ShaySaturn

he steals your lighter constantly even though he owns three of his own. days later you’ll find it in the pocket of his jacket, scratched up from being tossed around with keys and coins. when you complain, he just shrugs and says, “guess you’ll have to keep hanging around me if you want it back.”

for someone who acts carefree, shuji notices tiny details about you. if you’re quieter than usual, he catches it within minutes. if you skip lunch, he somehow finds out. he’ll toss you a drink or a snack with a lazy “eat,” pretending not to care whether you listen, but he keeps watching until you do.

hanma acts like your belongings are shared property. your jacket ends up on his shoulders, your headphones vanish into his pocket, and he’ll borrow your hoodie for days before giving it back smelling faintly of cigarettes and city air. when you ask why he never wears his own clothes instead, he smirks. “yours are better.”

he never admits when he’s worried about you, but it shows in other ways. if you’re walking home late, he suddenly “happens” to be nearby. if your plans change unexpectedly, he appears before you even have the chance to call. when you point out the coincidence, hanma just laughs and says the city isn’t that big.

he likes making you laugh because it’s one of the few sounds that cuts through the constant noise in his own head. even on rough days, he’ll tell ridiculous stories or exaggerate something that happened just to see you roll your eyes and smile. when it works, shuji looks oddly satisfied.

there are nights when he’s quieter than usual, cigarette burning low between his fingers as the city lights reflect in his eyes. instead of talking, he simply sits close enough that your shoulders touch, occasionally nudging you with his elbow to make sure you’re still there. words aren’t really his style, but the fact that he chooses your company over anything else says enough.

whenever hanma's been away for a while, the first thing he does when he sees you is look you over from head to toe. he never says what he’s checking for, but you know he’s making sure you’re unhurt. only after he’s satisfied does the lazy grin return to his face, followed by some sarcastic comment to cover up how relieved he actually is.

he smokes more when he’s stressed, but around you he tries to cut himself off halfway through. there are nights when you catch him staring at the cigarette between his fingers before sighing and putting it out early. if you ask why, he shrugs and mumbles, “you complain about the smell.” the truth is he likes when your hair carries your perfume instead of smoke after you hug him.

shuji keeps little reminders of you in places nobody would think to look. a photo booth strip tucked into his wallet behind folded bills. an old receipt with your handwriting on it shoved inside his jacket pocket. a cheap keychain you won for him that dangles from his motorcycle keys despite looking completely out of place. if anyone ever noticed, he’d deny caring so fast it would almost be convincing.

he hates saying goodbye. instead of admitting it, he creates excuses to stretch every farewell by another minute. he’ll ask one more pointless question, borrow your lighter only to hand it back immediately, or suddenly remember something funny he forgot to tell you. eventually you realize he isn’t trying to keep the conversation going - he’s trying to delay walking away from you.

every now and then you wake up in the middle of the night to find him still awake beside you, staring at the ceiling. when shuji notices you looking, he flashes that familiar crooked grin and claims he just can’t sleep. what he doesn’t admit is that he sometimes stays awake listening to the rhythm of your breathing because it’s one of the only things that slows his racing mind.

when hanma gets hurt, his instinct is to hide it. he’d rather joke about the bruise than let you see how much it aches. but if you discover it anyway and insist on patching him up, he becomes unusually cooperative, sitting still while you work and watching your face the entire time. by the end, he’s smiling - not because the pain is gone, but because someone cared enough to make him stop pretending.

if you absentmindedly play with hanma's hair while sitting together, he practically melts without realizing it. his eyes drift shut, his shoulders loosen, and the constant restless energy he carries finally settles. he’d never admit how much he likes it, but the next time you’re together he somehow always ends up sitting close enough for you to do it again.

itoshi rin

rin swore he would act normal. 

he did not act normal. 

he actually spent the entire week beforehand annoyed at himself because why did he care what some celebrity thought of him? pathetic. embarrassing. disgusting behavior. 

and yet he still knew your favorite drink order. because he “accidentally” memorized it from interviews. sure. 

the first meeting happens backstage at an awards ceremony. he’s leaning against the wall looking all cold and untouchable until you walk up smiling and introduce yourself. 

and this idiot just stares. 

too long. long enough that you tilt your head a little like “um… hello???” 

he finally mutters your name under his breath like he’s checking if it’s real. 

the thing is, rin’s version of being a loser in love is becoming even MORE awkward. more stiff. more intensely aware of every movement he makes. 

you ask if he’s nervous for the ceremony and he immediately says, “no.” 

then walks directly into a table. 

not even a little bump either. full force. LOUD. 

the silence afterward is catastrophic. 

you trying not to laugh makes it worse because now his ears are pink and he knows you noticed. 

the viral clip though? oh it destroys him. 

during a red carpet interview, the interviewer asks which celebrity he’d want to collaborate with someday and before rin can dodge the question, his eyes drift toward you across the carpet for literally half a second. HALF A SECOND. 

internet detectives catch it instantly. 

then the camera cuts to him realizing the audience noticed and he physically clenches his jaw. 

people on tik tok and instagram start zooming in with captions like: “the way he looked at her omg.” “HE’S TRYING SO HARD TO ACT NONCHALANT LMAO.” “rin itoshi caught lacking bro is NOT tuff.” 

his fans are losing their minds because rin almost never reacts emotionally in public. 

meanwhile your fans are crying laughing because every clip of him near you looks like either a feral cat being shown affection for the first time or someone trying to survive a hostage situation. 

there’s also a famous fancam compilation titled: “rin itoshi vs. his own feelings.” 

it’s 10 minutes long. 

itoshi sae

sae is usually smooth. usually. 

but apparently all his composure evaporates when you’re around because the first thing he says after meeting you is: “you’re shorter than i expected.” 

which sounds rude. horribly rude. 

except he says it while looking weirdly fascinated, like he genuinely didn’t expect you to exist in three dimensions. 

you burst out laughing though, thank god, and suddenly sae looks slightly less tense. 

i say slightly because he’s still a loser. just in a different font. 

the interaction happens during a luxury brand event where you’re both ambassadors. sae had fully planned on keeping things professional and detached. 

instead: he keeps glancing at you mid-conversation. he forgets to answer questions immediately. he lets you steal his drink without complaining. he actually smiles at one of your jokes and the photographers nearly collapse on site. 

because sae smiling naturally is apparently a once-in-a-century astronomical event. 

the clip that detonates online happens when you casually fix his crooked tie during an interview. that’s it. that’s all. 

but sae stills completely. COMPLETELY. 

he just looks down at you with this unreadable expression while you fix it, and when you finish he quietly says “thanks” in the softest voice imaginable. 

internet GONE. absolutely gone. 

his fans are like: “HE LOOKS SO GENTLE WITH HER.” “sae letting someone touch him voluntarily?????” “oh he likes her BAD.” “the eye contact just impregnated me spiritually.” “pause.” 

your fans are even worse because they immediately decide the tension is cinematic. 

people start making fake wedding edits within HOURS. 

someone tweets: “they look like divorced royalty reconnecting at a gala.” 50k likes in 5 minutes. insane. 

nagi seishiro

nagi’s crush on you was already public knowledge to literally everyone except you. 

reo knew. chris knew. the entire manshine team knew. 

because nagi had absolutely no shame about watching your livestreams during practice. 

he once said “wait she uploaded” in the middle of reviewing match footage. 

so when he finally meets you at a gaming sponsorship event, everybody’s waiting for him to embarrass himself. 

and he DELIVERS. 

first of all, he accidentally says “hi, i love you” instead of “hi, i love your work.” 

reo is choking in the background. 

nagi is staring into space processing what he just said. 

but you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall out of your chair. 

and instead of recovering, he just sighs and goes “… well. too late now.” 

HE’S SUCH A LOSER, BUT YOUR LOSER.  

then he proceeds to follow you around the event like a sleepy cat. 

sitting beside you. handing you snacks. leaning over your shoulder to look at your game screen. mumbling little comments only for you. 

the internet clip that explodes is when you excitedly grab his arm after winning a round and he literally rests his forehead on your shoulder for a second because he’s overwhelmed. 

the camera catches his expression, too. completely soft. completely gone. like he’s melting alive. 

people start calling him “the nation’s laziest simp.” 

his fans actually adore it though because nagi’s usually lazy and detached about everything, but around you he suddenly seems awake. attentive. clingy. 

your fans think it’s hilarious because: “she adopted a giant housecat.” “he’s attached to her by an invisible string.” “that man would follow her into traffic.” 

the edits become unavoidable. 

especially the ones where they compare: nagi with everyone else: 😐 nagi with you: ☀️🌸💍✨ and it gets you every time. 

mikage reo

reo thought he had this completely under control. 

he’s rich, charming, attractive, socially polished. he talks to celebrities all the time. 

except YOU specifically apparently turn him into a disaster. 

he meets you at a fashion week event after-party and genuinely starts tweaking the second you compliment his outfit. because the compliment was detailed. 

you noticed the watch. the WATCH. 

now he’s internally spiraling because “she noticed the watch” has become the only thought in his head. 

he starts trying too hard after that. so hard. 

offering you drinks every 5 seconds. pulling chairs out for you. laughing before you finish jokes. accidentally bragging because he wants to impress you then immediately hating himself for it. 

the funniest part is that reo’s usually smooth enough to hide his emotions, but around you he gets this ridiculously lovestruck look in his eyes. like full disney prince. 

and EVERY camera catches it. 

the viral clip happens when you touch his necklace while asking where it’s from. 

reo literally stops mid-sentence. paused mid-smile. 

then he answers way too quietly: “… you can keep it if you want.” 

THE INTERNET SCREAMS. 

because why did he say that like a man returning from war. 

his fans are posting: “he folded instantly.” “reo mikage giving away luxury jewelry over hand contact.” “bro saw his future wife.” 

your fans think he’s painfully cute because despite being rich and confident, he acts like a teenage boy with his first crush around you. 

and the shipping becomes violent. 

there are fan cams. analysis threads. body language experts. people tracking how often he looks at you during interviews. 

reo absolutely reads all of them, too. 

then sends the funniest ones to nagi late at night like: “do you think we looked obvious…” 

and nagi replies: “u looked one marriage proposal away from fainting. now stop asking.” 

bachira meguru

bachira is the worst kind of celebrity-crush-haver because he has absolutely ZERO shame. none. 

the second he finds out he's meeting you, he's already telling everyone. 

isagi's tired. rin's annoyed. the staff are regretting inviting him. 

"i'm gonna make her laugh." "that's nice, bachira." "and then we're gonna be best friends." "..." "and then maybe she'll let me borrow her makeup." 

the confidence is insane considering he has never spoken to you once. 

then he actually meets you. 

and somehow becomes even weirder. 

because instead of introducing himself normally, he immediately blurts out: "you're real!" 

which sounds absolutely even more insane… 

you laugh though, which bachira treats like winning the lottery. 

after that, he's attached to your side the entire event. showing you random videos. asking a million questions. telling you stories that start with one topic and somehow end somewhere completely different. 

the viral clip happens when you laugh so hard at one of his jokes that you accidentally grab his shoulder. 

bachira immediately throws both hands over his face and starts spinning in a circle. A FULL CIRCLE. like an excited golden retriever. 

people nearby are crying laughing. 

twitter titles the clip: "professional athlete experiences positive reinforcement.” 

his fans think it's adorable because bachira's always affectionate, but this is different. 

he's nervous. he's excited. he keeps checking whether you're still listening when he talks. 

your fans notice immediately. "HE KEEPS LOOKING TO SEE IF SHE'S HAVING FUN.” "he's literally wagging his tail.” "someone put him on a leash before he follows her home.” 

the edits are ridiculous. 

people start calling you "the monster's favorite person." 

bachira absolutely saves every single one. 

shidou ryusei

meeting his celebrity crush is unfortunately a public safety hazard. 

because shidou does not know how to act normal. 

you walk into the room. he sees you. and immediately slams both hands onto the table. 

"OH MY MAMAS." 

everyone jumps. including you. 

"YOU'RE EVEN PRETTIER IN PERSON." 

staff members are already developing migraines. 

shidou doesn't care. he's grinning so hard his face probably hurts. 

the entire interaction feels like a live grenade rolling around the room. he keeps complimenting you. keeps making you laugh. keeps getting distracted mid-conversation because he's too busy staring. never leaves your side for a single second. 

at one point, you ask him a simple question. 

he doesn't answer. because he forgot the question. because he was looking at you. because he's a loser. 

the viral clip is catastrophic. 

during a group photo, you casually link arms with him. 

shidou reacts like someone injected pure electricity into his bloodstream. 

he physically JUMPS. then immediately starts yelling. 

"DO YOU GUYS SEE THIS?" 

everyone sees it. the cameras see it. the internet sees it. 

his fans are dying. "he folded faster than laundry.” "the strongest striker in blue lock defeated by one pretty girl.” "he's giggling bro.” 

your fans are mostly entertained because shidou isn't even trying to hide it. 

he's not subtle. he's not mysterious. 

he's basically wearing a neon sign that says: I HAVE A CRUSH AND I’M PROUD. 

karasu tabito

karasu spends years making fun of other people for being down bad. years. then karma arrives. and it arrives in the form of you. 

he meets you at a sponsored charity event and immediately realizes he's in trouble when he starts fixing his posture. 

karasu never fixes his posture. ever. 

suddenly he's checking his hair. adjusting his sleeves. thinking before he speaks. absolutely humiliating. 

he's still smooth though. or at least… he tries to be. 

the problem is that every time you smile at him, he completely loses his train of thought. 

you'll ask him something simple. he'll start answering. then halfway through he'll forget where he was going. 

which is how he ends up saying things like: "yeah, so i started playing soccer because... because..." 

there’s long pause. you’re smiling. 

"... wow." "wow?" "yeah. wow." 

absolutely finished. 

the viral clip comes from an interview. you're sitting beside him. the interviewer asks a question. karasu answers. except the entire time he's looking at you instead of the interviewer. the ENTIRE TIME. 

netizens immediately create side-by-side compilations. the evidence is overwhelming. 

his fans are screaming because karasu usually notices everything around him. but around you? he notices literally nothing else. 

your fans think it's hilarious. "he looks like he's listening to wedding vows." "that man is studying her face like it'll be on the final exam bruh." "awww karasu got hit by a truck called love 😍" 

kaiser michael

kaiser's plan was simple. he would charm you. you would be impressed. everything would go according to schedule. 

unfortunately for him, you walk in and suddenly he can't remember half his prepared lines. 

which is terrifying. because kaiser ALWAYS has lines. 

he introduces himself with his usual confidence. flashes the smile. does the eye contact. everything's perfect. 

then you compliment his rose tattoo. and this man forgets how conversations work. 

he literally goes: "... thank you." 

and then nothing. empty thoughts. the emperor has fallen. 

kaiser spends the rest of the event trying desperately to regain control. 

except every time he thinks he's recovered, you say something cute and he's back at square one. 

the viral clip absolutely ruins him. during a photoshoot, you reach over and brush something off his shoulder. that's it. tiny gesture. totally harmless. 

except kaiser freezes. and for a split second, just one second, his expression softens. completely. all the arrogance disappears. all the confidence disappears. he just looks… hopelessly gone. 

the camera catches everything. 

the internet’s reactions? "WHO IS THAT MAN?” "THAT IS NOT MICHAEL KAISER.” "SOMEBODY CHECK HIS TEMPERATURE.” 

his fans lose their minds because kaiser's entire brand is confidence. seeing him vulnerable for even half a second feels like discovering classified government documents. 

your fans immediately become obsessed. 

the edits hit 20 million views, it’s crazy. 

ness alexis

OH NO. NAUR. 

ness is somehow worse than everyone else. because unlike the others, he genuinely prepared. 

he researched your interviews. your favorite movies. your hobbies. not in a creepy way. but rather, to make a good impression. 

the problem is that all preparation disappears the second you actually speak to him. 

you smile. say hello. 

and this poor man starts buffering. 

every sentence comes out awkward. every answer is slightly too enthusiastic. he keeps accidentally agreeing with everything you say. 

you could say: "i think pigeons are funny." 

and ness would immediately go: "YES." 

why? he doesn't know. 

the clip that goes viral is devastating. you're both participating in a challenge video. at one point, you laugh and lean against his shoulder for balance. 

ness immediately stops functioning. his face goes bright red. his eyes get wide. he forgets what game you're playing. for nearly 15 seconds. 

everyone notices. especially kaiser, who is standing in the background looking disgusted. 

internet captions: "bro entered cardiac arrest.” "he's fighting for his life.” "someone get him water.” “ref wya.” 

ness's fans actually find it really sweet because beneath all the chaos, he's genuinely trying his best. 

he listens carefully when you talk. remembers little details. looks excited whenever you include him in conversations. 

your fans adore him almost immediately. "he's actually so cute.” "look at him trying not to smile.” "he acts like she hung the moon.” "HE'S BLUSHING IN 8K!!” 

the funniest part? months later, people are still making compilations titled: "alexis ness surviving interaction with his celebrity crush [name] (impossible challenge).” 

and every single time one pops up on his timeline, he closes the app and stares at the ceiling for a good 10 minutes. 

And wish that you may, love stories like those just didn’t happen in reality. No matter how many gatherings or balls you attended, no one who had ever tried to court you captured your heart. While you weren’t desperate for love, you had no desire to rush into a marriage for the sake of being married.

As you neared your thirties with no real prospects of a suitor, your stepmother grew increasingly worried that you’d die alone or become an old maid. You weren’t quite sure why those were the only two options in her mind. Not to mention, there were several other women in your position, so you didn’t understand why she felt the need to single you out specifically.

Then again, your poor step-sister, Tomme, also has been subjected to her mother’s incessant fretting over neither of her daughters having found a suitable husband. You just got the worst of it cause you were older than she.

The problem with your stepmother, though, was that she was unrealistic with her expectations. If she had it her way, one of her daughters would be married to the Crown Prince of the kingdom. Given that idea in and of itself was preposterous, she had made it very clear she wants you and Tomme to marry one of the Dukes of the neighboring provinces.

No matter that the Duke of the Southern Isles was rumored to be a violent brute or the Duke of the Eastern Province had one foot in the grave. Your stepmother had her eyes set on marrying both of her daughters to a wealthy man, love or age be damned. You’re convinced your father’s wealth was the only reason why she married him before he passed a few years ago due to illness. Although your family wasn’t extremely rich by any means, you were more comfortable than most with your late father’s status as Baron of the small town of Andio.

Subsequently, since she had taken over as Baroness, your stepmother has continued to move among elite circles and has managed her role as governing authority quite well, building up quite the reputation for herself. She knows all the gossip. She knows who’s courting whom and who is looking for marriage. So it’s no surprise to you that she managed to snag an invitation to this year’s upcoming Spring Social.

“You both will be attending tomorrow night’s gathering at the palace,” your stepmother, Lady Mima, announced at breakfast. No good morning or anything of the sort. You hadn’t even had your morning tea yet. And Tomme is still blinking the sleep out of her eyes while dressed in her night clothes.

“Mother, what are you even talking about?” Your stepsister yawns. She nods politely to one of the housemaids who plates her breakfast of eggs and fruit with a side of roasted boar from last night’s dinner.

“The Spring Social begins tomorrow at dusk. Word is, this year, Their Majesties are even more insistent on looking for a potential bride for His Highness now that he is past the coronation age.” She gives her daughter a knowing look, one riddled with an underlying sense of ambition. “You two are close in age, Tomme. Now is your chance.”

“Um…” Tomme nervously laughs, looking to you with eyes pleading for help.

“Stepmother, the Spring Social occurs every year, and His Highness has never shown an interest in courting anyone,” you say with a sigh. Lady Mima frowns in distaste as you reach across the table for the bowl of fruit. She was always a stickler for proper table manners. “What even is the point of going to these silly gatherings? Once you’ve been to one, you've been to them all.”

“You wouldn’t think of it as such if you finally settled down like I’ve been telling you to. And elbows off the table!”

You roll your eyes.

The Spring Social was a yearly week-long celebration to commemorate the beginning of Spring. Hosted by the King and Queen, it served as the most elite gathering of the entire year, drawing high and low-ranked nobles from across the kingdom. Usually, it included some sort of ball, a banquet, festivities, and performances. It was actually at the Social where your father met your mother, his first wife.

Most people use the event as an opportunity to present their sons and daughters to the rest of society for the first time when they reach of marrying age. A debut, if you would say. Five years ago, when the prince turned eighteen, he participated in the Social for the first time, which officially marked his debut as an eligible bachelor.

Of course, knowledge of this had many, your stepmother included, scrambling to try and polish their children’s appearance and manners to see if they could potentially sway the prince. You were in your mid-twenties at that time, and you outright refused to court someone who had just turned eighteen. And with Tomme being two years younger than the prince himself, she couldn’t participate in the Social yet.

Luckily (or unluckily for your stepsister), by the time she made her debut, the Prince had still been single. Three years since then, that has still been the case with no one seemingly able to thaw the notoriously cold Prince’s icy heart.

It still seems like your stepmother has yet to give up hope on marrying her youngest into royalty.

“We will go into town today to get you both fitted for dresses,” Lady Mima declares. She points her spoon at you with a glare. “You’re going to the ball tomorrow night, and you will attempt to mingle with the suitors this year. No hiding out in the garden again. Especially because the Duke of the Eastern Province’s son plans to attend for the first time.”

“Isn’t his son well into his thirties?” You ask. When her frown deepens, you sigh. Knowing better than to continue to argue with her, you mutter a snarky “yes ma’am” under your breath before continuing to dig into your breakfast. This does seem to appease your stepmother, who eagerly shifts the discussion to the ball and the theme for the year. Apparently, it would be a masquerade.

You supposed that could be entertaining.

To be honest, you hated the Spring Social and tried to avoid the gatherings that came with it like the plague. Last year, you hid out in the palace gardens the entire time, and the year before that, you feigned illness to leave early.

It wasn’t that you hated the gatherings or balls themselves—after all, even you loved a good new dress or fancy pair of jewelry. It was just, to put it frankly, the men were at best idiots and at worst, downright misogynistic pigs.

Unfortunately, many young men and women, yourself included, have been indoctrinated to believe and follow stereotypical gender roles where men have wealth and women play the role of obedient, quiet wives. Granted, women did hold high-ranking roles, your stepmother included, but they were few and far between. And more often, the woman didn’t own the role outright. She inherited from her husband and then became a widow.

This meant that ever since your debut, you’ve been subjected to the nonsensical rhetoric of your male peers. However, many of them hadn’t expected or liked that you talked back.

“A good wife should obey her husband.”

“You need to watch that mouth of yours.”

“No man will put up with a woman as vulgar as you.”

That was your favorite thing that’s ever been said to you after you kindly told the son of another nobleman to go fuck himself after he told you that you would be prettier if you smiled more.

You’ve since developed quite a reputation for yourself as being stubborn and “untamable.” Although you weren’t quite fond of the notion of people acting like you were an animal to be domesticated. You were your own individual with your own hobbies and interests. Sure, things like love or motherhood didn’t completely turn you off, but you didn’t want it to be your sole identity.

Due to your difficult personality and frank lack of cooperation, year after year passed without you finding a suitor. And the older you got, the fewer options there were as younger individuals began making their own debuts. By now, most of your choices were either some immature boy ten years younger than you or some widowed asshole ten years your senior.

Two sides of the same coin, but you didn’t know which was worse.

You supposed, with the Masquerade theme this year, you could fly under the radar. If everyone’s identity were hidden, that would mean they wouldn’t be looking for you specifically, and no one would question a thing if you conveniently disappeared for most of the event. As long as your stepmother was too busy trying to weasel her way into the inner aristocratic circle to notice your departure.

Once breakfast wrapped up, with conversation shifting from the ball to Lady Mima’s complaints about one of the governor’s wives and her behavior at her last tea party, the maids ushered you and Tomme to your rooms to dress for the day.

You suck in a breath as the corset is tightened, the maid tying it in a way that nearly restricts your movement. “I actually like my ability to breathe, and I don’t think my lungs can properly expand at this rate,” you lightly jest. The maid apologizes and loosens the strings just a bit.

“My apologies, Miss. Lady Mima instructed that we prepare you and Lady Tomme in a fashion that flatters all your assets.”

Of course she did.

“Mother just wants us to look our best,” Tomme says kindly, a surprise squeak leaving her lips as her own corset is suddenly pulled tight. She must’ve read the annoyed look on your face.

“She’s meddling in my love life, and I don’t quite appreciate it,” you mutter. You step into your dress, a simple gown in your favorite color with lace on the front.

“She truly means well. I know she’s a bit…”

“Eccentric?”

“Well, I was going to say ambitious, but I suppose that works too,” Tomme chuckles. “Just go along with it to placate her. If you at least act like you’re playing the game, she tends to back off.”

“But it’s not fair, is it not?” Your attendants tie up your dresses. The silly garments have far too many buttons and ties to be considered practical. You dismiss them when they try to do your hair. “Ultimately, it’s our life to live, and stepmother shouldn’t be able to just dictate whom we get to be with,” you huff in frustration.

Tomme’s smile softens in her reflection in the mirror, not quite pity but something akin to sadness. “It’s just how tradition works. Most people our age are in arranged marriages. My father and mother were by the time they were twenty.”

“Well, tradition can go to hell.”

Your stepsister laughs. She takes a seat on the stool in front of her vanity. You take a brush to her hair, running the bristles through to detangle it.

“Listen,” Tomme says gently. “Trust me when I say I understand the frustration. I have no desire or interest in marrying the prince either, but arguing with my mother is a moot point. Maybe instead of fighting her so much, why not just let your heart be open to the potential for love? I think she’d be happy to at least see you trying.”

“I may be almost thirty, but it’s not the end of the world. She makes it seem that I’ve gotten a late start compared to others,” you grumble under your breath. “I'm an adult and am more than capable of picking a proper suitor for myself.”

“And I don’t doubt that,” your sister agrees. “It will just take a certain type of man to win you over.”

You shoot her an incredulous look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tomme shrugs, a teasing grin on her face. “It means, dear sister, that you require a man who puts up with your stubbornness without stifling your independence, and he must be okay with your inability to cook a meal that’s not burnt. And I do wish the poor lad luck with that. Even the mules aren’t as hardheaded as you.”

At that, you playfully thwack her with the brush.

Despite being stepsisters, you honestly had a pretty good relationship with Tomme. Her mom and your dad were widows when they met. Tomme’s father passed away from an unexpected illness, and your mother died during childbirth.

You were young when they married. You were 12, and Tomme was even younger at 4. Since she was so young, she had taken a liking to you right away, and you never had it in your heart to be mean to a child, especially one who had just lost her father.

On the other hand, your relationship with your stepmother was cordial. Although you’d never met your biological mother, you were not jumping at the idea of trying to replace her. And you had a slight suspicion that your stepmother only married your father for his money, no matter how many times he tried to reassure you that he truly loved her.

When he died when you were sixteen, you were thoroughly surprised to see how she wept for him at the funeral and continued to grieve for him long after the mourning period ended. You weren’t sure if it was just for appearances' sake or not.

Ever since Lady Mima assumed the role of baroness, she has governed her land with a firm, though not completely unkind, iron fist. Of course, rumors have speculated about her potentially killing her second husband for his position and wealth.

But they were merely rumors. And, over the decade after his passing, Lady Mima has yet to remarry. To many, however, it’s because a woman twice widowed was not marital material. You think it’s because she’s more preoccupied with maintaining her status and meddling in the love lives of her two daughters.

“Come on, you two, enough dallying,” Lady Mima yelled from the hallway. “I want us to get to the tailor right when they open so we get the first selection of their new dress collection.”

As you rolled your eyes, Tomme laughed. “Coming mother.”

You take the carriage into town from your manor.

The kingdom had four major provinces: the Eastern Province, the Northern Territories, the Western Province, and the Southern Isles. Each province had its own major cities, but in the Eastern Province, Mono was the most notable. Other well-known cities included Penta and Tori.

Andio was a small town within Mono that your father, and now stepmother, governs. It was a rambunctious town not too far from the Southern Isles that often held festivals for the arts, and street performers weren’t uncommon. In fact, each year in late autumn, the town hosts its annual Doll Festival, a celebration completely dedicated to fashion and craftsmanship. Usually, it is hosted by August Stilza, a well-known tailor who has even made clothing for Her Majesty.

August was an interesting character, to say the least. He was close to Tomme’s age but didn’t act like most of the men you were accustomed to. For starters, his grandmother was a renowned doctor, yet he essentially renounced his stake in his inheritance and pursued tailoring instead. Although he has become quite successful in his own right, many were appalled that he would take on such a “feminine hobby.”

His younger sister has also been subject to scrutiny for pursuing medicine like her grandmother, but most people know better than to say that in the face of Alice Stilza. If people thought you could be vulgar, the woman can be downright venomous with her words if anyone spoke ill of either of her precious grandchildren.

Undeniably, August gets his boisterous personality from his grandmother, but he was funny, and you generally liked being around him. While kind and great at his craft, he unfortunately had one volume: loud.

“The Mima family has arrived!” August exclaims the moment you all walk into his shop. Your stepmother’s face scrunches in disdain.

“Good day to you, Lord Stilza,” she says gruffly. “We have appointments for 10.” She never liked the man, but you think it’s simply because he doesn’t follow most societal standards.

He wears his hair long, for starters. And in addition to being a tailor, August’s own fashion tastes run quite peculiar, with him often dressing more casually than expected. His own clothing often is patched up or wrinkled, as if he slept in it. Most of the time, he probably does because he works long hours. August once told you that his best inspiration hits after midnight.

“I’m well aware!” August says eagerly. “I’ve pulled out a few pieces I’ve recently made, including things from the last season. Who’d like to go first?”

Your stepmother butts in before either you or your sister can. “We’ll start with Tomme. After all, she needs to look her best for His Highness.”

Tomme strains a smile, letting out an uncomfortable laugh at being put on the spot.

“Very well.” August ushers her and your stepmother toward the back, where a few dressing screens have been set up. He looks over his shoulder, shooting you a smile. “Feel free to look around until I’m ready for ya!”

“Thank you. I will.”

You walk around the small store. On the outside, one wouldn’t think Stilza’s Threads would be much. As eccentric as August was and hailing from wealth, he was relatively modest in how he ran his business, with simple decor and a small building he called his shop. You make your way through the racks of clothes, glancing through the newest Spring collection before venturing to the remaining Winter items.

“August really is a magician at what he does,” you mumble, pulling out a lilac colored gown with more tulle and ruffles than one could ever dream of wearing. You set it back.

You didn’t want something that drew too much attention, nor would be too hard to move in. Last year, the dress you had was so long that you kept tripping. And one year, you got stuck wearing a gown from a different tailor than August, and the fabric had been so itchy, you broke out in a rash. After learning from that mistake, you’ve been consistently wearing August’s work ever since.

The bell on the front door chimes as it opens.

“Hey, August, are you busy?”

A tall gentleman enters the store. He’s dressed impeccably in a navy suit jacket with elaborate gold detailing and embroidery. Just underneath, he has on a white ruffled shirt with a caravat. The trousers appear to be light-coloured. Possibly cream, but they appear more off-white. His blond hair is slicked back, and sleek black shoes complete his look. Dare you say the man was quite attractive?

But you wouldn’t, and continue to browse through the clothes while pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Lord Rubion,” August replies, a hint of surprise in his voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure? I figured you’d be on the way to the palace by now for the Social.”

His overly polite tone was unlike him. Your curiosity couldn’t help but pique. August was never one to be overly formal, so who was this gentleman?

“I should be. You’re right.” The gentleman heaves out a frustrated-sounding sigh. He holds up something for the tailor to see: it’s a pair of buttons and a grey suit jacket. “Unfortunately, one of the seams split on my nephew’s suit. If it’s not too much of a hassle, would you mind fixing it and the buttons that popped off? It’s his debut tomorrow night, and his mother is insisting it has to be this suit.”

“Oh, not at all. Let me finish with my current client, and then I’ll be right with you.”

Gris nods. “Much appreciated.”

The blonde nobleman had quite literally been having the world’s shittiest day. His role as Count has him busy on most days, but with the upcoming Spring Social, his work seemed to have tripled in the last forty-eight hours. Between the work he had to do on behalf of the Eastern Province’s Duke, coupled with his elder sister’s fretting to ensure that his nephew, Follo’s, debut went perfectly, Gris was half tempted to lock himself in his office and drink just so he could get a break from all his responsibilities.

Honestly, he didn’t give a damn about attending the Social himself at this point. But it would reflect quite poorly if a high-ranking nobleman didn’t attend without a valid excuse. And given that he himself, at thirty years old, was still single, people would begin to talk more if Gris didn’t settle down within the next few years.

Setting Follo’s jacket down on the rack, Gris began to browse the store. He personally didn’t frequent Stilza’s Threads often, but the store was well enough known. Although August primarily designed women’s dresses, he had a fair selection of men’s suits. But it wasn’t the fine garments that caught his attention.

Gris realized he wasn’t alone in the shop. Well, August had just said that he was helping another client, but the blond hadn’t expected to see another young woman browsing through the dresses with a rather bored expression on her face.

His immediate thought was that she was cute.

He figured she had to be nobility, given her exquisite dress and the shiny, yet subtle, jewelry adorning her neck. A delicate pair of lace gloves covered her hands, and her hair was pinned out of her face, a common style. Perhaps the daughter of a nobleman?

“Staring is quite rude, My Lord,” the woman quips without looking up from the rack. She pulls an orange dress out, scans it, before setting it back.

Gris snaps out of his daze. A smile softens across his face. “My apologies. I was merely taken aback by how beautiful you are.”

You scoff, ignoring the way heat burns your cheeks. “Flattery will get you nowhere, sir. I’m not swayed by suave words.”

“Then perhaps I shall have to be more creative with my charms.” Though clearly teasing, Gris couldn’t ignore the strange flutter in his chest. You were not impressed by his flirtatious attempts, even rolling your eyes as if his presence bothered you, but oddly enough, that only drew his intrigue more. “Are you going to the ball tomorrow?” Gris asks. He oddly found himself wanting to talk to you more.

You make an impassive-sounding hum. “Just about everyone in the kingdom is, no?”

Gris chuckles. “Fair point. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you then?”

“It’s a masquerade, My Lord,” you remind. “Our identities will be a mystery the whole night.”

Damn. Gris forgot.

He had been having coffee with the Duke of the Eastern Province’s son when he first learned of the theme. When Arkha initially mentioned that the theme of the upcoming ball would be a masquerade, Gris had thought the idea was a bit silly. What was the point of having a costume party, essentially, when the whole point of the Social itself was to eventually get to know people? A masquerade kind of defeated that purpose if you didn’t know who you were interacting with.

But, Gris supposed he could see the appeal. It was a new concept that could be exciting if executed correctly. And not to mention, there was less pressure to impress or maintain appearances if people couldn’t immediately tell that he was Gris Rubion, Count of Mono.

If he were to be honest, one of the reasons why Gris hadn’t jumped to get married was that nothing ever felt authentic. Given that he was a high-ranking nobleman, he always felt like people were trying hard to get on his good graces because of his wealth, not to actually know him for himself. Most women he ever interacted with were clearly trying to overcompensate by being overly polite to the point it was awkward, or being a complete yes woman to whatever Gris asked.

Perhaps that’s why he was acutely intrigued by you. You were one of the first women who didn’t become a stuttering, blushing mess while talking to him. And thankfully so.

“I suppose I will have to do my best to pick you out in the crowd,” Gris finally says with that charming smile of his.

“I’d like to see you try, My Lord. I can assure you that I wouldn’t make it easy.”

“Oh, is that a challenge?”

Your brow raises. This man had to be teasing you. That's what it was. But when you turn to meet his gaze, he’s regarding you with a somewhat stern look. And you take note of how pretty his blue eyes are. Intense, though not unkind.

“I…uh…” You’re losing your train of thought, and under the heat of his stare, you feel yourself becoming flustered.

What was wrong with you? You were not the type to let yourself be affected by a mere man’s flirtatious advances. After all, he probably spouted the same nonsensical words to other women he’s come across.

So why was your heart stuttering like crazy?

“If you want to take it as such, be my guest,” you say smoothly, trying your best to mask your nervousness.

“Hmm. A tempting offer,” Gris muses. He takes a hand to his chin in thought. “Will I receive a reward if I successfully find you?”

You look at him aghast. “I am not a prize to be won, My Lord!” You snap.

“No, but your company is.”

You laugh, more so in disbelief than in shock. You were completely convinced he was messing with you at this point. This all had to be a game to him.

“Very well,” you concede, deciding to play along. “Try to find me at the ball tomorrow night, My Lord. If you do, I shall agree to an outing of your choosing. Sound fair?”

Gris smiles. “I shall look forward to it.”

You pick up a dress from the rack that suddenly catches your eye. It’s a soft blue, the color of the sky. You hold the fabric up to Gris, a sweet smile tugging at your lips. “Hm. Not bad. It matches your eyes.”

Your smirk widens watching a deep red flush make its way across his cheeks, and he is rendered speechless, his mouth falling open with no words coming out.

The sound of a throat clearing draws your attention. Tomme, whose presence you hadn’t noticed before then, stares at you with a suspiciously sly grin you don’t like. “August is ready for you now,” your stepsister says. She holds up a couple more gowns. “I thought you could try on these pieces as well. Since you seemed partial to blue, after all.”

“If this will make the process pass faster,” you sigh, choosing to ignore her sly comment as you take the two dresses from her. You give the gentleman one last polite smile with a kind courtesy. “Good day to you, My Lord.”

Gris clears his throat, still slightly flushed. “R-right.” Taking your hand, he brings your gloved knuckles to his lips, dipping down into a polite bow of his own. The warmth of his kiss floods your body, and you’re rendered speechless for a second time.

“I hope we meet again, My Lady.”

“I still can’t believe that you were flirting with the Count yesterday,” Tomme reminds you for what seemed like the hundredth time since leaving the tailor yesterday. “I knew you had high standards, sis, but I didn’t think you had your eyes set on one of society’s most esteemed gentlemen.”

“For the last time, I was not flirting with him,” you insist, heaving out an annoyed huff. “And I am not interested in him! I didn’t even know that I was talking to Count Rubion to begin with. I’m more mortified at the idea of having possibly offended him.”

The dress fitting could’ve gone worse. Your stepmother had spent most of the time fretting over Tomme, so selecting your dress had gone rather quick by the time it was your turn. It was actually August who had selected more dresses than you could stand to try on, but the amount had quickly been cut down, because the tailor had his sights set on a particular style and color for you.

You now stand before the bedchamber mirror while your stepsister fusses with the ribbons at the back of your gown, swearing in the most unladylike manner as they tangle. The dress feels impossibly grand, its black corseted bodice fitting perfectly to your frame and embroidered with silver patterns that glitter like stars against a midnight sky. Soft blue sleeves rest on your shoulders, and layers of shimmering ice-blue fabric, reminiscent of a certain Count’s eyes, billow beneath black overskirts trimmed with delicate silver lace. Every movement sends the skirts rustling around you.

It wasn’t until after you left that Tomme “kindly” asked you what your relationship was with the gentleman, because she wasn’t aware that you were on friendly terms with the Count.

You weren’t.

You didn’t even know that he was the Gris Rubion.

Granted, you probably would know if you paid more attention to the social circles, like your stepmother wanted. Then maybe you wouldn’t have been quite so short with him. You did try to maintain some semblance of class, and you knew better than to outright disrespect one of the high-ranking nobles.

But you had only reacted the way you did because you figured he was just another flirtatious nobleman. What you hadn’t expected was for him to entertain your sarcastic quips. Hence Tomme was now convinced that the two of you had been flirting.

“Trust me. I’m positive Count Rubion was enjoying the banter.” Tomme lets out a victorious cheer when she finally secures the straps to your dress. Her own attire consisted of an extravagant coral colored gown that complemented her skin tone and deep brown hair, which was curled for the occasion. “You should make sure to look for him tonight.”

“Absolutely not.”

“But why ever not?”

“Because—“ Any excuse you could’ve come up with gets lost under her expectant gaze. You truly didn’t have a valid reason not to seek the Count out, and Tomme knew it. “I’m sure Lord Rubion will be busy.”

“At a ball?”

“Yes. And I’m sure he’s already courting someone, given his status.”

“Really?” Tomme asks incredulously. “Last I heard, his Lordship is still single.”

Your jaw ticks in annoyance. She laughs. “I really do not like you right now.”

“Come on.” Tomme playfully nudges you. “What do you even have to lose? You’ll be wearing a mask, so you can loosen up a little and flirt around tonight. No one will know it’s you. And who knows, it might even blossom into a romance if you let it~I like to think that the Count even fancies you already.”

She hands you your black and blue mask, the accessory adorned with gems and features. “You read too many romance novels,” you say with a shake of the head. “Love doesn’t work like that.”

“But it could,” Tomme counters. Her expression softens, a certain sadness underlining her smile. “You just have to give it a chance. What are you so afraid of? Hm?”

Your chest constricts ever so slightly. The familiar twang of pain wrenches your heart tight as unpleasant memories flood your brain. It’s too late to completely mask the emotion, Tomme no doubt seeing beneath the facade you desperately tried to maintain. But you school your expression, set your shoulders, and put on your mask.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” you assert. “I merely stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.”

The carriage your stepmother has arranged is one of the most extravagant. The body of the coach is painted entirely white, drawn by two horses whose coats are as black as the night, yet there is a sheen to them. It takes help from the driver for you to ascend the stairs with how heavy your gown is, and the combined ruffles from yours and Tomme’s elaborate dresses all but fill the entire space.

Lady Mima slides into the seat next to her daughter, her peacock green gown a vision of elegance. “To the palace,” she instructs the driver, who closes the door. “And make haste with it. We need to arrive early for Tomme to make the best first impression for his Royal Highness.”

“Mother…” Tomme sighs. Her mother waves her off with her hand fan dismissively. Your sister sulks in her seat, but you catch her sad gaze in the window.

“Of course, My Lady,” the driver responds. He snaps the reins, and the carriage takes off in a steady trot through the city.

You couldn’t help but feel for your stepsister. She had a good heart and just wanted to make her mother proud. But you knew deep down she had no desire to marry the prince, let alone any major nobility. Tomme was as much a hopeless romantic as you were, but storytelling had always been her love. Though you and she both knew that Lady Mima would never accept her daughter’s dreams of being an author.

If it were up to your stepsister, she’d travel, leave Andio and Mono behind to see the world and gain inspiration for the novel she had been secretly working on since her teenage years. If you had the money to do so, you’d fully support her endeavor. But your late father had stipulated that your inheritance was on lock and key until you were married. Tomme was stuck under her mother’s thumb until then, lest she marry herself.

Arriving at the palace was a grand affair. You could only count on one hand the number of times you’ve been to the capital city, and it never ceased to amaze you. Flowers in every color seem to be the main decoration. They adorn many young ladies’ hair and gowns and have been strewn about light posts or hung outside on window sills. And it’s undeniably evident that guests were taking the masquerade theme quite seriously.

You saw masks in every variation. Full face. Half masks. One eye. Feathers. Beads. Gems and ribbons. Some were extravagantly decorated, while others were simple accessories that hardly obscured one’s identity. Some were less refined, more cartoonish in nature. A particular gentleman startled you with his wolfish mask that mimicked the canine’s muzzle.

“People really went all out this year, didn’t they?” Tomme says in awe. Her own mask had been fitted against her face, covered in pearls that matched her necklace.

“Hm, I don’t see His or Her majesty yet,” Lady Mima comments, sounding a tad disappointed. The ballroom was a rainbow of colorful dresses and suits. Guests mingled about, while a few had already begun dancing along with the live orchestra. “Oh, I see the Countess of Penta. Poor thing just recently lost her husband of five years, you know. And it seems the Duke of the Southern Isles is here as well.”

Even with the mask, the Duke of the Southern Isles, Zodyl Typhon, is unmistakable based on his presence alone. He’s a tall and attractive, yet slightly intimidating, gentleman who has garnered a reputation for being cold. Hardly any woman dares to approach him, and according to your stepmother’s gossip, he has yet to seriously court anyone. If it wasn’t for the entourage of equally intimidating bodyguards that always flanked his sides, the Duke’s reputation alone would make most steer clear.

Zodyl himself appears less than interested in the whole affair. He keeps off to the side, observing the scene, as if he were looking for something. But that is none of your business, and the last thing you want to do is get involved with him of all people.

“Oh, there’s His Grace,” Lady Mima exclaims upon seeing the current Duke of the Eastern Province. An elderly gentleman enters the room with a much younger man accompanying him. “I must go say hello to him and his son. Come, Y/n, I’ll introduce you two—“

“Look, it’s Lord Stilza!” Tomme suddenly points toward the dessert table where the eccentric man was. His mask was as boisterous as he, so there was no mistaking the tailor for someone else. Yet, it was so uniquely him that it was charming. “Let’s go show him how our gowns look all put together. We shall meet with you later, mother!”

“Wait—“

But Tomme ushers you off in a hurry, without letting Lady Mima finish her sentence.

“Thank you for that,” you whisper.

Tomme smiles. “It’s what sisters are for. Though the Duke’s son isn’t all that bad looking, you know.”

You wave her off with a dismissive hand. “Not interested.”

“Right. My apologies. You have your eyes set on a certain Count~” Tomme teases. Thankfully, your mask hides most of your flustered expression.

After briefly catching up with the tailor, Tomme ends up encountering one of her old schoolmates from boarding school. You think you remember her vaguely. What was her name again? Meriege, you think? You’re pretty sure she moved to the Southern Isles after they graduated.

Not wanting to intrude by being the third wheel, you excuse yourself, but you don’t think that Tomme even noticed your departure.

Weaving your way through the crowd, you make it to the refreshment table and snag one of the champagne flutes. Most of the other patrons were engrossed in their own conversations, and you could hardly tell who was who from all the masks. Perhaps the mature thing to do would be to make an effort to mingle, but you were hardly interested in needless small talk.

“Maybe, I’ll sneak out and visit the gardens like last time,” you think to yourself as you down your drink. “I wonder if Lord Rubion made it.” The thought startlingly crosses your mind before you can squander it. Whether the nobleman attended or not was none of your business! And surely he had to be jesting about your earlier little “game” so you had no reason to believe he’d spend the whole ball looking for you.

You were no one important, for that matter. Just another faceless young woman amongst the sea of masks.

Still, a small part of you had hoped he’d seek you out like he promised.

“Not one for dancing?” Someone asks, startling you slightly.

You take in the tall gentleman before you. He’s dressed in navy, with a mask of silver to match. Behind it, you catch a glimpse of the most striking blue eyes, but because the mask obscures most of his facial features, you aren’t completely certain if you know the man or not.

“Not particularly,” you answer. “I much rather be in bed by now with a good book.”

He laughs, and the sound has your body warming in a way that you can’t quite explain. “Believe me when I say I understand the sentiment. These kinds of things are a bit gauche, don’t you think?”

“Well, when else are all the peacocks of society supposed to showcase their feathers?”

The gentleman’s smile doesn’t wane. “Fair point. Is that why you’re over here in the corner hiding by yourself? Are you avoiding trying to show off or…”

The insinuation of his tone makes you square your shoulders. You regard him with a relatively annoyed look as you scan him over once then twice.

“I would think that you were the one showing off, My Lord. You sought me out when I was the one minding my business.”

“Guilty,” he admits with a shrug. “Forgive me for being charmed by the sight of a beautiful woman.”

“I’m sure you tell that to every woman.”

He makes an impassive-sounding hum, so you’re not sure whether to take it as confirmation or denial. This gentleman was certainly an odd one, but his demeanor and charm felt familiar.

The music changes. The orchestra switches from a slow rhythm to a more upbeat waltz that has guests rushing to pair up. The masked gentleman extends a gloved hand out, and you regard him skeptically.

“Come on.”

“Oh, no,” you politely decline.

“Just one dance.”

He takes your empty glass and sets it on the nearby table while you try to stammer out another excuse. “I-I assure you, My Lord. I have as good as two left feet and—“

The man gives you a cheeky grin, making your heart flutter.

“Humor me, My Lady.”

You’re whisked away before you can further protest. As you predicted, you stumble over your feet and the fabric of your dress like a clumsy foal, but the man makes no comment when you step on his expensive shoes for the third or fourth time. You’re pretty sure your face is aflame, but the embarrassment was more from how poor a dancer you are than from being seen with the stranger.

“Instead of focusing on your feet, follow your partner’s movements,” the gentleman whispers softly. One of his hands is in a respectable position on your hip while the other guides you around with him. He is unable to hide his wince this time as you accidentally jab your heel into his toe.

“I told you I wasn’t good at this,” you mumble. “I’m going to ruin your nice shoes at this rate.”

“Shoes are replaceable, and between you and me, I’m not particularly fond of this pair to begin with. My elder sister insisted I wear them.” He playfully winks. “Don’t tell her I said that. She gets quite offended when I judge her fashion choices.”

“But—“

He spins you, dipping you back suddenly, and you gasp. “Are you always in your head this much? I don’t think I’ve met a woman who overthinks a simple waltz as much as you, My Lady.”

You huff, settling one of your hands back on his shoulder. “And I’m not sure I’ve met a man who stubbornly insists on dancing with such a poor partner, My Lord.”

“Hmm. I personally find your inability to stay on tempo rather charming.” When you glare, he laughs. He pulls you in close, your noses just a breadth away. “Relax. Just follow my lead.”

With time, you find your footing, slipping into the dance as though you've known the steps all along. Somehow, the two of you keep pace with the other couples circling the floor. To your surprise, you begin to enjoy yourself.

More than that, you begin to forget about everything else.

The gentleman proves to be an exceptional dancer, his movements effortless and confident. You surrender to his lead before you even realize you're doing it, allowing him to guide you across the floor with an ease that feels natural.

Another thing you notice is that from the moment the dance began, his attention has never once strayed from you.

You can't explain the way he looks at you.

Those soft blue eyes remain fixed on yours. There is something warm and tender in his gaze, but beneath it lingers an intensity that makes your pulse stumble. Each time your eyes meet, heat creeps higher into your cheeks, and looking away somehow feels just as impossible as holding his stare.

As you move together, the ballroom fades into a blur of color and sound. The laughter, the music, the countless other dancers. They all become distant, insignificant.

There is only him.

The weight of his hand against yours. The warmth of his touch at your waist. An invisible thread pulling you closer with every turn.

It feels like you’re a moth standing too close to an open flame, continuously drawn to it knowing you should step back. Create some distance. Break whatever spell has settled between you when every instinct urges you closer to him.

The realization makes your chest tighten.

“You know,” you admit, “I haven’t danced like this since my father passed when I was a young girl.” The confession leaves your lips before you can stop it. “After he died, dancing lost its appeal. I know he wouldn’t have wanted me to stop, but it never felt the same without him.”

For a moment, his expression softens. His hand tightens ever so slightly around yours.

“I cannot nor do I wish to replace your father,” he says softly, “but I hope this dance gives you positive memories worth remembering.”

"You seem determined to leave a lasting impression, My Lord," you say, attempting to joke despite the way your erratic heart rate has begun to betray you.

A quiet chuckle escapes him. "Have I succeeded in making you fall for my charms?"

The question is simple enough, yet something in the way he asks it makes it feel like more than idle conversation. It’s not like the light banter from earlier. There’s something more serious under that playful tone.

You force your attention to the passing dancers around you. You think you manage to catch Tomme from afar, and the encouraging grin and thumbs up she gives you doesn’t help. The rest of the ballroom remains a distant blur beyond the circle he seems to have drawn around the two of you.

When you finally meet his blue eyes again, you find him already watching you.

The realization makes you flush.

"Perhaps," you reply softly.

One golden brow arches. That damn smirk.

"Perhaps?"

A reluctant smile tugs at your lips.

"I have not decided yet."

Something flashes across his features beyond the mask: amusement. The corner of his mouth lifts further. "Then I suppose," he says, guiding you through another turn, "I shall have to continue trying."

You laugh softly. "Persistent, aren't you?"

"Only when something is worth pursuing, and your company is certainly so.”

The response sends a flutter through your chest. As he draws you through another step, bringing you closer so that your chests touch, face inches from each other, his gaze remains fixed on yours. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how close he was and the way his warm touch seems to seep through the fabric of your gown, impossible to ignore.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, he says, "after all, I told you I'd find you, My Lady."

Your breath hitches.

The words send a jolt through you, immediately pulling you back to your encounter the other day. The challenge. The promise.

“I am not a prize to be won, My Lord!” You had snapped.

“No,” he responded earnestly. “But your company is.”

Your eyes widen as you stare at him, trying to see beyond the mask. His smile widens slightly, as though he can see the realization beginning to dawn.

"You—"

"Miss!"

The voice cuts through the moment like a blade, shattering it completely.

You turn sharply to find one of the household servants, the head butler, weaving through the dancers, his face pale with concern.

"There you are," he says, breathless. "I've been searching everywhere for you."

"What is it?" You ask, slightly irked at being interrupted.

"It's your stepmother, Miss." He lowers his voice. "She's taken ill."

A knot forms in your throat. The ballroom seems to tilt beneath your feet. A surge of dread floods your body, making nausea churn within your stomach. Your stepmother being ill in and of itself was rare. Not to mention, with how insistent she was about attending this ball, the last thing she would do is let any ailment hinder her attendance.

You glance back at the masked gentleman, torn between panic for your stepmother’s well-being and the selfish guilt of not wanting to leave.

For a heartbeat, neither of you move. Whoever does so means that the moment you had shared seconds ago officially ends. But eventually, familial duty wins the war in your heart.

"I'm sorry," you murmur, reluctantly releasing his hand.

The gentleman inclines his head, his expression soft. His grip tightens around your hand to keep you from pulling away completely. He then raises it, pressing his lips to your knuckles.

"We shall finish this another time. Go see to your stepmother.”

The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can apologize or question his identity, the servant gently urges you onward.

And just like that, the fantasy is broken.

The invisible thread that had held you together snaps.

You cast one final glance over your shoulder, only to find those familiar blue eyes still fixed upon you.

Morning arrives far too quickly, and last night’s ball feels like a fever dream.

Sunlight streams through your curtains, and the birds’ morning song drifts in from the gardens. Though it’s long past breakfast at this point, you continue to lie in bed and stare at the canopy above your bed; your thoughts remain firmly trapped in the previous evening.

You should be relieved.

Your stepmother was perfectly fine. Thankfully, Alice Stilza had been present, and she looked over Lady Mima, who had suddenly fainted during the event. The doctor had assured everyone that her sudden dizziness was nothing serious, likely caused by a mixture of heat and a corset tightened a tad too much. But, for an extra precaution, your family left early for her to rest.

Of course, Lady Mima put up a fuss. You all but had to drag her out kicking and screaming. But, as you learned later from Tomme’s friend Meriege, Prince Tamsy hadn’t even made an appearance that night. His Majesty was beyond frustrated that his son didn’t show, but in order to save face, the event continued on as if nothing was amiss.

You were relieved, of course, that your stepmother’s condition wasn’t serious. Yet another part of you could not help dwelling on what had been interrupted.

The dance.

The conversation.

Those blue eyes.

Him.

A frustrated sigh escapes you as you turn over in your bed.

“I told you I'd find you, My Lady.”

The memory sends a flutter of giddiness through your chest.

You had been so close. Every instinct told you it had been Count Rubion. Who else could it have been? Sure, he never admitted directly, nor had you seen his face beneath the mask, but every instinct screamed it was him.

Tucking your hand under your pillow, you turn to look out the window.

A nagging part of you was concerned you were wrong, though. There were plenty of other gentlemen with blue eyes and stupidly charming wit. But then you’d be lying to yourself, because no one had made you feel giddy before like he did at the tailor shop.

And partially, your pride just wanted to confirm that you were right.

Had he known you were beginning to realize?

There had been something like amusement in his expression right before you were interrupted by the butler. As though he had been watching you slowly assemble the pieces while knowing the answer all along. Like this was a secret game just the two of you were playing.

You groan, smooshing your face into the pillows.

It was frustrating.

And perhaps even more maddening was the fact that you found yourself wishing for another chance to see him. That, and the subsequent teasing you had been subjected to by Tomme.

Just one more chance.

Just to confirm your suspicions and nothing more.

Or that’s what you kept telling yourself.

A knock sounds against the door before it swings open. Tomme pokes her head inside. "Still moping in bed, are we?”

You don’t pick your face up from the pillow. “I’m not moping.”

“Yes, and Count Rubion is not in our drawing room.”

That immediately makes you sit up. “Excuse me?!” Your stepsister grins, and you sigh. “Please don’t jest about something like that. I am not in the mood for games at the moment.”

“But I am not. Unless there is another Count Rubion that I’m not aware of. And he has actually specifically requested you.”

It takes two seconds to register her words before you’re throwing yourself off the bed. “How long has he been here?! You’re now just telling me! Oh, gosh, I’m still in my night clothes!”

Tomme laughs as you stumble across your room, trying to pull your nightgown over your head. “In my defense, I told him that you were still in bed.”

“As if that’s any better!”

You pick out just a plain casual dress to throw on. There's no time for makeup or jewelry, so you simply smooth down the bed head as much as possible. Your heart races, pounding in your chest so hard you think it’s going to come out of your throat.

Why would he come here?

In your home, nonetheless.

You hadn’t even fully confirmed whether or not he was the one you danced with last night, so why would he be looking for you? You could understand if he was here for the Baroness, your stepmother. But why you? You didn’t want to get your hopes up for something that could ultimately be a misunderstanding.

Tomme follows as you step into the corridor. “Do I finally get to have a brother-in-law?”

“No,” you say automatically.

“Come on, dear sister.” She playfully jabs you in your side. “Remember what I told you? Be open.”

A servant passes in the hall and dips his head. “Miss. The Count is waiting in the drawing room.”

“Ok, thank you,” you manage.

Tomme leans in as you move past her. “Make sure to plan for an autumn wedding. I’m much more partial to the colors.”

Your face warms instantly. “Tomme.”

She laughs, and you stride past her without further comment.

Each step toward the drawing room feels heavier than the last. Your palms grow sweatier as you approach the closed doors, your nerves weighing you down.

You reach out for the handle, hesitating briefly. With an exhale, you push open the door and enter the room.

Gris is already there, standing near the tall windows, light spilling over him. Today, he’s dressed in grey. No mask now.

Those blue eyes turn to you immediately.

And something in your chest tightens at the familiarity of it.

“Good morning,” Gris says, as if this encounter were the most natural thing in the world. “I apologize for coming so suddenly and unannounced. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

You dip into a polite curtsy. “My Lord. This is quite an unexpected visit.”

“Is it?” A faint smile. “I thought I was expected.”

You raise a brow. “By whom?”

He shrugs, playful. “By fate, perhaps.”

You look at him with a confused look until a faint glint of something metal in his hand catches your gaze. Gris notices your attention and lifts it slightly.

Between his fingers rests a delicate piece of jewelry—an earring, or what remains of one. The clasp is bent, and the chain holding the two pieces together is separated. A tiny blue gemstone glints in the light.

“That’s…”

A memory from the night suddenly hits you.

The sudden brush of movement too close, too fast. Your hair caught between motion and his hand. The faint pull at your ear you had dismissed in the moment of everything else.

You didn’t even realize one of your earrings had fallen until you returned home and were undressing, but you hadn’t been sure at what point in the night it was lost. So, you just had to sadly accept you’d never see it again.

“I found it on the floor of the ballroom,” Gris says, taking a step closer. “After you left.”

“It belonged to my mother…” You breathe out. Gris takes your hand, placing the earring in your palm and curling your fist closed. “You came all this way,” you say carefully, “to return a broken earring?”

His gaze holds yours for a beat too long. Then, softly, he says, “No. Not only for that.”

The air in the room shifts. It is so subtle it’s almost imperceptible.

But suddenly you are aware of everything. The distance between you. The silence of the house beyond the doors. The fact that there is no dance here to hide behind, nor crowd to dissolve into.

It’s just you and him.

You force your voice to remain steady. “Then why are you here, My Lord?”

He pauses. He wasn’t hesitating, but rather thinking.

“I came,” Gris says after taking a breath, “to do this properly.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Properly?”

“I should have just come clean last night,” he continues. “Or rather, if I am being honest with myself, I should have been direct from the start when I met you at the shop.”

You regard him with a perplexed look. “Direct about what?”

That charming, familiar smile returns, but softer now. Less playful. More sincere.

“About you.”

Gris steps closer, just enough to shorten the space that has been carefully maintained since you entered. You feel your heart rate spike.

“I did not come simply to return what you lost,” Gris says quietly. “I came because I intended to ask your stepmother for permission to court you.”

The room seems to still. Even the air feels heavier.

You blink once. “You…what?”

His expression does not waver.

“I did not want it to be misinterpreted as I approached you carelessly. Or that I treated you as a passing fascination from a single dance.” Gris’s voice lowers slightly. “You are not that. I meant what I said before that your company was a gift.”

“Y-you’re just saying that,” you whisper. Your throat tightens, causing you to choke the words out. Your vision suddenly becomes blurry. “You don’t possibly want to court someone like me. I-I cannot be the obedient wife, n-nor am I good at any housework like cooking. And—“

“None of that matters,” the Count interrupts.

“But—“

“I would spot you over and over again, My Lady,” Gris says. “In every crowded room, in every gathering, in every moment when the world tries to distract me I would still find you. There is no other woman who could capture my heart or attention like you.” Gris smiles. He reaches out, pausing slightly to look into your eyes for permission before he gently cups your cheek. “And I would not want you to change for the sake of appeasing society. Otherwise, you would be changing the very thing that initially attracted me to you.”

You should respond. You should move. You should say something sensible, but your thoughts scatter under the weight of his words.

This wasn’t a game to him. It had never been.

“Lord Rubion—“

The door behind you creaks open.

For the second time, your moment is shattered, and you’re convinced fate is laughing at you.

“Well.” Your stepmother stands in the doorway. “I do hope I am not interrupting something important.”

For perhaps the first time since you have known him, Gris looks uncertain. “Not at all,” he says, straightening up confidently. “In fact, you have arrived at precisely the right moment.”

Your stepmother’s eyes narrow. “Have I now?”

The Count glances at you before returning his attention to her. “There is a matter on which I wish to speak with your daughter, but propriety requires that I first seek your permission, Lady Mima.”

Lady Mima’s brow raises, her arms crossing over her chest. “My permission?”

“To court her,” he says simply.

Silence stretches onward after his proclamation.

You see someone poking their head around the corner, trying not to be suspicious. Tomme and one of the maids.

Your stepmother stares at the Count as though she is waiting for the rest of the sentence or for him to say he’s merely jesting. When nothing follows, she slowly looks back and forth between you and Gris. You could see the gears in her mind beginning to work.

“You wish to court her?”

“I do.”

Her skepticism is immediate and fierce. “Properly?”

“Yes.”

“With honorable intentions?”

“Entirely.”

“And not as some passing amusement?”

Gris’s expression hardens. “Lady Mima, I assure you my intentions are very serious. That is why I wished to ask you first as her mother figure.”

For another moment, she studies him. Then, suddenly, her face breaks apart into a grin so wide it nearly seems painful.

“Oh.” She clasps both hands together. The grin becomes a laugh. Your stepmother’s delight fills the room so completely you’re convinced she might float away with happiness. “Oh, I thought this day would never come!”

“Stepmother,” you huff, growing embarrassed by her dramatics. “You’re making a scene in front of Lord Rubion.”

But your pleas seem to fall on deaf ears as she’s already halfway out the door. “Oh, this is wonderful! I’ll have to get on Lord Stilza’s schedule to design the dress, and we must pick out a color scheme—oh, this is far too exciting to waste time standing here talking about it! Tomme! Help me with the invitations!”

“Stepmother—“ you try again.

But she is already gone, calling for preparations down the hall as though a wedding has already been signed into existence.

You sigh, then turn back to the Count to apologize. But Gris is watching the doorway with faint amusement, entirely unbothered by the whirlwind he has just caused.

“You look as though you’re considering your escape,” he says.

“I am,” you reply.

A laugh leaves him. He steps closer, still maintaining a somewhat respectable distance.

“Well, that’s unfortunate, because if I recall, you agreed to an outing of my choosing if I found you at the ball,” Gris reminds you.

Right. You forgot about the deal you made.

“I did.”

“Then I intend to collect.” He extends his gloved hand, offering his arm for you. “If that is all right with you, My Lady.”

Gris, at that moment, looks oddly bashful. Like a young lad with a little crush, scared of potential rejection. It was cute.

You give a small nod. “Very well.”

At your approval, his demeanor relaxed. “Good,” he says simply.

And you take his outstretched arm.

The carriage ride is quiet, and no amount of space between the two of you can mitigate the suffocating feeling of being so close to the Count.

Gris sits across from you, watching you with a certain fondness you try hard to ignore.

Before you left, your stepmother insisted you change. She claimed you must look proper for your first official outing, and she had the maids throw you into the bath, scrub your skin raw, and dress you in a new dress that was acceptable by her standards. Tomme offered to keep the Count company while you dressed, but you didn’t like the mischievous look on her face as she dragged Gris away for tea.

You truly hoped they wouldn’t ruin what hadn’t even officially started yet. Nonetheless, when you emerged nearly an hour later, Gris seemed to be in oddly good spirits. And when asked, he only said that your family was lovely company.

You made a note to grill Tomme later about what she told him.

Outside the window, the city begins to soften into green. Stone gives way to winding stretches of flat land common in the Eastern Province.

You sneak a glance at Gris. He is watching you already.

You look away too quickly, flushing at being caught.

A faint smile tugs at his lips, as if he noticed anyway.

“You look very beautiful,” Gris says. You fold your gloved hands in your lap, trying to quell their trembling. “I’m increasingly liking the look of blue on you.”

“O-of course you would,” you huff, bashfully.

The carriage slows to a stop. Gris hops out first, before extending a hand to help you down like the gentleman he was. You cover your head to keep the hat your stepmother insisted you wear from flying away when the air suddenly whipped up.

The gentle sun warms your skin. You only faintly hear Gris dismiss the carriage driver, because you’re immediately left in awe at the sea of flowers that surrounds you both. A cobblestone pathway leads to what seems like a large manor in the distance, but it diverges into several smaller paths around the garden.

Hedges have been cut into deliberate shapes, framing secret paths that wind deeper into the greenery. Roses in shades of red and white climb trellises in careful rows, and you hear the faint murmur of a fountain somewhere out of sight.

“What do you think?” Gris asks, pulling you out of your admiration.

You turn to look at him. “This is your idea of an outing?”

The Count steps beside you, offering his arm again out of habit. “Yes,” he answers sincerely. “You know, I don’t take just anyone around my private gardens. They’re quite dear to me.”

“And you thought this was appropriate courtship?” You tease. “I’m sure my stepmother made it clear we were not to be surprised, as it is improper.”

A playful grin tugs at his lips. “I thought you might prefer somewhere you wouldn’t be interrupted again.“

That damn charming smile makes your heart skip a beat. You smile. “I love it. Will you show me around?”

Conversation comes easily between the two of you as Gris shows you around the garden. You learn a lot about him. His family and bits of his upbringing. He attended school mostly in the capital and inherited the role of Count from his grandfather, who, despite having an older granddaughter, insisted his grandson take on the role when he died. Not that Gris’s sister seemed to care, because she was married already and happy with her life. Though he complains about her antics, it’s evident Gris has a soft spot for her and his nephew, Follo.

At the same time, the Count cares to ask a lot about you. He listens intently as you speak about your likes and dislikes, shares your hobbies, and the like. Gris doesn’t rush the pace. He lets you take the reins to guide the conversation and ultimately your walk around the garden. You don’t realize how much time truly has passed until you’re approaching the manor and a path of lilies catches your attention.

You slow without meaning, and ever perceptive, Gris notices.

“Do you like them?” he asks. “My grandfather had them planted when he was trying to court my grandmother.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Your breath catches despite yourself. “Flattery will get you nowhere, My Lord. You’ve repeated that several times already today.”

“Because it’s the truth.” Gris carefully pulls you to him, hand on your waist like at the ball. “And I will tell you a hundred more times until it’s ingrained in your memory.”

He’s so close. Much closer than what is to be considered proper, but you don’t hate it. This time, it’s just the two of you. No audience. No interruptions. Just you. Just him. The garden is your only witness.

It is why you move without thinking.

Gris’s reaction is instant.

He pulls you closer to him until your bodies are pressed firmly against one another. You groan at the taste of his mouth on yours, your knees slightly going weak as he cups your cheek to deepen the kiss. You grip the front of his cravat tightly, not wanting to let him go until your lungs begin to protest.

“Well,” Gris pants. “That was certainly a surprise, though it wasn’t unwelcome. And here I was, trying to be a gentleman.”

Feeling slightly emboldened, you tug him to you. Faint pink blossoms across his cheeks. “It’s just us two now, right. No one will interrupt us.”

Gris swallows thickly. “Are you certain? I meant by what I said to your stepmother earlier that I intended to court you properly with honorable intentions.”

“I am certain,” you assure. “But let’s keep our little tryst a secret from my stepmother. She will lose it if I jeopardize a prospect for marriage.”

At that, he chuckles. “The courtship is just a formality,” Gris says. “I’ve had every intention from the start of taking you as my wife.” He kisses you again, this time gently, almost as if he were sealing the promise with his lips. And you melt against him.

Somehow, the two of you stumble back into the manor amidst stolen kisses and soft touches. You can hardly admire the decor or the lavishness of the place. Gris whisks you off your feet, carrying you up the stairs in his arms with an evident hurry that makes you laugh. Despite his claims of wanting to be a proper gentleman, he couldn’t deny his own desires.

You aren’t sure which of the many rooms you enter. You think they might be Gris’s private chambers for the bedsheets smell faintly of his cologne.

Oh, how your stepmother would kill you if she found out you were alone in a man’s bed while unwed. Tomme would probably encourage it. But you can’t bring yourself to care about any of that, only focusing on the handsome Count before you.

Gris takes his time undoing the laces on your dress. The ribbons loosen, giving way to more exposed skin. Even with the gloves on his hands, his gentle touch across your back and your shoulders as he removes your corset next sends goosebumps crawling down your arms. He’s hardly touched you, but your body feels aflame.

“Lord Rubion…” you stammer, growing bashful as he drops to his knees to remove the garter around your leg.

“Now, My Lady, I think we’re quite past formalities at this point,” Gris teases. He runs his hand down the expanse of your thigh. “I want you to call me by my name.”

“B-but, oh!”

Gris drags your lacy panties down your calf next. He pulls you closer so that your legs can settle around his shoulders. Your grip on the edge of the bed tightens, anxiously waiting for what he would do next. You let out a squeak of surprise when his breath fans against your pussy.

“A-ah, Gris~” you whimper. He places tantalizing, slow kisses up your inner thigh, working his way towards the sensitive place you want to feel him most. And when he finally does place his mouth on you, you gasp. The feeling’s foreign, but all your nerves are electrified.

You find purchase in his blond hair, curling your fingers into it as your body bows back. He lets out a groan as you tug harshly. But his mouth stays firmly pressed against your cunt, his hands gripping your thighs and waist as he greedily tries to taste you more. His tongue is wicked, delving through your folds with tantalizing strokes that have your legs feeling weak.

You gasp as he delivers a harsh suck on your clit, his teeth teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves until tears fill your eyes. His nails dig into your thighs as he grips them to bury his face deeper between them.

“God. You’re so addicting,” Gris slurs. He doesn’t think he’d ever get tired of the sounds of your pretty moans or the sweet taste of your release on his tongue. “Give me more, sweetheart.”

“G-Gris, please~” You whimper, writhing against his hold as he drags his tongue across your pussy’s lips. “Fuck!” You swear, not caring how unladylike it was to do so.

Your head spins as the overwhelming pleasure overloads your senses. Dots spot your vision as your orgasm rolls through you. But even as your high rocks your body, Gris continues to drink up your arousal as if it were the last thing he’d ever get to taste.

“A-ah, wait!” The overstimulation brings tears to your eyes, your body aching from how sensitive you were. Your clit throbbed, puffy and swollen from Gris's teasing it with his teeth and tongue. His grip on your trembling thighs tightens. And when you try to twist away, gripping the sheets, the strong man merely drags you back with ease. Not letting you escape his mouth.

“Where are you going?” Gris mumbles. “I’m not done savoring my treat yet.”

“Gris~” you whine. “S’too much. I-I already came and—shit!”

Despite your pleas, your body portrays the exact opposite. Your cunt continues to weep for his touch, gushing messily onto his greedily awaiting tongue. And Gris is all but eager to continue drinking you up until you’re crying his name over and over.

“Too much?” Gris mumbles coyly. “You say that, but look how much your pretty pussy’s makin’ for me.” He presses a kiss against your inner thigh, his lips wet and coated with your arousal, which he licks clean. “Just one for me and I’ll stop. I know you got it in you.”

This time, he’s gentler when he presses his mouth back to your cunt. His touch is soft and fluttering. The sensation makes your breath hitch. Gris groans, trying to savor the moment, to slowly work you up until you break. He doesn’t even realize how hard he’s gotten. The firm bulge of his erection strains against his slacks, desperately trying to break free, but he’ll address his own needs later. You were first.

The slow buildup hits you all at once. The second time you cum, you do so with a cry, tears leaking down your cheeks. And Gris swears he could become addicted to the sound of his name on your tongue.

Lifting you with ease, he tosses you onto the center of the bed. Before you could find the words to speak, his mouth was on yours hungrily. You groan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, wrapping your arms around his neck to keep him close.

“You doin’ okay, sweetheart?” Gris asks breathlessly. “We can stop if you’ve had enough.”

“But…you haven’t…” Heat creeps across your cheeks as you trail off. The hardness of his arousal presses against you, yet Gris makes no move to address it.

A smile softens across his face. “Worry not about me. I do not wish to push you more than what you’re comfortable with.”

But you shake your head. “Please,” you insist. “I want to continue.”

Heat flares in his eyes, warring with his hesitation. “Are you certain?”

You tug him forward by his tie. “I need you fully, Lord Rubion. Do not keep me waiting.”

“If that is what My Lady wishes for, then who am I to deny her request?”

Gris quickly sheds his clothes, and you can’t help but stare when he’s completely bare in all his naked glory. His twitching length stands at attention, the sensitive, blushing head smearing pre cum against his abdomen. He holds his cock as he aligns himself at your entrance, pressing the tip against your slick folds.

“Relax for me.” Gris gently kisses your jaw. “I promise I’ll try to be gentle.”

You suck in a breath as he inches forward, which melts into a shared moan as Gris’s cock slowly stretches you out.

“Fuck,” the Count swears. “You feel better than I could’ve ever imagined.” Kissing you once more, Gris grips your hips and bottoms out the rest of the way with a single thrust, making you squeal. “S-sorry. Let me know when you want me to move,” he grunts.

You didn’t expect to feel so impossibly full. Gris hardly has to move for the stretch of him to fill you completely, and it slightly steals your breath, your brows furrowing. Sensing your discomfort, Gris takes a nearby pillow and helps settle it underneath your hips. It immediately gives some relief.

“Is that better?” He asks. You nod.

“Yes, thank you.” You wrap your arms tighter around his neck. Gris hikes one of your legs around his waist. “You can move.”

At your insistence, he does. His initially slow, deep thrusts give way to increasingly harder and faster strokes that fill you to the brim over and over. His breathy groans quickly fill your ear as he traps you under his body weight, one hand gripping the headboard so tight his knuckles turn white.

“Forgive me, sweetheart,” Gris pants, eyebrows furrowing as if he were straining for control. “I-I said I’d be gentle but, fucking hell I don’t think I can hold back.”

You squeal into the pillows as Gris suddenly rams into you hard, gripping your hips with bruising strength so that the mushroom tip bullies against your cervix. Your fluttering walls quiver in response.

“Ah! Gris!” Each time his hips snap against yours, your toes curl. The delicious stretch of his length, causes a budding pressure of pleasure to coil within your stomach. Each deep trust steals your breath, leaving you desperate for more of him.

And your needy cunt only continues to suck him in each time Gris ruts into you. His length drags against your gummy walls, massaging where you’re most sensitive. And the throbbing ache of his cock and tightening in the pit of his stomach warns Gris that he’s close.

“Shit. Can’t wait to—hah—officially make you mine with a ring on your finger,” Gris is nearly breathless when he talks. A slight hiss leaves his lips as you rake your nails down his back, leaving red marks in their wake. Sweat makes his strands of hair stick to his forehead, and his blue eyes are clouded over with hazy desire. “All mine. You’ll be all mine, my pretty wife? Yeah?”

“Yeah—“ You gasp when he tugs your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Tell me again,” it comes out as a command, needy and desperate. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“Fuck—I’m all yours, Gris.”

That’s what ultimately breaks him.

Gris groans your name. He squeezes your hips, driving himself deep as he cums thick ropes into your womb. The intensity rocks his body. His hips stutter forward, pressing you into the mattress. Your eyes roll back, the coiling pressure winding in your stomach so taught it finally snaps.

Gris swears under his breath, feeling your cunt spasm around him. Your fluttering walls squeeze his cock so tight that he thinks he’ll cum a second time. He drops his head into the crook of your neck, heaving as a shudder runs through him.

“Gris?” You whisper when he doesn’t move. “Are you okay?”

“Just give me one second.” Exhaling a breath to compose himself, otherwise you two would never leave the bed, Gris finally rises to pull away.

“Wait—“

“I shall only be but a moment.”

You barely mourn the loss of him before he comes back into the room with a warm towelette. As Gris takes care to clean you up, you could and honestly would have fallen asleep had he not gently shaken you awake.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but if I don’t have you home before nightfall, your stepmother will have my head,” Gris chuckles.

“Awe,” you groan. “I want to stay.”

“And believe me when I say I would like you to.” Gris helps you sit up. Your hips ache deliciously as you do. He bends down to gather the first garment of your discarded clothing, dressing you delicately. “But we must follow this courtship properly for appearance sake, so I’m afraid I must take you home. I promise to make it up to you.”

You pout childishly, but your frustration melts away when he kisses you again. “Fine. I shall hold you to your promise, My Lord. After all, I’m not sure how you will be able to top today.”

“Worry not, my love,” Gris reassures with a smile. “Today is only just a glimpse of the life I intend to have with you when I can officially call you my wife.”

Return to Invitation— Here

The first left quietly. Said he was too loud.

The second left loudly. Said he was too quiet.

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

Sukuna stopped caring.

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

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

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

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

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

Sukuna didn't reply.

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

"She was weak."

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

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

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

"And if I don't pass?"

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

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

Animals.

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

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

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

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

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

That's the first time Sukuna saw you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too gentle for someone like him.

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

Which was what made it so odd.

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

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

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

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

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

He preferred being alone, anyway.

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

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

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

You didn't leave.

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

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

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

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

You never flinched. Humans sure were resilient.

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

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

It's odd. You actually tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He scoffed. "What? Some romcom?"

"Or horror." You bashed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were luck he hadn't broken your arm.

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

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

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

"You're freezing," you whispered.

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

"I'm fine." He said.

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

"I said I'm fine."

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

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

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

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

"Let's get one thing straight."

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

As if his mood was not sour enough.

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

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

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

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

"I'm not—"

"I want you to."

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

What was wrong with you?

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

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

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

Why were you so gentle?

Why did you stay?

Why did he find himself being gentler, too?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You sure? It's almost midnight."

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

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

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

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

Sukuna considered your dress. Hated himself for it.

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

"What's the worst that could—"

"A lot."

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

The car ride was silent.

Your smile was sickening.

Cute.

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

He refused to call it gentle.

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

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

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

Home.

Sukuna didn't have a home.

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

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

But not a home.

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

I've signed you off. Good riddance.

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

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

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

Not once did your eyes meet his.

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

You nodded.

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

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

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

Just trying to ensure his goals, he insisted.

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

Solitude.

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

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

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

He felt so. Fucking. Hot.

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

Sukuna hated spring.

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

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

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

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

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

That spotted fucker touched your arm.

Sukuna scathed.

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

"Sukuna—!"

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

"Inside. Now."

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

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

Was it hotter inside? Or was that the anger?

A sweat drop sweltered between his brows.

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

Mate? Of course you weren't his mate.

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

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

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

Your scent.

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

Did you always smell this good?

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

His eyes squeezed shut.

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

"I think you're. . ."

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

Rut.

Shit.

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

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

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

"Don't."

He hissed.

You preserved.

Stubborn. Stubborn, sweet thing.

"Let me help." You offered.

"No."

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

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

Splintered his restraint.

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

You looked like you belonged here. Pinned under him.

His chest heaved. Voice jagged, throaty.

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

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

"Do you even know what a rut is?"

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

Sukuna's breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

Still no flinches. You never did.

Your eyes batted at him.

"Is that so bad?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

Even the kiss, burned.

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

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

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

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

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

He let you breathe. Barely.

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

His chest rumbled. "Yeah?"

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

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

"Gonna be good for me, pretty girl?"

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

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

His.

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

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

"Sukuna, careful." You whined.

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

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

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

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

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

But you.

You seemed to want everything.

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

"You're so eager," he groaned.

You whimpered, "I'm yours."

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cubs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't hide what's mine."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Up."

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

Your little squeaks were so cute.

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

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

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

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

Stubborn little human.

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

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

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

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

Was that too much?

Was he too much for you?

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

"Like this?" You meeked.

"Like this."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Said. Fucking sit."

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

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

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

Even if you hated him after this.

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

Right now, all he wanted was your pussy.

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

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

"S-Suk— kuna, ah."

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

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

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

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

He hoped you stayed.

He could make you stay.

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

No. Fuck. That's the rut talking.

The rut talking.

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

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

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

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

His eyes fluttered. Throat rasped.

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

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

He was.

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

He was yours. Even if for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stares met. His hot. Yours warm. Wanting.

"Wanna make you feel good too."

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

"Wanna be good for me?" He panted.

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

He couldn't wait to break you.

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

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

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

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

Oh, how you'd squirm on his cock.

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

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

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

"Why not?" You asked.

"Makes me think you want me."

"I do want you, kuna."

Damn you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well. . . yes."

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

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

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

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

You obeyed him.

You wanted him.

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

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

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

He stopped.

"You good?" He huffed. Barely gentle.

Very. Gentle.

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

"Too much?"

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

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

"Not enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"M sorry."

"Don't apologise, just take it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hiccuped, "your— ah. Your cock!"

"Yeah? What's it doing?"

"It's—"

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

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

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

"It's— hah. B. . . Breeed—"

"Breeding you? Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Please!" You slurred.

He swore he could do this for life.

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

"Yeah, yeah, shut it." It didn't sound harsh. Especially not with his firm squeeze on your hand.

Slipping out just enough, he watched your juices spray all over him. Mesmerising him. He worked on autopilot. Bundling you into his arms and manhandling you into a different position.

Tossing you to your side, Sukuna slotted behind you. Hips spooning your ass. One strong arm hooked around your neck, choking you on his bicep. While the other strung around your thigh. Wrenching you open for him and his massive cock, that bullied back into your cunt. Squelching your cum and sick in messy streams.

Your angelic cries resonated into his bicep. Making him squeeze it harder against your throat. Headlocking you into his greedy mouth that sucked hickies across your neck.

The angle was deeper. Filthier. Letting him feel so much more of you.

How much smaller you were than him. How you squeezed him just right. How perfect you were in his arms.

Like you belonged.

Shit. Don't go there.

Sukuna tried to drown it out. The returning thought of you. A permanent fixture in his life. Your pink body wash on his counter, that was now his. Your books on his shelves that he could read to you. You, in his living room, painting.

Painting the jungle. Painting home. Being his home.

His cock pulsed hard at the base and sweltered at the tip. The knot in his stomach wound tight. But that thought— that thought gutted him.

That you were here. That you had been here. Warm, and sweet, and soft and for the last few weeks. His.

You could be his.

"No," he wanted it to sound like a grunt. But he whimpered. Panting, heaving, mind dizzy and thrusts frantic—

Sukuna was whimpering.

Your face was pressed into his bicep. Head limp and hand still trying to hold his that clutched your thigh. Still calling his name so sweetly.

"N-No?" You breathed.

Still attuned to him even when he was fucking your brains out.

"Don't want you to leave."

Oh.

Oh.

He hadn't realised that it slipped from his lips. Hadn't realised that through his brutal thrusts— he was breaking. Lost in the burning bliss, the heat, and the warmth of what could be.

Sukuna lost his fucking mind.

"Don't wanna— fuck. Don't wanna be alone." His face fell into your neck. Arms squeezing your body into his. Trying to melt your skin into his. Tuck himself into your warm flesh and the selfish wish you gave him.

Hazed, and hot, and so heavenly yours.

Slick hair pressed into your cheek. His body collapsed onto yours. Pounding his cock up into your creamy cunt. Chasing his blazing nerves as his mouth rambled.

"Don't want you to leave. Don't. Shit. Don't leave me, please, please don't fucking leave me."

His thrusts lost rhythm. As frantic as his rushed whispers. Plunging into your cervix. Bruising your thighs. Clutching you closer. As close as he could muster. As close as it would take to keep you here forever.

"Say you won't— say you," he slurred. Eyes squeezed shut. Words melting into a clumsy splutter of curses. "Say. Say you won't. Say—"

"Won't. Won't. 'kuna I won't— hngahh. Promise!"

That single word. So raw. So true. Choked in a gasp as you tried to nudge your face closer to him.

It shattered whatever pride he had left.

"You promise?"

He croaked. Dangerously hopeful.

You nodded. Cried.

"Promise. I promise S'kuna. Breed me— please."

He should have known you'd be trouble from the moment you first smiled at him.

Heat trapped him. Seeped into every nerve and spasming muscle. Ears drooped. Tail clinging around your waist, as his arms did every inch of you.

He held your hand.

The ache in his hips nulled to the sound of your sweet voice. Tucking promises away in his heart and sealing them with attempted kisses, even when he was choking you.

He felt your orgasm shake through you. Your body locking up as you babbled his name into the humidity. And with that Sukuna finally— finally let go.

Ramming his cock up one, final time. He stilled. Deep and thrumming within you. Heat bursting from his gut and washing over him in a devastating wave of blissful carnage.

Loud and wrecked, his moan vibrated into your back. Hips rocking in small stutters as spluttering, white ropes creamed your cervix. Pouring his thick cum into every inch of your twitching cunt. Brimming you with him and his promise.

"Fucking. . . fuck. . . hah. Take it. Take all this cum in your pretty pussy." Slurs dragged up your throat, to your ear as you face limped into his arm. His voice husked, a vow.

"Just feel me breeding you full. Filling you with my cubs."

You whined, meekly rocking back into him. But he snatched your hips and pressed it down into the mattress with a soft hush.

The throbbing at his base thrummed into swelling. His knot bloomed until it lodged stiff in your cunt. Pulsing with your pathetic little twitches.

He watched your eyes widen and brows furrow. Your body locked up and a whimper strained from your swollen lips. "Mmm. That's your—"

"Mhhm. Just stay still."

Laving his tongue over one of the bites, Sukuna held you near. Savouring your warmth.

The silence finally didn't feel like a void. Even if it was heavy.

He held onto the moment. Clung to its peace as the warmth simmered into cooling sweat on your flesh.

You broke the quiet first.

"Did you mean that?"

He didn't answer you. But his hand cupped your tummy. Fingers still laced in yours as his face tucked against the back of your shoulder.

". . . Was it too much?"

He never thought his voice could ache.

You tried to shift again, and despite the lump in his throat, he clicked his tongue. Squeezed your thigh in warning. "I said stay still, didn't I?"

"You're never too much. Not for me, Sukuna."

There you went, saying his name like it meant something.

Nudging your face to his, Sukuna licked at the tears on your face. A tender act he never thought himself capable of. "Don't say shit like that."

"That I want you? Or that I love you?"

His breath hitched.

Once the knot settled, he pulled out. Hesitantly— especially with your heat still clinging to him.

"You love me?" He muttered, laying a kiss on your cheek. Then to your jaw. To your shoulder. Down your body until you were on your back.

Calloused thumbs swept your folds back. Eyeing the lewd streak of cum leaking out of you.

His eyes found yours as you spoke, tender.

"Do you want me to say it again?" One of your hands raked into his hair.

His face nudged between your thighs. His hummed approval followed the flat of his tongue. Laving up your slit. Licking away the mess and holding your thighs open amidst their intense shivers.

Even as you whined. With your eyes on the brink of tears. They were still soft for him.

"I love you."

You shouldn't.

He shouldn't.

But he still said it back.

"My mate."

Low, and grumbled, not those three words but something that spelt a deeper bond. One he finally had.

After licking you clean, Sukuna bundled you up into the sheets. Pushing himself from the bed and returning with a warm towel and a water bottle.

He cradled the back of your head as he gave you the water.

Worshipped your flesh as he wiped you down. Tracing over bruises and bites. His mark.

And when you were finally tucked into his arms. Dozing off with your head nestled on his heart that now beat for you. His tail curled around your leg and his claws soft on your curves. Sukuna understood.

That his too much was just enough for you.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/pixopix | art cred: @/cakkezzz ( twt )

You, with your sensual curves and smooth skin and sharp eyes. You, who took one look at the scuff mark he made on your very expensive-looking heels and laughed. You, who, as you now fully turn to face him, smelled faintly of warm rice and deep vanilla, spiced quince and smoked cinnamon. 

You. 

You, you, you. 

The girl he has been harboring the most, painful, humiliatingly pathetic crush on for the past two and a half years. 

A playful grin formed on your plush lips. Your eyes began to scan him over, assessing. The small stud above his brow glinted to you as if in greeting. His hair, which normally was tied up, was down today, the thick black frames he wore slightly obscuring the pinkish scar that ran across his nose, and his dark lashes were fluttering against his pale skin in a way that made him look so… soft. 

Choso could feel his eyes begin to widen as you took him in. His heart mobilized to his throat, his nape began to prick with cool droplets of sweat. Was he blushing right now or was it just hot? The bustle of the line all but faded away to him.

You began to speak, and it took him several moments before realizing that the pitched ringing in his ears were in fact, not his own deluded creations, but his headphones. His ridiculous, small, obscured headphones that were actively on noise-cancellation mode.

You were talking to him, and he couldn't hear you. 

Now, this wasn't the first time you and Choso ever crossed paths. The two of you started at the company on the same day, and the both of you were partners during the week-long onboarding program. You captivated him with your casual boldness, magnetic presence, and how just one word from you could command the attention of the entire group. 

He surprised you with his low voice, observing eyes, sharp features, and the way that he spoke his words with the kind of deep earnestness of someone who has never been burned. 

You were intrigued.

He was captivated. 

By the time the onboarding week finished, all the new hires went around the room stating their departments and their title. When it came your time to speak, and the words "Portfolio Management Director" left your oh, so pretty lips, Choso could feel the barriers going up before he could even fully comprehend it. 

When everyone began to filter out of the room, mingling with the peers they grew acquainted with during the program, all he could do was keep his head down. At the time, all he could think about was how foolish he was to hope that there could ever even be a small possibility with you.  

He ended up leaving without saying goodbye (admittedly not his best decision), and you watched him go with the smallest traces of hurt squeezing your chest. 

And so that's why Choso finds himself here, on this Friday morning two and a half years later, flustered, embarrassed, and scrambling to string together one coherent sentence for you. 

This was worse than his own personal hell. This was abuse and torture wrapped up in one single, harrowing blow. 

Choso could see you had stopped talking and were looking at him expectantly now. 

And honestly? You could handle scuff marks and damaged shoes. You could handle snarky colleagues and misogynistic execs. You've fought for your spot (if only everyone could've seen the state you left Zenin Naoya in...) and swiftly climbed your way up the corporate ladder. You were one of the youngest, and most favored, female directors at the company. You could handle your own and pretty much anything thrown at you - but that did not mean you took kindly to being ignored, especially by the regretfully attractive IT geek that somehow left such an impression on you all those years ago. 

The easy smile you wore slowly began to fall with every passing second of his silence. Behind you, the line began to march forward.

Choso was immobilized. He had to act, and fast. In his fantasies, he would've approached you with the kind of slickness and sex-appeal that Sukuna Ryomen (the notorious office rake) was said to employ at the weekly happy hours (allegedly, according to Satoru). Choso would have wow'd you with his intellect, he would have made you laugh. He would've apologized for his initial lameness after the onboarding debacle all those years ago. He would've found a way to finally get your number, dammit! 

Instead, all the words he wanted to say were competing for a spot of your attention, and something halfway between a choked groan and garbled sputtering was all that could escape his mouth. 

Your eyes slightly widened. 

Choso wished for death to strike him. 

He could feel the light tapping of the people behind him, urging him to move. 

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. A mix of something halfway between sympathy and disappointment flashed in your eyes, but you turned around too quickly before he could decipher it. And so he was left standing there, in the middle of the cafeteria with bated breath and a palpitating heart, as you walked up to the continental buffet without so much as a glance back. 

God, he was truly pathetic. And also so, so incredibly fucked. 

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"Oh now that's fuckin' gold-" Satoru was barking at this point, laughing so hard his glasses slid down his nose, "-even I'm not THAT bad" his howls echoed throughout the entirety of the IT department's floor. Even Suguru, who was always so neutral in these situations, was chuckling and nodding in agreement as he listened to Choso's embarrassing retelling of this morning's encounter. 

Choso's face twisted in misery. 

If he was lamer than Gojo Satoru, who was generally considered as the office's "lamest", then he should just resign the rest of his life to virgin-hood now. 

Gojo: +10

Choso: -67

With a grumble of the most unsavory curses he knew, and a swift kick to Gojo's long shins (that, satisfyingly, shut him up), Choso got up from his desk for his shift at the tenth-floor IT help station. 

Which, to both his happiness and dismay, was where all the higher-ups worked. Where you worked. 

He rubbed his face once, his glasses lifting under his fingers, before staring up at the elevator ceiling. 

"Please pull yourself together, man" he whispered under his breath. 

The tenth floor IT "station" was moreso a glorified closet, in his opinion. The only attribute that made it a “station” was the one,  small service window that one would normally see at drive-thru’s. All Choso had to do for the next 3-hours was sit behind the window and wait for the digital clock to hit 5pm. And normally, his time at the counter would go as it always did: quiet and uneventful. 

So, was it divine intervention or cruel punishment that led you to walk over to the window at 4pm, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you stood before him for the second time that day?

"Mr. Kamo," you said in greeting. You were still a little peeved from the situation that occurred earlier in the day, and your usual easy tone was replaced with something a touch cooler.

"H-Hi," he breathed. Slick. He coughed before correcting himself, "what can I do for you?" 

His eyes flickered up at you and then down to his fidgeting hands. He knew he needed to explain what happened earlier. His earbuds, his chronic-lameness, his affinity with making a fool out of himself whenever you were within a four-meter radius. 

You sighed. "Seems like my laptop decided to give out on me," your lips formed a slight pout and your brows furrowed in cute concern. His heart thumped in his throat. "Think you can fix it?" You raised your eyes to meet his, and he suddenly became acutely aware of just how warm his face was.

He nodded quickly, jerkily. "I can certainly try." 

You say your thanks softly, just a touch distant, before silently handing him your computer. 

He flushed in embarrassment as he stumbled to take the device from you. The IT window, though useful, had a worktable on his side. So, he had to extend over the table to get to the counter of the window, where you had placed your laptop. 

Your eyes furtively stared at the way his surprisingly sculpted arms extended out to reach over. You noticed the soft outline of a scar wrapping around his mid forearm, and the veins that ran down from there and into his large hands. 

You clear your throat, trying to stop yourself from saying (or moaning) something stupid, and excuse yourself. 

He was able to diagnose your laptop in a matter of minutes. The internal cooling fan was clogged with dust, and all he had to do was blast it with some compressed air. It was simple, really. He anticipated it would only take him ten minutes to fix the whole thing.

And yet, he sat there stalling. 

You sat in one of the lounge chairs beside his window, your legs neatly crossed and your manicured nails tapping away on your phone. The sun was beginning to set, and the glow from its light was illuminating you in such a way that it would make it a crime not to stare. 

“Yes, Mr. Kamo?”

You didn’t glance up from your phone, but your brows held a light, inquisitive arch. His breath stuttered. 

“I am so sorry about earlier,” his voice was so gentle you almost missed it. You finally look up. “The breakfast line this morning. That time from onboarding two years ago-” the thumping of his veins was hard enough to staccato his speech, yet he could not stop now. “I am so sorry. For everything. For your shoes. For acting the way I did. For not saying goodbye. I had earbuds in and-god-I don’t know why I’m so…” 

“Shy?” You offer to him.

“Lame.” He mumbles. 

Your laugh is an angelic ring to his ears, and he watches as your hand covers your mouth as your eyes begin to crinkle. It was hard to stay annoyed when he was so endearing, so earnest with his words. The worry lines on his forehead began to ease, and a relieved smile slowly made its way onto Kamo Choso’s face for the first time today.

“All is forgiven-” your smile was small, perhaps even a touch shy. You hesitate, before saying, “thank you, Mr. Kamo.” It was your turn now to not be able to meet his eyes. And though you couldn’t bring yourself to say it, the implication of your words hung in the air. Thank you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for your courage. 

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you as the sun fully dipped into the horizon. You returned to your phone, and he returned to your computer. 

And when he finally opened up the casing to clean out your fan, he made sure to leave a section untouched in the hopes that maybe, just maybe you would come back to visit him again. 

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It was slow at first, but eventually you did return. And then again. And again and again. 

One time for a docking station. The next, for your headphones (you both laughed). He checked your monitors one week, and your cables the next. It would be something new each time you came rounding the corner. 

He would often find himself searching for the sound of your heels, like it was a message just for him; something sacred; a secret admission. 

And every time you came around, you stayed by his window as he worked. You liked to watch the flush that would inevitably creep onto his features, and he liked to relish in your closeness, the smell of your shampoo, the sounds of your bracelets clinking together, and the faces you made as you read through your emails. 

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would catch you staring. He smiled more on those days. 

Somehow, somewhere in those two or so months, the two of you began to ease into each other. You talked more, he stuttered less. Your professional smiles grew into something more unreserved. His anxious hands gradually found peace. Over time, silence turned into polite niceties, which turned into conversations about weekend plans, which turned into gentle teases about music tastes, coffee order skepticisms, and pop-culture references. You surprised him by being a secret gamer. He surprised you by being a shameless sweet-tooth. 

After weeks of odd-repair jobs flew by, there was probably no other office supplies of yours that Choso hadn’t checked. 

He was sure that the final days of you visiting him were soon approaching, and the thought alone was enough to send him into an emotional spiral all week. He didn’t want whatever this was to stop. Your presence easily became the favorite aspect of his routine: a loud part of his normally quiet schedule that he looked forward to every Friday. 

He just needed to man up. Grow a pair. And if today was his last shot, then he would. And if you didn't show up to his IT window tonight? Then he would finally attend the company happy hours just in case you would be there. And if you were there, then he would approach you at the bar and he would buy you a drink. He would ask for your number. He would tell you to address him casually from here on out. He would, he would, he would. 

For you? He would do anything.

It was ten-to-five, and the twisting in Choso’s stomach was becoming unbearable. He was all but ready to pack up and sprint to the bar that all the employees went to on Friday nights when he heard the familiar click of your heels as you rounded the corner. 

His heart was pounding, and he could hear the blood rushing past his ears. 

“You’re going to hate me,” you started. 

Never, he wanted to say in reply. 

“Oh? How so?”

“My work phone,” you frowned, “I’d hate to keep you late on a Friday night, but…” you softly waved the device in your hand. “Think you can manage?”

The turbulence in his body settled. You were here. He will get your number today. He will ask, after this. His eyes softened, as they normally did whenever you were near, and a smile graced his pretty features. “When have I not?”

You laughed and nodded, a touch flushed, biting your lip as your eyes lit up with something warm, something he couldn’t place.

A beat passes. Your gaze drops from his eyes, to his lips, then quickly up to the dark piercing by his brow. Were you too obvious? Was he too dense?  

"My savior." You said it like it was a secret. Breathy, earnest, purposeful. 

His ears turned another shade redder. 

You handed your phone to him wordlessly, and his fingers grazed yours. Where yours were warm and smooth, his were cool and calloused. He gulped. You grinned. 

As you settled down into your usual spot on the lounge chair, laptop opened to your email, he began to assess the damage on your phone. 

“Do you remember what applications were running before it broke? Helps give me a better understanding of the issue.” He was focused now, skillfully popping off the case and assessing the ports. 

You hummed. “The last thing I used was the camera - I was taking pictures of a merger agreement to forward to the legal team.” You checked your watch. “I was hoping to send it all over by 8pm at the latest.”

Though he nodded casually, he couldn’t help but be in awe of your composure, your effortless nonchalance with your power and position. 

As he finally got the screen on your work phone to power up, you began to get a video call on your laptop. You excused yourself, mouthing “Sorry, gotta take this” to him, before you turned and headed back to your desk. It looked like you were quite busy. He hoped you were taking care of yourself; that you ate something today. He made a mental note for himself to ask you later.

He fiddled with your phone for several minutes. After cleaning out your charging port, plugging your device into power, and doing other general troubleshooting, your phone screen finally lit up with its signature brand logo. 

Though it lagged, he was able to get to your home screen and look into your settings. After a general inspection of your storage, software system, and other miscellaneous settings, he moved on to your camera app to check if the app would crash like you had mentioned. 

He truly did not mean to pry. He was just about to close the app when he saw it - the small square photo cover of a folder in your camera roll. The preview was of you. Of your body. 

And, oh fuck- were these your nudes?

Fuck. 

He could feel the blood draining from his face...  

He immediately put your phone down. 

What the hell was he doing?

You were a distinguished senior-level employee. His colleague. His crush. Dare he say, friend? 

His very, very attractive friend.  

He gulped. He could feel his dick pulse in interest, a faint throb that blended with the beating anticipation in his heart.

He slowly picked your phone back up.

He wished he could feel more turmoil; he wished that his morality would kick in and tell him to stop, to tell him to show some sliver of respect for your privacy. But all he could hear was silence in the face of his insatiable curiosity.

You weren’t here right now. The call you took seemed important enough to go back to your office for. Perhaps… Perhaps he could just reaffirm what he thought he saw?

His pulse was beating so wildly that his heart felt like it was working on overload. With shaky hands, he clicks back into the folder. 

Fuck. 

He wanted to cry. He might actually cry. 

There were only seven pictures total. Before he could think too hard, he tapped into the first one and scrolled through. 

The first was of you laying on your side, your heavy tits barely held up by the flimsy pink lingerie you had on. His dick lurched in his jeans at the sight of your nipples barely caught on the lace. He could see the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips, the light gloss on your lips. 

He could feel his hand reaching down to his crotch before he could register what was happening. 

The hell? This was you? Hidden behind all your smart clothes and persisting authority? 

His fingers involuntarily squeezed himself through his pants. He could feel the fiery pit in his stomach convulse. He tried to ignore the wet spot that was beginning to form where the tip of his cock kissed his briefs. He continued to scroll. 

More pictures of your tits, some with them squished together, some with them spilling over your purposefully small tops. Once he got to the ones of your ass, he had to stifle a surprised groan with a choked cough. The slutty thongs you wore almost made him pass out. One pair was made of only cross-linking satin strips. Another was just translucent lace. Regardless of material, he was transfixed by the way they got swallowed up by the expanse of your plump, juicy, impossibly round ass. 

And then he got to the video. The video. 

His heart was wild against his ribs. A vibrator was between your legs. Your thong shoved to the side. Your wetness was soaking the fabric so thoroughly it was see through, and your slick was coating the tip of the device until it shined. Your nipples were hard and peaking through the tops of your bra. One hand was pumping two fingers into your pussy, and the other held the vibrator to rub against your swollen clit.

It was so obscene. So dirty. So fucking erotic. 

He did not know what took over him, but he could not stop himself now. His pants were unzipped, briefs shoved down, cock fully exposed underneath his worktable. He was jerking himself off like he was possessed, drunk off of the way you looked on the screen. His dick was heavy, thick, and hot in his hand. The mushroomed tip was angry and red, rubbed raw by the friction of being trapped in his underwear. He was leaking such an embarrassing amount that he wasn’t entirely sure if it was pre or if he literally came untouched in his pants without realizing. 

He could hear your low pants coming from the screen, and the shlk shlk shlkkk of your nimble fingers fucking inside of yourself. He had to clench his jaw so hard that the veins in his neck were surely popping out, just to stop himself from making noise. Each time you rubbed the slickened vibrator against your cunt, and it partly disappeared between your pussy lips, his own dick bobbed with fresh waves of need. 

What the hell were these doing on your work phone? Was this even your work phone? 

His forehead was lightly damp now. His chest was heaving. His face was so fucking flushed. His heartbeat felt so loud in his ears that he couldn’t hear the faint clicking of your heels as you returned to him. 

“...Mr. Kamo?”

His face snapped up. You were standing directly across from him, the only thing separating the two of you being the service-window wall. A beat passes, and your video is still playing on loop in his hand. 

Your lips part in slow recognition, but the shadow of something indecipherable flickers across your features. 

The world around you both seems to still, the Tokyo nightlife all but muted in the bubble that formed between you and him. 

He sat frozen as you wordlessly walked up to, and opened, the door to his IT room. 

It only took you two steps inside before you slowly dropped to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. With your field of vision lower now, you could see his large hand still fisting his dick underneath the table. 

And… Holy shit. He was so… large. 

You don’t realize you're gulping. 

You don’t realize that you’re salivating. 

This fucking nerd was packing… what? Nine full inches and then some?

Your wide eyes look back up to him, and he stares back with something akin to both utter humiliation and desperation. 

“I never got to properly thank you for all your help these past few months,” you whisper. 

Wait, what? 

Before his delirious brain could process the implication of your soft words, you’re leaning in to lick up the salty pre that pooled at the base of his cock, slurping at the excess, and licking allllll the way up to the pulsing head.  

Your tongue was so soft, so ridiculously fuckin’ wet. 

And Choso was so taken by surprise, so dazed by the fact that this was his reality right now, that his jaw slackened, and a fuckin’ whimper escaped his throat. 

You began to trace the veins on his dick and he could’ve sworn he saw stars. 

You took your time, languidly finding a path up up, up. By the time you made it to the tip, he thought he was going to cry (he was unsure if he already was), until you wrapped your plush lips around the underside of his mushroomed cockhead, putting delicious pressure on his most sensitive area.  

“Put your hands on me,” you almost whined it out, the tip of his dick still bobbing shallowly in your mouth. Like you didn’t want to let go; like you didn't want even a moment of it not resting heavily on your tongue.

Before he could comply, the distant whirring of a vacuum echoed somewhere down the hall. 

“Oh fuck-” his eyes were wild, and his breathing ragged and erratic. Was it panic from potentially getting caught? Or was it the selfish idea that the thought of you stopping now might actually kill him? That whatever trance you both were under would break, and that you would walk out and take all of his heart with you? 

He looks down at you, and in his panicked state he didn’t realize you were grinning. 

“What are you-?” 

The whirring was getting louder. You crawled under the table and settled between his spread legs. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He felt like he was going to go insane. 

You rested your cheek against his thigh, and looked up at him through your lashes. Your eyes were glazed, your lips rouged and spit-slickened. You were mesmerizing, and it almost killed him to look away. 

In the distance, he could see the nightly custodial crew rounding the corner and walking down the hall, their vacuums roaring loudly against the polished floors.  

You began to push his flared cockhead further into your mouth, until it was just kissing the smoothed back of your throat. He choked on a moan, one hand gripping onto the workstation ledge, the other flying to your hair. The echoes of footsteps were growing louder, and the roars of the vacuums were quickly nearing. And yet, this only seemed to make you needier, hungrier. 

Your head was bobbing rhythmically, unrelentingly, addictingly, under the table as you sucked on his hard length. He was just so warm, so thick and hot and heady, and you were beginning to lose your sanity over the feeling of his cock filling your mouth so completely and overwhelmingly, shutting you up. 

Your lashes were damp with stray tears. Choso wondered how it would look to paint your face with his cum, or if you preferred to take it down your throat-

“Would you like us to clean inside there, sir?”

He sputtered dumbly. “Huuh-?” 

The custodial team stood about four meters away, pausing their vacuuming activities briefly as they stared at him curiously. 

“N-no. No I’m good. All c-clean over here.” 

You made it a point to slurp lightly - just loud enough for him alone to hear. You were slobbering now, drool and spittle dripping from your chin, messily mixing with his creamy pre down the length of his cock, and all over his balls. 

He fisted your hair in warning, his jaw ticking with tension. 

He knew he probably looked ridiculous to the custodians right now, maybe even sick with how flushed and sweaty he was. He was pretty sure that his lower lip was split with how hard he was biting them. His glasses were slightly fogged on the lower edges, and his chest was heaving in a way that made him look like he just ran a marathon. 

From his peripherals he could see your wicked smile as you popped off his dick, gingerly mixing the wetness all over, two slippery hands jerking him off, twisting under the capped head, in a slow, teasing, mind-numbing pattern. 

The custodians shrugged, before turning around and heading off for the night. 

And as they left, something inside his mind snapped. Something possessive, perverted, and deranged.

“You playin’ with me?” His eyes were wild. Gone was his professionalism, his shy resolve nowhere to be found. His heart was pounding. He needed you.

“Finally got the hint?” You shoot back, challengingly. 

He huffed out a breath of warm air, before firmly gripping your throat and shoving your mouth back onto his cock. You readily latched on, sucking and licking and moaning, one hand massaging his balls, the other twisting over whatever exposed length was left of him. 

Your tongue was unrelenting, and he was bucking up, abusing your throat. He loved the way your throat bulged at every snap! of his hips, as he shoved his long, fat dick down, down, down. So far gone was the shy man you met every past Friday. His eyes were now glazed and glassy, his lips bitten completely red, sweat rolling hypnotically past his brow piercing and along his sharp jaw. He was drunk off the way your mouth felt. Drunk off the way his dick was using you. Drunk off the way you look; broken, teary-eyed, mouth gagged, and throat bulging with his heavy cock buried inside. 

Before you know it, he's slipping out, one hand on your throat to keep you still, while the other wraps around the base of his cock. He slaps his wet dick against your cheek, before rubbing and sliding himself along your smooth skin. Your legs clench as you realize from base to tip his cock is as big as your head. And when you looked into his eyes, you could tell he saw it too. He wasn’t looking at you though, you realized. He was looking at himself. He wasn't just tapping his dripping cock against your flushed skin. This twisted motherfucker was measuring. 

“Heh- I’ve never felt a pussy before,” he continues his rocking against your face, “d’ya think it’ll fit?”

Your eyes widened. This man, with his pierced ears and studded brow, muscular arms and ginormous cock, was a fucking virgin? 

Surely, he was lying. He had to be.

But as you assessed him, his wrecked and earnest features, there was no doubt that he wasn’t telling you anything but the hard, honest truth. 

“I-” your heart does something funny in your chest, while a fresh wave of slickness soaks your already drenched panties. You address him with equal earnestness, “I guess you’ll just have to find out for yourself, Choso.”

And oh, he was a goner. He loved the way his name rolled off your tongue, how casually you addressed him. He was completely and utterly at your mercy now. 

“Does the window close?” You ask. You were still under the table, and completely oblivious to the way his heart felt like it was exploding behind his ribcage. 

“Y-yeah,” he nodded quickly, jerkily. Dazed and partly delirious. 

He shoved himself back into his pants, not caring to button as he pulled his long, black shirt down enough to cover himself. He stood and leaned over the table, sliding the service window shut and pulling the metal security shutters down. You crawled out from under the table as he went and locked the door. 

It was well past 7pm at this point, and the usual office stragglers were long gone by now. The two of you were alone. 

He lends you his hand and you take it. Your manicured fingers swallowed by his scarred and calloused ones. 

Your knees crack as you stand to your full height. He reaches to wrap his hands around either side of your throat, his thumbs lightly caressing your cheeks. 

“Let me kiss you,” 

It wasn’t even a question. His brain was too consumed in the haze of you, you, you. 

Your chest rose and fell. Your hands found his biceps, and you slowly slid them up, up, up to his shoulders, then to his chest, feeling the hidden muscles of his upper body. 

You hooked your finger in the collar of his shirt, before tugging, bringing him close enough that your lips were brushing his.  

You looked up at him through your lashes, a sly smile creeping onto your features, “I’ll think on it.” 

He groaned. His forehead pressed against yours. The tip of his nose softly tracing yours. You were both so close to each other that your lips would brush from the smallest of movements.

His fingers moved from your throat and into your hair, and you could feel him rutting and rubbing his throbbing erection against your leg in the most desperate, pathetic way. 

“Fuckin’ tease.”

Your heart was beating so traitorously loud against your chest, and the pressure building in between your legs was making you ache, your pussy clenching at the feeling of being without.

You smile at him wickedly. “Earn it then.” 

And before he can think, you’re dragging his shaky hand between your thighs, your skirt riding up, up, up past your legs, before scrunching around your waist. 

He might pass out. 

Because here you were - tits pressing against your tight button down, nipples raised through your bra, lace covered cunt exposed, and ass only half-covered by your bunched up skirt.

And when he finally, finally dips his trembling fingers just underneath the absolutely soaked lace of your panties, grazing your poor, neglected pussy, you sigh out the most breathy, sinful sound in his ear. Could one get infinitely times harder? He couldn’t tell. But he was starting to feel lightheaded with how much blood was rushing from his head to his cock, which was flaring with the freshest waves of need. 

“I- I’ve never done this before,” he said it as if in a trance. His eyes were glassy. He looked hypnotized, almost possessed by the way the tips of his fingers were drenched in your wetness, how your pussy lips were greedily sucking him in so desperately, how they made the prettiest squelch! as his finger got devoured, inch by fucking inch, by your warm, velvety walls. 

Your eyes rolled back and your mouth parted in the most sensual “o” that he’s only ever seen from stuff online. He felt the air get knocked out of his lungs. All of his college “experiences” (if he could even call jizzing untouched and awkward blow jobs milestones in his sexual portfolio) paled in comparison to the display that your pussy was showing him right now. He used his thumb to spread your lips apart, watching his fingers disappear in and out, in and out. 

Fuck.

And then he was everywhere. 

He has your shirt ripped off in seconds, your bra shoved down. His unoccupied hand is squeezing one of your tits, while his mouth latches on to the other, sucking and biting your nipples in a way that has your toes curling, and - did Kamo Choso have a tongue piercing?? 

Below, his one finger became two, jamming into your tight, tight hole, before pumping in and out, in and out in the most depraved way. And when he accidentally crooked his fingers, massaging and fucking into your most sensitive spots, you moaned, your red nails scraping against his broad shoulders. 

“Touch me here too,” you all but gasp out, your delicate hands moving his thumb to rub circles against your clit, just as you had done in the video he watched of you on your phone earlier. 

Ever the most astute student, he listened to your every word. He made note of the things that had you going stupid, and changed gears when you tapped him on his biceps. He was a quick study (a bona fide geek after all), and soon he found the most relentless, ruthless, dumbifying tempo that he had you fucking squirting and spraying all over his wrists and down onto the floor below.  

And then he’s pushing you until your ass is leaning against the workdesk. He spreads your legs apart and drops to his knees. When he stared up at you, he looked so, so gone.

His glasses were smudged and pushed up, the tip of his scarred nose nudged your clit, and his pink lips opened to dip his soft tongue against your folds. The cool metal ball of his tongue piercing the only solace against ur blazing skin. It’s his turn to slurp you up, and god how you tasted- 

One of his hands is firmly gripping your thigh, his face disappearing completely as his mouth is on your cunt, kissing and licking and sucking and massaging. The other is fisting his leaking cock. You tasted so fuckin’ good on his tongue. So warm. So wet. So sweet. He could do this forever. He would beg to do this forever.

“Have I-” he hiccupped, “have I earned it yet, sweetheart?” His glasses are wet with your juices. He’s panting, warm puffs of air hitting your core. 

You were shaking. Yeah, yeah. He earned it. 

“Yes, yes Cho-” your praises of him blended together, spilling and slurring out of your mouth without pause.

“Thank god.”

And then he’s back at it, eating you out so good, his tongue bullying inside of your tight hole. The scar on his nose fully rubbing against your clit, finding home on your body. And you feel it - your legs beginning to shake, your heart pounding in your throat. You’re panting, whining, holding his head to you like you’ll keep him there and suffocate him. The overwhelming waves of your orgasm crashing into you as he fucks his tongue into your greedy pussy, lips latched on and giving the sweetest suction. 

Your hands are in his hair, your vision blurred and teary, you’re calling out his name like its religion. 

And him? He’s trying to memorize the way your walls clench around his tongue, begging for him to stay, keeping him inside you. He’s trying to burn into memory the way you’re fuckin gushing wetness all over his chin, the way your tits bounce up as you arch your back in the most sinful way. 

Only after you come down from your high, Choso finally stands. He rests his two palms on the table space on either side of your thighs, caging you in, before resting his damp forehead in the crook of your neck. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs into your skin, his soft lips kissing against your jugular. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” you tease. Your hands find his hair, lightly running your fingers through his scalp before saying, “we aren’t even close to being done.” 

He looks up at you curiously, innocently. “We… can do more?”

Oh, so he seriously was a virgin.

“Cho…” His knees weaken at the nickname. “We’ve just barely begun.” 

He involuntarily bucks his hips at your response, rubbing his painful erection against your leg. His briefs were wet and stained with pre. You lifted his shirt above his head. He pulled your soaked panties down your damp legs. 

You were still sitting on the worktable, your legs ajar, and your pussy a sloppy mixture of your release and his own saliva. He nudges the tip of his length to kiss against your hole. A deep, choked sigh escapes his mouth at the softness of your pussylips, the slipperyness of your wetness, the warmth that radiated from your core and onto his weeping dick. 

He slips his cock against your folds, teasingly gliding against your clit as he pulses against your skin. Choso’s lips catch your own, his tongue massaging yours, while his hands grope your sensitive, swollen breasts. 

“F-fuuuh,” he’s whimpering into your mouth, lips wobbling, so fuckin’  overwhelmed by the insane sensations of your pussy rubbing against his dick, your mouth moving against his own, and your tits, god your tits, in his large, shaky palms.

And he can’t help it, really. 

His dick was still jerking like crazy from the head you gave him earlier. Your soft pussylips were slathering him in your juices, your tongue licking his tongue piercing like you did his cock, and your nipples so peaked he wanted to suck on them. 

So it’s no surprise, really, when his meaty dick started to leak slow ropes of his sticky, thick cum against your outer folds. 

And you were still making out with him when you realized, the warm gooey feeling spurting out onto your hole was coming from him, that your breath caught in your throat - a soft gasp leaving your mouth as it got swallowed by his languid tongue. 

He was so pathetic, he thought. 

He just came before he even stuck it in.

He pulled away from your mouth. “I-” he was humiliated, face burning with shame, glasses fogged and head facing towards the floor. He was searching for the right words, when you grabbed his still hard penis and gave him the same smile he saw before. The kind of smile you gave when you got on your knees and crawled under the desk. 

You lightly push him until he’s sitting on his wide, creaky work chair. You slide off the worktable gracefully, before joining him. You’re straddling him, tits skimming his chest, his dick standing tall between the two of your legs. Though you haven’t said it outright, the implications of your actions hang heavy in the air; he knows - he realizes what you want, what he wants, and what will inevitably happen. 

“If you don’t want this, say it now,” you say.

His eyes were big, and he’s staring at you so reverently, like you were a goddess, his goddess. He shakes his head. 

“Use your words, Cho,” you rest your hand on his throat, your manicured thumb parting his wobbly lips. 

He was pathetic. But you loved it. 

He had tears in his eyes and he had no idea why. Perhaps from humiliation. Perhaps from overstimulation. Perhaps from the fact that the hottest girl he’s ever laid eyes on was about to fuck his brains out and leave him stupified beyond belief. Probably most definitely the latter. “I want this,” he gasps out. “I want you - fuck - I need you, to be inside you, ple-”

You shut him up with your mouth, massaging and leading and biting. Your hands slowly traverse from his neck and down his hard chest, past his abs, before resting at his base, fingers tangling in the tufts of dark hair there. He was still covered in his own cum, white and warm and sticky against your palms. 

“Don’t worry,” you were almost purring against his red, swollen lips. “I’ll take good care of you.”

And now you’re tipping the head of his cum-covered cock towards your glistening hole, and he feels like he’s going dizzy. 

Holy shit, this was it. It’s happening. 

You break away from him, and the two of you stare as you drag his gooey-covered cockhead allllll around your pussylips, leaving even more mess in its trail. And when his hard length dips slightly into your folds, his mushroomed tip kissing against your entrance, he could swear he almost blacked out. 

“You’re so big, Cho” you cutely pout. His dick throbs before swelling even larger at your words. “It’s even better than I’ve ever imagined.” You say the last part quietly, reverently, almost shyly.

And, holy hell, that does something to him. 

Choso involuntarily bucks at the thought of you thinking about him, about his dick, just as how he thought of you for all these years, and the tip of his cum-covered cock slips right into the tight ring of your pussy without warning. 

Your head knocks back as his own falls forward, the two of your hot breaths puffing into the heady air. 

You were gasping. Even though it was just the head, it felt like you were being stretched beyond belief, your walls wrapping around and latching onto his length so snuggly,  so… deliciously, that it had Choso whimpering into your bare tits. 

You were greedy, slightly possessed, and fuckin’ hungry. You roll your hips forward slightly, pushing his throbbing cock another inch deeper into your gummy pussy, and his hands find purchase on the fleshy curve of your ass. “C’mon now,” you say slyly, “I know my good boy can take it.”

His dick jerks at your words. You have Choso seeing stars. He thinks his hearing was starting to go in his left ear. He’s drunk, he’s addicted, he’s… he’s not even halfway inside you yet and he feels like he is teetering on the edges of his sanity. 

“S-stop teasing me,” he almost cries it out. His fingertips kneed into your ass. He wants to bottom out completely inside you. He wants to feel so impossibly close to you that he forgets his own name, that he forgets where his body ends and yours begins. 

And you comply. You always would, for him. 

He watches as his dick gets swallowed by your stretched lips. The residual cum on his cock from earlier either smears inside you or begins to froth at his base. And you feel so fuckin’ good, your greedy cunt sucking up every inch of him until he’s finally, finally, bottoming out into your warmth. 

“Thaaat’s it, Cho,” you can feel his leaking tip smooching against your cervix, the veins on his dick pulsing against your gummy walls, the residual cum from earlier clinging to your clit. You’re gushing new waves of slick, and he feels how you convulse around him, squeezing tight against his meat like a fuckin’ sin. 

You don’t even give him time to breathe, to even think, because you begin to ride him like a fuckin’ animal, like a goddamn pro. Your tits are bouncing in his face, your ass clapping against his thighs, his cock filling you up like it’s ritual, and his tip fucking into your g-spot savagely, ruthlessly, unforgivingly. Before you know it, he’s bucking his hips up to meet yours, the obscene sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the small space of the IT room. 

He’s panting your name like a prayer, his hands holding you like you were something sacred, and his heart pounding against his ribcage like he’s at confessional.

And yeah, he may have never done this before, he may have never felt the embrace of a woman’s pussy on his cock - but he knew immediately, decisively, that yours was the best. He knew that everyone else’s would pale in comparison. And he knew, deep down, that when this is all over, he would be jaded and lost from mourning the feeling of you. He knew yours would be the only one he would search for in his life. 

“Cho,” you whisper, voice catching and breaking with every thwk thwk thwk! of his balls slapping against your ass. “You’re doing so well,” you hiccup, partially delirious. “I can feel you allllll the way up here.” And then you drag your manicured nail from where the two of you were connected, juices wetting your fingerpads, as it rose all the way up, up, up, to the slightly protruding bump in your belly. You press your hand on it lightly, and he realizes that the bump is from him, from where his achingly large cock was shoved inside you and pressed against your womb. 

He can feel his cock rush with blood, growing larger in your belly, filling and stuffing you even more fully - completely. And you feel it too. He breathes through his nose, small traces of drool slipping from the sides of his mouth. You squeeze your tits together, giving him a show. 

He’s dangerously flushed, sweat (or was it tears?) running down his cheeks. You’re gushing fresh wetness all around his dick, your warm walls clinging to him so needily, almost possessively, as the tip of his cock pounds against your most sensitive spot until it's bruised. And he’s leaking so much pre that the mixture begins to slather so messily around your glistening hole, frothing at his base and running down his balls. 

It was so filthy. So dirty. So fucking addictive. 

His mouth finds the sensitive buds of your nipples, his piercing flicking over the stiffened peaks. One of his hands rubs your combined juices into your swollen clit, while the other grabs on to the fleshy parts of your ass. 

Its your turn to cry out, to whimper at the sensations of his steady hands against your blazing skin, his pulsing cock inside your squeezing pussy. 

“Thaaat’s it pretty girl,” he breathes. He leaves your nipples to suck on the sensitive skin by your ear. “My pretty girl. This what you were lookin’ for?”

He snaps his hips up, balls spanking your ass. His thick cock burrowing impossibly further inside of you.

Your words come out garbled - halfway between pleading and praise. 

He grins at you. 

“Use,” he pulls his cock out almost completely, your quivering pussy squeezing so tightly around the head of him, as if begging him not to leave. 

“Your,” he finally pulls away with a grunt.

“Words,” he smacks his fat, heavy, dripping cock against your entrance. The sound it made left your ears buzzing. 

“Pretty girl.” He’s shoving into you so fast you feel him in your fucking lungs.

He’s gripping your hips, using his strength to fuck your body on his cock. He was handling you like you were a sex doll.

What the fuck? This was the same nerd from before? 

Your tongue meets his, and you’re messily making out with each other: you lick his tongue like you’re licking his dick, and he grabs your throat to pull you away, before spitting into your mouth. Drool spills from your lips and onto your chins. He’s pulling you onto his dick like you were a toy, only pausing briefly to spank your ass and feel it jiggle against his thighs. 

Your actions were getting clumsier: nails scratching randomly at his chest, tongue licking messily up his throat, moans echoing off of his damp skin. His hips were beginning to stutter: his dick was fucking into you in a broken rythm, mushroomed head blooming with every pulse. You both were teetering around the edges of your sanity, and the only sounds between you were sharp breaths and the slapping of your soaking cunt against his soaked cock.  

“Fuck, I’m-” his throat squeezes, every word a battle to get out. He forces his bleary eyes open to watch his dick disappear inside you - fucking into your womb again, and again, and again. He feels his balls beginning to tighten, his shaft becoming taught. He needs to cum. He needs to pull out. 

And he starts to - when your hand tightens around the back of his neck.

“Don’t you, oh,” there's tears streaming down your face, your eyes glassy, your head spinning with how cockdrunk you were, “don’t you fuckin’ dare, Cho.”

He’s so dumbified it takes him several moments to register the implications of your words.

“I-inside?” He’s stuttering, trembling.

“Inside.”

And then he breaks, and you break around him. He’s releasing so much of his thick, gooey cum inside you that it swells in your tummy, bloating your core. He watches as you squirt and spray and spasm around his base, fresh waves of wetness soaking the expanse of skin between you both. His hips keep snapping up with each peak of your orgasm, fucking his seed deeper and deeper, fucking himself so hard into your body until it feels like you can taste him in your throat. 

Neither of you say a word, both of you transfixed on the way that the other feels. You were so stuffed that his cum began to leak out of you, slowly falling and pooling at the base of his cock. 

“You… you are so divine,” he whispers, his hips still lightly rutting inside you, catching the last waves of your peaks, as he kisses along the base of your jaw. 

You can’t speak, your throat felt too hoarse, you were too too dazed, too fucked-out. But you nudge your nose against his, your lashes fluttering against his clammy skin.

Gently, he lifts you from his cock. He watches as you slowly release his dick, before a gush of his seed spills from your swollen pussylips. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered, his thumb immediately catching the gobs of his oozing seed. 

Without a word, you catch his careful fingers, and he watches in fading confusion as you push his thumb back inside you, bringing his cum along with him. 

“No waste,” you whisper. 

Oh.

And after some recuperation time, you both stand and begin to dress in silence. Something tender hangs heavy in the heady air of the IT room, but Choso can’t help but feel the pricks of anxiety blooming in his chest with every passing second.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he asks for your number.

And your swollen lips break out into the prettiest smile, your eyes twinkling up at him. 

“I’ll think on it…” you tease. He grins, his hands find your waist to pull you closer to him. 

“What do I gotta do to earn it this time?”

You tap your chin in mock thought, your smile light and warm. “Come get dinner with me tonight.”

And for you? He would do anything.  

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ “₊ ݁.

Several weeks have passed, and Choso’s morning genuinely could not have gone better. 

Not only did his 6AM alarm go off, but you had slept over last night (and yes, falling asleep cuddling with his dick inside you did contribute to both of your fantastic moods). His morning routine was now a mixture of staring at your pretty face whilst in peaceful slumber, going through a 6-step skincare routine (courtesy of you), and picking up Toji’s overpriced top-line coffee for two. 

Though the train from his neighborhood to Chiyoda City was packed full today, he did not mind. It gave him more of an excuse to huddle closer to you, hands brushing together, one of his earbuds in your ear (the other in his) as your joint playlist hummed in the background. Your chest was lightly pressed against his, two wild hearts beating to the same, familiar tune. 

And of course, the cherry on top was that it was a Friday. The two of you had agreed that it would finally be okay to get breakfast together today, and maybe even sit and eat at a window table afterwards. 

And Choso? Choso was the happiest he has ever felt. Largely due to you. And maybe, just maybe, a tiny part due to the fact he got to see Gojo’s ridiculously large mouth fall to the floor at the sight of you and Choso walking in together today. 

Gojo: 0.