow forgotten that the two of you had already crossed that bridge approximately a thousand times.

You decided not to tell him. Not yet. You deserved to bask in this a while longer.

“Go on,” you whispered.

Zayne squeezed your hand, “I think you’re extraordinary.”

Your heart softened.

“You make me want things I never thought I’d want.”

“Oh?”

“A family.”

You smiled.

Zayne continued, completely serious. “A home.” He paused. “Children.”

You glanced toward the hallway. Four little pairs of shoes were lined up by the door.

“You don’t think we already have those?”

He frowned. “…What?”

You nearly lost it. “Never mind.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied.

“I want to take care of you.”

“You do.”

“I want to come home and see you.”

“I hope so.”

“I want to wake up beside you.”

“You do that every morning.”

“I do?” He stared at you.

“Every morning.”

He considered this before a boyish smile lit up his face, “That sounds nice.”

You laughed softly.

“It is.”

He leaned closer. “And I want to kiss you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve done that before.”

“I have?”

“Many times.”

“How many?”

You pretended to think.

“More than I can count.”

He looked genuinely impressed.

“I must be very fortunate.”

“You are.”

He looked down at your hands again.

Then his expression softened.

“Would you…” He hesitated, just as he had all those years ago. “Would you let me take you on a date?”

Your heart practically melted.

“A date?”

“Yes.”

“Where would you take me?”

“I haven’t decided.”

He frowned.

“But somewhere nice.”

“Sounds good.”

“And then,” He paused. “Perhaps, if you wanted, I could tell you again how much I love you.”

You smiled.

“You can tell me now.”

He looked directly into your eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

His smile was tiny now. Almost shy. Then he leaned against your shoulder. “You know…”

“Hm?”

“I think I want to marry you.”

You glanced down at his wedding ring.

“You think?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to see something?” You gently lifted his left hand.

His eyes followed. You pointed at the ring. He stared.

“When that happen?”

You burst out laughing. He looked at you as if you’d insulted him.

“What?”

“You’ve been wearing that for years.”

His eyes widened.

“Years?”

“Yes.”

He looked at you.

Then at the ring.

Then back at you.

“…Are we married?”

“Very much so.”

He stared at you for several seconds.

Then slowly smiled.

“That’s wonderful.”

You laughed.

“I’m glad you think so.”

He wrapped both arms around you and pulled you against his chest. “Then I suppose my confession was successful.”

You rested your cheek against him.

“Very.”

He was quiet for a moment, “Do we have children?”

You smiled.

“Four.”

His head lifted.

“Four?”

“Four.”

He stared at the hallway. There was a long silence.

“…That seems excessive.”

You laughed.

“You’re the one who wanted a family.”

“I did.. I do,” He looked at you as he smiled again. “I must really love you.”

“You do.”

He rested his head against yours.

After a moment, he whispered,

“I’d choose you again.”

Your smile softened.

“You already did.”

He closed his eyes.

“Good. Then will you marry me again tomorrow?”

You laughed.

“We’ll see.”

He hummed sleepily.

“I’ll ask you again in the morning.”

“You probably should.”

He tightened his arms around you.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“No.” His voice was quiet. Almost painfully sincere. “I really love you.”

You kissed his cheek.

“I know, Zayne. You tell me every day.”

And somewhere down the hallway, one of your children sleepily called out, “Mom? Is Dad proposing again?”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing.

Zayne looked absolutely awed at the dark haired little girl peeking out of her bedroom, “She looks like you.”

You smiled.

It’s almost impressive, knowing he’s been rock hard for two hours. For you, a stranger. You eye him properly now, and damn, he’s gorgeous. Slutty little glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, delicious broad shoulders, and that jaw… 

You’d come here to learn and to meet people… fuckign them counted too, right? Absolutely it did

You lean toward him, holding out your hand as you introduce yourself. “Hi there.”

His amber gaze flickers to your hand, back to your face. Clearing his throat, he says, “Oh, hey. Yeah! Nice to meet you, I’m Valko.”

You initiate boring small talk, asking why he’s here, clenching around nothing as more slick comes to pool between your legs. What you wished you could say was ‘So, last week I got attacked by a new Wanderer, and now I can see people’s dirty thoughts. I can see your fantasy, and I’m very happy to make that a reality.’

Valko is chatting away, mentioning something about insights and protocores… until you lean in even closer, desperate to try and feel some of his warmth, but instead your scent washes over him… his words stutter.

The fantasy explodes with more desperation, more sweat, more everything. You’re on the floor now, the chair hindering his ability to fuck up into you the way he needs. With you on top, he can grasp your hips, guide you along his thick length. He slips a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits, fingers trailing back down in admiration of your body… You’re a panting mess, moaning and gasping as he pushes you closer to the edge of oblivion. He wants to help. He begins to rub your clit, and from this angle, he can lean up and lap at your perked nipple, bite it even, needing you to make an absolute mess of him—

You fidget, rubbing your knees together, rolling your hips into the seat, needing friction. Needing release. You can’t take it anymore. 

“Basically, I just think that—”

“There’s a supply room down the hall,” you cut Valko off. 

“Pardon?”

You swallow, blinking at him a few times. Were you really going to do this? 

Your throbbing cunt is screaming yes. 

“Don’t get me wrong, the chair and the floor are hot, but there are too many people here.”

Valko’s jaw drops, entire face growing crimson. “Um. Sorry? Wait… What do you mean—”

“It’s a long story. But that doesn’t matter; what does matter is that you want to fuck me, and I want to fuck you. Let’s not make it difficult. You can ask for my number after, ok? But after two hours of that, I can’t take it anymore. Please.” You plead with your eyes, purring the please.

Valko swallows, brain short-circuiting. “Um.”

Impatient, you seize his wrist and rise. He glances to the dark patch left on your chair, then your face, a lustful haze taking over his pretty amber gaze. 

You were so sure the Wanderer side-effect was a curse… But now you’re pinned against the storage room wall, legs shackled around Valko’s waist as his cock slams into you at a ridiculous pace. He's rasping sweet praises, breath hot against your temple… fuck you're tight, holy shit you're beautiful, don't even know me and you're so good… His palm is rough against your open mouth, trying to dampen your unabashed moans as he consistently hits that sweet spot so deep within you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, holding on for dear life… yeah, you couldn’t be more thrilled. 

Sylus 

If Sylus is going to have the audacity to bid on that old thing as some kind of token, a tribute to his dirty fantasy, you’re going to make him work for it. 

“Sixty,” you counter, flashing your paddle. 

Sylus makes an amused sound, something between a snicker and a snort, raising it again. You strike back, making it eighty. And so the war begins, the price soaring high, until you feel the tickle of hot breath against your ear. “Do you think you can outbid me?” 

You twist in your chair, flashing him an innocent smile. “Of course not, but I can make you spend a stupid amount of money for an old desk.” You turn back to the front. “One-fifty!” 

You’re not seated on that desk anymore, but bent over it, struggling to take his monstrous cock. He’s used your blazer sleeves as restraints, hands tied behind your back as he pins you down, one large hand on your waist while the other spanks your ass with the bidding paddle. You clench around him, new spurts of slick coming to coat his thighs as he thrusts into you—

You inhale, crossing your legs so you don’t twitch. So now he wants to punish you? Yeah, ok… let’s see how high you can hike the price. 

Eventually, Sylus ends up paying a million for the old thing. Your mission might have been a dud, but you did learn some interesting intel. 

“Congratulations on your new desk,” you greet him afterward.

He smirks down at you. “Cute.”

“It’s a lovely piece of furniture,” you continue, nodding along to your own compliment. “Very sturdy. Very reliable. Worth every penny, I’d say. Where are you going to put it?”

“I think it would look remarkable in your apartment,” he casually returns. 

Sylus has never seen your apartment… well,  not from inside. But he knows that it would look great in the corner, so when you’re lying across it with your legs slung over his shoulders, you’ve got nowhere to escape. He pummels into your soaked cunt, chuckling as your eyes roll to the back of your head, then when you go to cry out, he can shove two fingers into your panting mouth—

You need that desk in your home NOW!!!!!

“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Sylus. Are you going to help me move it into my apartment? It looks a little heavy.” 

“Of course, sweetie.”

Sylus is a man of his word, the desk now sitting nicely in your home. You inspect the wood, running your hand along the surface, then decide to sit on it. Seems sturdy enough, despite its apparent age…

Sylus, shrugging his jacket back on to leave, tsks at you. “That’s not what it’s designed for, sweetie.”

“Didn’t stop you from imagining me in all sorts of positions on it though, did it?” You counter with a mocking sigh. 

Sylus pauses, arching a brow at you. 

You swing your legs, feet unable to touch the ground from the desk’s height. With a sweet smile, you continue. “I’ve been so patient, you know. Aren’t you going to bend me over, spank me with the paddle? Did you even bring it?”

There are very few moments—if any, really—where you catch Sylus off guard. His brows shoot up, lips parting ever so slightly… But he is Sylus. And, of course, he recovers. The man chuckles, a darkness taking hold in his gaze. 

“You certainly deserve it, for thinking you could rile me up during the auction.”

This man… Can't you just have one victory? One? (Well, at least you know you’ll be getting more than one orgasm.)

His rich laugh has you clench your fists—and your pussy. Never have you loved such a sound, only for it to fill you with inexplicable irritation, and the only way to be rid of it was to touch yourself.

“Did you forget, sweetie?” He motions to his eye—the aethercore. “What’s a true surprise is that I had no idea you could see mine.” Despite his smug casualness, his gaze drops to your mouth. “I’d have been more… tasteful with my imagination if I’d known.”

Speaking of taste…

You shuffle back on the desk a smidge, spreading your legs as an invitation. “Oh, don’t worry, Sy. I'm not complaining.”

And so, the leader of Onychinus is kneeling before you, tugging at your suit pants down so he can devour you. He’s an absolute fiend (haha), and true to his dirty thoughts at the auction, Sylus has you shatter on his tongue several times before you shove him away, overstimulated tears prickling. Your mind is completely gone by the time he sinks his cock into you. You’re laid back on the surface, ankles hanging up over his shoulders, his thick arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you steady. Vision permanently blurred, drool slipping down your cheek to pool onto the wood, Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Your hands grip the edge of the desk, ignoring how it creaks with each punishing thrust, because all you can really focus on is how his cock throbs, how it kisses your cervix so perfectly… You want him to fill you up, until the warmth of him seeps into your very soul. 

(If you want more Sylus desk fucking and spanking ~ here.)

Xavier 

“Will you walk me home?”

He shares a gentle conversation with you the entire way, all while his mind replays that one scene over and over with slight alterations. Like he’s trying to find which one would be the best for you. Face and tits smushed against the glass? Hot, but probably a little uncomfortable for you. Back against the tile, one leg hooked up over his shoulder, basically doing a split on him… also hot, but again, probably uncomfortable. He’s really caught up on it, actually. Like, the more he replays them, the more you have to remember that it’s a fantasy and not reality. 

At least, not yet. 

Because once you get to your front door, you take a shaky breath, knowing you’re about to cross a boundary you can never take back. 

“Want to come inside?”

(Oh, he’ll be coming inside alright).

He cocks his head, a little confused. “Aren’t you going to shower?”

You feel your face flush, but you manage to hold his eye this time. “Um, yeah. I thought… maybe… um, like—I mean—”

Fuck. You’re fumbling. C’mon, now! You can do this! Don't you want to know how it feels getting railed in the shower? By Xavier? 

Damn straight. 

You compose yourself and, with complete control, announce, “I thought you’d like to join me.”

Xavier goes red. Like, really red. It would be cute if you didn’t already know how dirty this pervert was. 

He’s in genuine shock. “You want… wait. Is this a trick?” 

Your heart is pounding like crazy, but you seize his forearm and pull him inside. 

You’re both standing in your living room, the silence piercing, but not uncomfortable. Xavier wants to rush forward and rip your clothes off—and you know this because you can see it in your mind—the only reason he hesitates is that he also wants more than just sex. He’s going to let you lead, until you say otherwise. 

You grip the hem of your shirt, and with tantalising slowness, pull it over your head. He is quivering, trying to keep his gaze on your face, but he can’t help it… Those pretty blue eyes drop to admire your tits in your bra. 

You turn around, murmuring, “Can you help me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, and you feel goosebumps ripple across your body as his warm fingertips brush your skin. He unclasps you with ease, and the bra drops to the floor. Reaching back, you find his hands, leading them up to cup your boobs. 

“It’s ok, Xavier,” you whisper, grinding your rear into him. “Whatever you want, take it.”

You end up forfeiting the shower… well, for a good while, at least. You end up stumbling into your room, where you discover what he liked to fantasise about in bed late at night. Xavier has you in the meanest mating press, mouth permanently attached to yours, absolutely drunk, groaning low in his throat. You have long melted away, Xavier swallowing your whimpers and moans as he fucks you so deeply, so entirely full you can barely breathe. He wants to praise you for taking him so well, that you’re such a good girl, how he’s fantasised about this for the longest time… but kissing you is addictive. Every second he wastes by talking is another second he’s missed out on.  

Rafayel 

“Fishing for compliments? C’mon, cutie. You’re always ravishing,” he returns, that cheeky smirk of his so charming and playful.

Everyone has headed into the gallery, leaving you alone with Raf. Folding your arms, you glower up at him, still feigning annoyance. “Oh, really?”

He mirrors you, crossing his arms, brow furrowing. “You—”

“Prove it.”

Everything goes silent, save for the few crickets chirping and the music gently trailing out from the building. Rafayel opens his mouth to speak, only to clamp it shut again. 

“Cat got your tongue?” You drawl, leaning closer, resting your hand on his arm. “I sure hope not. I’ve never had every inch of my body licked before.”

He snaps upright, utterly startled, his frozen spell broken. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Look, I don’t know how…”

You can’t help but feel giddy, relishing his flustered reaction. You want to keep taunting him. “Are you saying that you don’t want to?”

His face is the perfect shade of scarlet. “I’m so confused right now.”

You glance down, the artist fully tented. “Not all of you.”

He turns away, shielding his face with a hand so you can’t stare at him. “Stop that! How did you..."

“Don’t be embarrassed, Raf,” you coo, stepping forward to chase him, reaching up to grasp his wrist. You lower his hand-shield, meeting his eye. He’s still bright red, breathing shallowly, and at your touch, his throat bobs.

“I’m sorry for teasing,” you whisper, almost purring. Your eyes suggest you’re anything but. 

But honestly, you should have been meaner about it. Should have teased him until he cried. 

Because now you’re fucked. 

Literally. 

Forget the gallery; the second Rafayel realised that this was real, that you wanted him, he drove you to his studio. Now you’re sprawled naked on his ‘muse’ chair—a velvet chaise that he’d bought for you so he could do your portraits… and not the clothed kind.

His tongue runs up the length of your calf, his warm hands holding you open so he can climb higher. He’s planting soft wet kisses along the inner of your knee, licking and nipping higher and higher, until he’s right where you need him most… except he doesn’t indulge. He skips your slick pussy, ignores your throbbing clit, and bites your hip bone… licks up your navel, kisses your torso while his fingertips skim your ribcage, until finally he’s at your breasts. And the cruel bastard does it again; he ignores your nipples, the tip of his tongue circling them but never flicking. Once he’s on your neck, you thread your fingers through his hair, arching your body into his, chasing the delicious, unbearable heat of him. He’s naked too, his hard length digging into your side as he suckles on your pulsepoint, licking a stripe up the column of your throat so his teeth can graze your ear. 

He’s told you again and again, ever since you first whined and begged for him to kiss you, to touch you where you needed him most, for him to fuck you already… “You think I’m going to rush this, cutie? No, no, no. You don’t get to have me until I’m satisfied.”

Zayne

You can't stop thinking about what you saw. 

You’ve had a crush on Zayne for the longest time… but you’d never let yourself indulge. But now that he had a dirty thought about you, it was essentially permission. So now you’re imagining straddling him on that office chair, sinking onto his cock, especially when he murmurs, “Breathe deeply for me.”

Except that’s not what’s happening, unfortunately. He has a stethoscope pressed in the middle of your back, listening to your lungs—and your racing heart. 

You glance to the space beneath his desk, throat bobbing, mouth watering. If that’s what Zayne imagined for stress relief, well… what kind of friend would you be not to offer, right?

“What’s got you so stressed?” You probe him, watching as he puts the instrument away. “Just standard doctor stuff?”

His smile is soft, that green gaze flickering to you. “Yes. And I have some reports that are due soon. I haven’t had time to complete them.”

“Poor Doctor Zayne,” you sympathise for him, giving him a big lower lip. “So stressed he’s gorging on cupcakes. You know if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

He averts his gaze, likely out of guilt, because in that moment he imagines—

You’re on the examination bed, knees together and pressed into your chest as he tastes you (still in his medical coat, mind you). The position makes your pussy more prominent, a little tighter, so he really has to work for it as he thrusts his tongue into you—

DOCTOR ZAYNE! That is not professional. 

“Thank you, but I’ll manage,” he says instead, so casual about it you’re in genuine disbelief. You always thought he was a terrible liar, but here he is, imagining you in compromising positions without so much as breaking a blush. 

“Are you sure?” You say, almost accusing, raising a brow. 

He stumbles on the way back to his chair, clearing his throat out of mild embarrassment. Finally meeting your stare, he gives you a subtle nod. 

“Are you sure?” You lift your chin, glancing down to the space beneath his desk. “I’d definitely fit under there.”

“Pardon?” Zayne frowns, and bless his soul, genuinely confused. At least, for the few seconds, until it clicks. 

Hehe, there it is… red blooms across his face, right up to the tips of his ears. He’s speechless, but to your surprise, manages to hold your eye. 

“I’ll take it that you haven’t read my report from this morning, with the new Wanderer I fought.”

He’s paralysed, but eventually shakes his head. “I… I was going to look at it before you came—I mean, for the appointment.” He's so quick to add that, you can’t help but snicker a little. 

Zayne is regaining some composure, perhaps convincing himself that what he just heard was, in fact, a hallucination. Until you do it again. 

“You can read it while I help you,” you suggest with a shrug. “But I’ll make sure to lock the door. You’re right, Doctor. It would be mortifying to have someone walk in.”

And so, with the door locked and the blinds drawn, you’re kneeling beneath Doctor Zayne’s desk, licking up his throbbing length as he tries to read your report under his breath. You’d told him to speak out loud, so he can really absorb the information, you know? Your knee actually is quite sore, but who the fuck cares? You swirl your tongue around his tip before finally taking him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks so you can take all of him—but he’s fucking huge, and you fail. That’s ok, you wanted to make him suffer, anyway. You bob up and down with agonising slowness, letting your tongue taste every thick inch, feel every vein. You pop off, hand gripping his base to keep him close. 

“I can’t hear you, Doctor,” you warn. 

He groans, throaty and pained. “S-sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, your breath warm and teasing, lips brushing against his tip as you speak. “Now start again, I missed the first part.”

Caleb

Caleb finishes his drink, eyes darting around the room. “Alright, I dare you to… let me text someone from your phone.”

You frown. Um, hello? Wasn’t he going to whisk you into a cupboard and shove his tongue down your throat?

When he holds out his hand, you roll your eyes. Wow, how exciting. You pass your phone with an annoyed huff, but for an entirely different reason than he thinks. 

“Relax, Pipsqueak. I won’t be too embarrassing,” he laughs, giving you a playful shove on the shoulder. 

A few more people have their turns, until finally it’s yours. If Caleb were going to be a coward about this dare, you wouldn’t. 

“Truth or dare, Caleb?” You turn to him, giving him a mischievous stare, willing him to choose dare with your mind. He laughs at you, unbothered and understanding your expression. 

“You don’t scare me, Pips. Dare.”

Without a beat, you say, “Kiss the prettiest girl in the room.” (Sorry for the Perks of Being a Wallflower trauma.)

He goes completely still, eyebrows nearly shooting off his face as his jaw drops a little. 

You are so smug, settling back as you narrow your eyes, teasing. “Go on, Caleb. Choose wisely.”

Everyone, utterly drunk and juvenile, is enjoying the game too much. All of the girls immediately straighten up, a little excited and hopeful. 

Caleb stares right at you, refusing to even glance at everyone watching him, content in holding your gaze, a million thoughts whirring inside his head. He wants to kiss you so bad, wants to crawl atop of you, peel your clothes off, sink into you slowly… He doesn’t want to fuck you here, but like hell will he pass up the opportunity to finally have you. 

“Well? Have you made your choice?” You murmur, licking your lips. 

“I’ve made my choice for a long time,” he whispers, only to you. He leans forward, confident, lips pressing against yours sweetly… It starts as a cute confession, but you’re both hungry. You kiss him back, palm cupping his cheek, holding him close as you lick across his bottom lip. 

“Alright now, c’mon! Tara calls out. “Get a room or something!”

She stands up, shooing at you both. Everyone laughs in agreement, and before you know it, you’re shoved into the darkness with Caleb, the closet door clicking closed. 

You’re in his clutches, hands gliding down your sides to grab your ass. You arch into him, swallowing his moans, needing more. Caleb whimpers low as you grasp his hand, guiding him lower, until he cups your needy cunt through your shorts. His thumb manages to find your clit, fingers rubbing along your clothed slit, the perfect amount of pressure…

You return the favour, rubbing his bulge, the pair of you twitching and grinding with your clothes on like horny teenagers. You supposed you were long overdue for this, surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, to be perfectly honest. It doesn’t take long for the pair of you to cum, Caleb making a mess in his pants while you slump against him, trembling, legs threatening to turn to jelly as your orgasm crashes over you. 

“Let’s go home,” Caleb rasps into your ear, planting a suggestive kiss. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰

“What? No way,” you giggle, your voice just a breathy whisper as you bite down on your lower lip, and he takes you by your hands, holding your arms out a bit to tilt his head.

“I don’t even think I’ve seen you in a dress since like prom,” he murmurs, you blush under his gaze, letting him spin you around. “Fuck it’s cute on you.”

“I just wanted to look nice for our date,” you look down shyly, unused to so much attention, Satoru tilts your chin up, letting your hair fall back.

“Nice? No, beautiful is what you look like.”

“Toru…” he cups your face, leaning down, his breath ghosting sweetly over your lips. “Thank you. You look so good-”

He doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence, he just dips his head and captures your lips with a soft kiss, one that has you melting in his embrace. Your lips part, letting his tongue sweep inside the hot recesses of your mouth, gliding against yours in a slow, teasing motion that has you aching for more.

Your arms wrap his neck, tip toeing to hold on to him, his hand warm against your lower back, pressing you even closer against the hard lines of his body, you can already feel his length behind those damn jeans, pressing against your stomach. The memories of him whimpering as you stroked him hit hard.

He promised the next date you’d get to suck him.

You swear you’re so worried you’ll do a terrible job, you tried to research via porn and couldn’t figure out how these girls were so talented. Satoru was huge.

But the thought of sucking it? 

It has you arching, gasping for a breath as he takes you over, his other hand entangling in your hair, turning so you’re pressed against his pretty sports car. He lifts one of those thighs, pressing harder, and you can’t help but eagerly arch, rolling your hips and crying out.

“Toru,” you whine those words out, pulling back with saliva dissolving between your mouths, when he finally pulls back, whispering your name right back in an octave that fucking ruins you. “Someone will see!”

“Let ‘em see,” he chuckles just a bit, this psychotic look in the normally sweet blue eyes that fucks you up more. “They should know who you belong to now, who I belong to, shouldn’t they?”

“You have no clue what that means, for you to…” You trail off now, letting his cool thumb stroke your cheek.

People were walking back and forth, in and out of the dormitory, and some did peek over – Sarah and Satoru were the ‘golden couple’ and you surely looked like the very ‘rebound’ you were afraid to. You swallow down the nerves, hands clutching and unclutching his soft jacket he had slung over that dress shirt, his letterman’s jacket that not long ago was slung over Sarah’s shoulders.

Why are you still so jealous!?

You hate it – you hate how worried you are for her revenge, how cruel she was not just to you, but to Satoru. The hurt she could cause.

“Sweets,” he tilts your chin up, feeling you tremble. “I’m going too fast-”

“No! No, please I want it all… It’s just that I’m so worried,” you whisper, eyes shutting a bit, before opening back to focus on the boy you love.

Things have been said – but not that.

“About her?”

“Her, the friends she has, hurting you somehow… your reputation. It could hurt and I’d feel terrible.”

“Let me worry about all,” he kisses you once more, easing your thigh down, the gentle breeze rushing across your skin, making you tremble even more. “They can say what they want about me, I really am tired of caring, sweetheart.”

“I bet you are,” you blink just a bit, kissing his chin, resting your brow on it. “It feels too easy in your arms and it’s terrifying me.”

“I kind of know what you mean,” he hugs you tightly, feeling not just the eyes of everyone around you both, but how scared you are.

It is scary, though, truly to have had this forever one way, and then to cross that boundary, one he never even dreamed of doing. Every time Satoru thought he would tell you his feelings, he had to hold it all back, so worried of losing you forever, not knowing the entire time you could have felt like that for him.

A part of him felt guilty, moving on from Sarah like this – he knows she’ll hate him more for it, but another part of him can’t fucking care. After the shit she pulled, the things she said, the way she acted? He couldn’t believe he’d let it go on for as long as he had, really, if it wasn’t for you he’s not sure he would have come out of it.

Would he have married her, like his parents’ wanted, and lived the cozy life that she desired, being a kept woman, which Satoru didn’t even mind. He would love to take care of the girl he marries so she doesn’t have to worry about anything, he wants kids some day, too. None of that was the issue – it was her.

Imagining the life he damn near almost had and how hollow it would feel had him sick to his stomach if he lingered on it for too long.

So he doesn’t.

He looks down at the way the pinks and golds in the sky are setting behind you, and just how fucking pretty you look like this, your eyes so nervous and glimmery, your cheeks hot to the touch. Your pretty lips all parted, slightly swollen from his very kisses, his kisses.

His.

You were his.

Or, you would be – there was not one world where Satoru would let this go, would let you go from him.

“Are you ready for our date, pretty?” He asks now, trying to lighten the slightly heavy mood, the lingering tension of a girl who should be gone from your mind, but one who is clearly still there.

He can read you like a book, it’s insanity to think he never could read the fact that you liked him back. 

Like wasn’t really the word for what he felt, not even close.

“I am so excited,” you admit, giggling and kissing him again, Satoru opens the car door for you, but his hand lingers on your lower back as you slide in, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the soft material.

“God your ass in this - I mean!?”

“Satoru Gojo!” You smack at him and he blushes, looking rightfully abashed. “You pervert!”

“Fuck it’s like my mouth just said it without my brain connecting,” he grimaces and shakes his head as you snort, rolling your eyes and letting him slide in beside you, a hand on your thigh. “Forgive me, pretty?”

“The dinner better be good.”

“Mhm, of course it will be.”

A date with Satoru Gojo – the inner youth in you is fucking flipping out, right along with current you.

*****

Satoru’s hand is on your thigh so casually as the two of you sit next to each other in the little booth, his thumb stroking little circles on your skin that inch higher and higher, just to dart right back down. Maddening, like a second nature as the two of you peer at the menu, though you can’t focus on a goddamn thing.

Every time you shift in the plush bench, you feel the friction of the seat against your twitchy lil clit, already craving him so damn bad, the memories of the way he flicked his tongue on it swirling through your head. He looks at you as you move again, hips shifting, this smirk on his lips.

“You keep shifting like that and we’re not gonna make it to dinner,” he murmurs softly, leaning low. You gasp.

“You’d have me not eat!?”

“I’d be the one eating,” he teases, you exhale, a breathy little laugh escaping your lips as he moves his hand higher, teasing that skin there, you damn near press his hand between your thighs you clench up so tight. “Oh, you like that idea?”

“You know I do, bratty boy,” his fingers press firmly against your panty clad cunt for a brief moment, and you barely fucking bite back a moan, burying your face against the crook of his neck, hoping no one could hear your little gasp. “Toru….”

“Fuck, you’re already soaking through these panties, hmm?” You just nod, your face burning as you shift once more, his fingertips brushing over where you’re swollen and needy. “All from thinking of me?”

“You’re teasin’ me, meanie,” he laughs softly, shaking his head as you nip his neck with your teeth, earning his own little soft moan. “Revenge.”

“Revenge, hmm?”

“Mhm…” The waitress comes, having you both separate, she is bright and bubbly as she damn near gives Satoru her number, just for him to politely ignore her advances.

The audacity of people never serves to blow you away.

Yet in that very moment, you know all the attention is right on you, even as his damn phone goes off – it’s on vibrate as you’re both sipping on wine, nibbling on appetizers together. Yet it keeps buzzing on the table, moving in little circles it’s vibrating so fucking hard – Satoru glances at it, his jaw tightening a bit visibly.

“Wanna check?”

“No.”

“Toru it could be your parents, Suguru…” He sighs at that, picking up the phone and peeking at it, frowning, shoving it into his pocket with a hasty little gesture.

“Not them.”

Ah.

“Sarah?” you ask softly, unsure of just how to bring it up, he’s clearly frustrated at her incessant calling.

“She clearly can’t stand the thought of me not being at her beck and call anymore,” Satoru sighs and looks at you, forking a bite of food in your mouth. “Open up now.”

“You can’t say that,” he laughs softly, clearly trying to ease the tension, as you chew thoughtfully. “Mmm, it’s yummy.”

“It is,” you laugh again, when he reaches his hand over to you, his fingertips brushing against the corner of your mouth, where a little drop fell. The contact alone has your pulse just racing. “Very yummy.”

“Will I be finding out tonight?” You tease, then gasp. “Oh my god, I said that!?”

“Yeah you did,” he’s damn near snorting as you playfully shove him, feeling that blush rush across your cheeks, especially when his fingertips slide down the side of your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone, leaving goosebumps everywhere as the tension builds even deeper.

God it’s hard not to slide on his lap.

You’ve never felt this, and it’s terrifying.

The only thing that breaks up the tension is when that phone starts ringing again, buzzing in his pocket, he peers at it and glares.

“Toru…”

“She can fuck right off. I’m busy with you,” your lips tremble a bit, he grabs his fork and feeds you more. “Very busy.”

“Good,” you answer softly. “I’d get jealous.”

“Oh yeah?” He raises a brow and you nod, making him chuckle. “You’re fucking adorable.”

“Adorable, I’m serious!”

“I won’t make you jealous, ever…” He leans close, cupping your face once more. “All my undivided attention is here, okay?”

“I do?” He hums and nods, capturing your mouth in another sweet kiss, one that lingers and feels you so full, you can’t help but sigh and lean into it.

“I’m all yours tonight,” he grins, letting you feel the lines of his teeth. “Sounds slutty, doesn’t it?”

“It does a bit,” you’re so nervous now – Satoru is absolutely the more experienced one, and you won’t know what you’re doing when you try to please him. But damned if that will stop you from trying. “All mine?”

“Mhm.”

*****

The tension is damn near unbearable when the two of you get back in the car, and the two glasses of pinot are rushing through your veins, making you dizzy.

“I had so much fun,” you say softly as he pulls out of the parking lot, his hand right back on your thigh, possessive, so fucking warm. It’s not teasing like at the restaurant, it’s firmly sitting there, squeezing almost too hard. “Did you?”

“I did,” you hear his sigh. “Too much fucking fun.”

“It was! I can’t believe we went on a date,” he’s laughing again softly at how cute you are, with the lights shining in the car as he drives through the nearly empty streets at night, his fingertips trailing up towards that heat.

“We went on a date,” he slips his fingers past the hem of your dress, pushing aside the soaked fabric of your panties to find your slick, swollen folds, eliciting a filthy little whine from your throat. “Fuck… you’re even wetter…”

“All your fault,” you mumble, arching your hips, leaning closer. “Had me thinking of your promise.”

“Oh?” He feels how soaked you are, groaning out at it – his eyes flicking between you and the road, as he glides a lengthy finger through your wet, puffy folds, so hot he can’t imagine how good it’d feel around him. “All this thinking of sucking my cock, really?”

“Yes… ah! W-wanna…” Your head falls back against the seat as he finds your clit now, circling it with a practiced ease that has you petty and jealous as fuck that Sarah got it, you shove it right out of your mind, knowing it’s nonsense.

You wish it was only ever you two and that’s fucking ridiculous, what this boy makes you feel, as you’re rolling your hips against his hand, craving even more.

“Wanna what, hmm? Can’t talk?”

“Tease,” you moan in frustration when he pulls his fingers off, sucking one and making you gasp. “Toru… could I try now?”

“Sucking my cock driving!?!”

“Yes?” His eyes widen, fingers falling from his lips as you start panicking just a bit at your bold ass words. “I mean… no? I mean…. Yes.”

“Fuck…”

Is he in a dream?

“You really wanna?” He’s almost nervous, yes he’s done that a lot with Sarah, but this was you – sweet, innocent, band geek girl who he’s played alongside since the damn sandbox at the playground.

What if he hurt your mouth?

What if he gagged you?

What if you hit some speedbump and you bit it on accident, if you-

“I do want to try um, only if you want,” you whisper, he can hardly hold his thoughts together, mind swirling with every thought ever as you look at him all pretty in the night, your scent clinging to him, taste ruining his senses. “I wanna please you like you did.”

“Anything you do will,” he murmurs, leaning back as you all hit a red light and nervously fumbling with his zipper like it’s his damn first time, the metallic rasp of it echoing in the car, mixing with the quiet him. You bite down on your lip, undoing your seatbelt to lean over, a strap falling down your shoulder to reveal some of your pretty collarbone. “God, look at you.”

He frees his cock with a pathetic little whine, and it slaps hard against his stomach, thick and heavy, just leaking pre-cum right down that swollen tip, reddened with how badly he needs you. “Toru… you’re hard from…”

“Touching you? God, yes,” you lean forward, ever trusting, as he takes your hand and wraps it around him, exhaling, the light turns green and he very reluctantly starts driving, his hand leaving yours now, slipping up the back of your hair on your neck and entangling there as you kneel. “Feel what you do to me, pretty girl? Feel how hard I am for you?”

“Yes,” it’s heady, knowing you have this effect on him, as you stroke him carefully, your thumb swiping over the slick head, swirling that pre right around, earning his little groan, his head tilting back against the seat for just a moment. “Should I put my mouth around you?”

“God, please,” he laughs now. “Got me pathetic.”

“No, Toru,” you lap your tongue to gather it, climbing so you’re right on your knees with your ass up as he drives, his hand tightening when you wrap your mouth around his fat tip and suck. “Mnnh…”

“Fuckin’ perfect, shit,” he’s having trouble with just the tip in your mouth, that’s how fucked you have him as you suck, and he can’t stop the sounds escaping his mouth, ones Sarah would have made fun of if she could have ever even gotten them from him.

You’re so different.

You moan at his whimpers, you arch higher, soft and sweet how you suck, like you’re worried to hurt him – each bump on the road knocking his cock deeper in your throat. Stretching it, burning it, making him suck in a breath – whispering your name in a way that has you slick when he finds you over your panties.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re even wetter,” he runs his fingers underneath your panties, right along your bare, dripping folds, finding your hole and plunging right inside.

After teasing it all damn evening, his fingertip that pulls out and drags against your sensitive clit is almost too much, you’re drooling down his cock, taking him even deeper. “Mnh!”

“Like that?” he asks softly, his voice husky and deep – so fucking low it hits some part of you that makes you clench around him, as you swallow around his cock, slurping up every bit of pre that spurts out. “You’re doing so good, that’s it – don’t even have to tell you what to do.”

The praise fucks you up furthher, as he’s dragging his shaft through your wet mouth, his fingers pumping in and out of your slick pussy, she sucks two fingers in far easier than last time, so full with those callouses inside you the sensation is too hard to articulate. Your brain is all addled as you take more, until you’re choking on him, spit falling right around.

“Oh my…” He’s at another red light, hand pulling hard at your hair, his hips bucking up. “You takin’ cock like that? Choking just for me?”

“Mhm,” is your only response, your hands gripping his thighs, the denim rough underneath your skin as your head starts moving with his guidance. He’s bucking his hips up in a desperate, needy little rhythm as your lashes flutter shut, the noises just urging you on.

“Are you okay, baby?” He pauses when you gag, you pull back, looking at him with dazed eyes and dripping lips, nodding. “You sure?”

“I like choking on it…”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Satoru knows he doesn’t have much longer, so fucking drunk off your mouth that he doesn’t notice the green lights, the horns behind you both, your mouth landing right back on his length. He hits another speed bump, shoving his cock so deep he feels your tiny throat stretching, his fingers landing back in your hair to try to tug you up, leaving your pussy empty.

“Sorry, shit, I…”

“No,” you murmur now, your tongue focusing on his tip, hand stroking his spit soaked cock as he drives. “Please, I like it.”

“Can’t take it,” he pulls right in front of your dorm now, dragging you on his lap, completely and utterly done for when he kisses the white off your mouth, tongue lavishing alongside yours as he drags your bare cunt against him, your thighs trembling on either side of him once he’s in park. “I need to feel her.”

“Toru I…”

“Won’t take your first time like this baby,” he reassures you immediately, gliding his tip through your swollen folds, hearing your every little sigh and whine as the steering wheel presses against.”

“What if I want it?” He pauses, cursing and resting his head against your chest, sighing.

“Not gonna fuck you in the car for the first, sorry,” he sighs at your cute little pout. “Didn’t you wanna wait a bit?”

“Not now.”

Satoru chuckles, grinding against you once more, watching your head fall back as he kisses up your throat. “Oh? Now you’re so ready, hmm?”

“Very,”, the friction is unbearably sweet, each jerk of his hips and drag of his cock against your clit shooting hot need right through you. The purring hum of his car is filled with the wet, slick sounds of your cunt on him, with the light whir of that air conditioner blowing on your skin. “I want it.”

“I want you,” he murmurs now, leaning back to tug your panties aside and slip his seat back, his eyes darting right to where you’re gliding and making a mess on him, watching his cock disappear and reappear from between your folds, picturing how good it’ll look when it’s in your stomach. “You’re so fucking wet for me, hmm? Making such a mess.”

He grabs your ass now, firmer than before – his long fingers digging into the soft flesh of it as he takes control of the pace, rutting even faster, kissing up your collarbone as your head falls to the side.

“Toru, in me…”

“Wanna lose it on the first date, baby? Tsk,” you shove at him playfully, making his eyes light up, and you pause.

Even if it’s filthy straddling Satoru Gojo like this, even if he’s leaking pre against your twitchy, needy clit, his eyes lighting up in the dark?

It’s so sweet.

It’s what you missed the most about him since he endured Sarah, the light you’d give anything to see again, right here, as he’s moving you up and down, fucking your panties when they slip back. His tip presses in and out, stretching the cotton, making it completely soaked and nearly transparent with the mix of fluids. 

All while you peek at him under your lashes, so much left unsaid between the two of you.

“What is it? Hmm?” He is teasing you now  grinding against your cunt, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against your inner thighs in a way that makes you even wetter. You can feel the pressure inside you building up so tight, this burning hot need in your stomach as you moan out, kissing him and rolling your hips right with his guidance.

“Your eyes,” you whisper, nose nuzzling his for just a moment as he pauses. “They're so happy right now.”

He can't stop the grin on his damn face.

“That's because of you,” you melt, kissing him messier now. “Got me all corny.”

“I like …. It, Toru… I’m…” you can barely form the words you need anymore, your body trembling as he lifts and drags you down, every kiss stealing your breath. “Gonna c-cum, I…”

“Me too, sweetheart,” he whispers out the words, his voice a hot breath against your lips. “Cum with me, yeah? Let me feel you soak my cock with all that pretty slick, please? Just for me.”

His words and his jerky motions are your undoing, the way he asks is so damn cute as if he's not this close to slamming you down on his cock. His tip hits your clit one more time, and you shatter over him, blinding pleasure so intense you see white hot stars behind your closed eyes.

“Look at me,” you try to obey, gasping out as you squirt right on him, your cunt clenching and pulsing around nothing as you gush. “Good girl. Fuck… good… girl…”

He's kissing you as he feels your slickness rushing down him, making the glide even easier, pushing him right over with you.

“Good girl…” he murmurs again, having you tremble from aftershocks and cling tightly to his shoulders, cursing when he finally cums right on you.

You gasp when you feel it – those hot, thick puffy ropes of white cum spurting against your cunt, so much some sticks to your stomach and pussy, coating your skin in a warm, sticky mess. He keeps grinding against you even after, even as he is so clearly desperate and needy, drawing out both of your pleasure orgasm as he pulses and twitches.

“God,” he groans out, the sound muffled against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he bucks up a few more times, until you're both twitchy, oversensitive little messes.

For a moment, you both just breathe together and kiss softly, the only sounds in the now steamed up sports car are those, the whines, the whimpers, the hasty little murmurs of your names.

You can feel the frantic thrumming of your pulse, making you dizzy as you fall against him, whole body weak from pleasure.

If that's what just dry humping or panty fucking was, what was sex?

How would you take that!?

“Fuck I never thought I would feel this,” he finally whispers, after he catches his breath a bit, pressing soft, lingering little kisses along the curve of your shoulder, his hands coming up to stroke your back in little circles, easing back to study you.

God he is pretty like this.

“You okay. Baby, too much?”

You nod quickly, still so shy you hug him tightly, your face buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent as you gather yourself. “Mhm.”

“You sure?” You nod again, too overwhelmed to speak with the sensation of still feeling his cum against your skin, feeling the intimacy.

“I am. Promise, just was… too good?”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah it was, I think I blacked out for a second there.”

You lift your head and giggle, a shy smile playing on your lips, brushing some of his hair back from his damp forehead, seeing just how affected he is too. “No way?”

“Yeah I really did.”

In the reflection of his dark, glassy eyes. you're just the mirror image of him. Fucked out and…

In love.

He looks utterly wrecked, just like you, and a part of you can't help but love it – love that you did that to him.

He reaches up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, sighing as he studies you. “You’re so pretty, look at you.”

You blush at the praise, biting your lip. “You are.”

“Am I. Hmm?” He smirks lazily.

“Very, conceited boy, you already know…”

You are so in love it hurts.

Satoru is achingly gentle as he shifts you, eyeing the mess between you, his cum splattered across your stomach and the delicate silk of your dress, making him blush to the tips of his ears, seeing the crinkled material.

“Shit. I ruined your dress!”

You glance down and laugh softly, shaking your head.“It’s just a dress, it'll wash. It was so worth it.”

“Was it?” You giggle all cute again, ruining him. “Well, good… but, still, just lemme clean you up, yeah?”

Satoru is sweet and gentle as he carefully wipes the sticky fluid from your skin, that blush on his cheeks even redder as he sees just how much he came, his gaze still flickering back and forth between your eyes and the white on your skin.

“You were messy too,” you tease, he can’t help but grin as he kisses across your neck once more, wiping you carefully and easing your soaked cunt off him reluctantly.

“Very… there,” Satoru smooths your dress down over your soft thighs, his hands lingering on your hips and pressing in, despite the wrinkling of the fabric, you still looked so fucking pretty in it.

“All better?”

“Mhm, just perfect...”

He just holds you for a while after that on his lap, the sweetest hug after you are coming down from your high, back rubbed gently by his big hand, so soothing you feel yourself almost falling asleep.

It feels perfect with your head resting on his strong chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you, as the two of you match each other’s breathing, so much left to say that the silence is deafening.

Yet, it’s so new to you.

And he’s been hurt.

So for now, you both just snuggle, even as his phone buzzes again from his pocket, a persistent little fucking reminder that Sarah wasn’t just going to give up – despite treating Satoru like shit. The thoughts have your tummy flipping.

“Should you at least tell her to stop?”

“No, I won’t acknowledge her damn existence,” he says, taking the phone and putting it off vibrate now, grimacing and the amount of nasty ass texts and calls.

“What did she say?”

“Dumb shit that doesn’t matter,” he deletes the entire conversation, cupping your face once he sets down the phone. “Right now, this is all that matters, okay? You and me.”

You tilt your head back to look at him, your heart swelling. “Satoru… I…”

You swallow nervously, the words at the very tip of your tongue – It's too fast, even if you have known him forever. Satoru needs time to heal. 

So for now, you just cup his face right back, letting him nuzzle and kiss your palm so cute your heart breaks.

The boy you always loved, you’re in his arms.

“I loved tonight, so much,” he grins again at that, bright white teeth against his face at your words. “I love the smile on your face tonight, and how your eyes are lit up so bright.”

“I feel the same looking at you,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Me too, so much. I can't wait for the formal.”

“Oh my god, me too!”

He walks you back up after a little bit, lingering in your doorway, unable to stop kissing you over and over, almost having to literally tear himself off since he has football God awful early.

But it's damn near impossible not to beg to sleep next to you.

“Good night, sweets,” he says finally, after a million little kisses, seeing just how sleepy you are.

“I’ll be at your practice tomorrow!”

“No, you’re so tired…”

“I wanna go,” you yawn again, hugging him tightly. “I wanna be at every practice for you.”

His heart is melting as he kisses the top of your head.

“Then I’ll be here to pick you up, okay?”

“Mhm,” you sigh, never wanting to leave his embrace as sleep already tugs at you. “G’night Toru.”

He keeps ignoring that phone after he leaves you and heads back, only for Sarah to lose her shit – glaring as she paces back and forth, before she looks up your dorm information, smiling.

She'd have to just pay you a visit in the morning, to make sure you knew your place.

*****

You expect it to be Satoru when you yawn and open up the door, the love note in your hand – but it’s not him.

It’s Sarah.

Your heart races in your chest when she smiles all mean and jacks it right out of your hand, laughing.

“Well what do we have here?”

Patreon - comms <3