curse user apologist

he was standing up like you weighed absolutely nothing.

your arms locked tighter around his neck from behind, your legs snaking around his waist, all your might thrown into the tackle, but satoru didn’t budge. not an inch. it was like you were trying to wrestle a marble statue that happened to be wearing something way out of most people’s price range. 

“go. down.”

satoru laughed at you, that bright and unfair you-are-so-screwed chuckle slipping right out of him.

no matter. you ignored the sound, holding your ground as you put your back into the motion, digging your heels into his hips, trying anything you could muster to throw him off balance. 

satoru stood up straighter, not an ounce of wobble in him.

one second you were clinging to his back like a koala with a vendetta, the next, you were fully dangling, feet far off the ground, one of his big hands casually gripping the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“form’s good,” he mused, bouncing you once like he was testing a new dumbbell. “little shaky on the follow-through, though. seven out of ten.”

“PUT ME DOWN—”

you thrashed. you squirmed. you tried to hook your ankle around anything to drag him down—feet only meeting the air.

“alright.” satoru lowered you, pressing you into his back, arms enveloping you in what could only be described as a reverse bear hug.

“this was NOT what i meant—”

“no?” he cooed, craning his neck with blindfold still in place, and pressed a loud, obnoxious smooch to your forearm. 

“stop—”

“i’m rewarding the effort.”

“this isn’t—” a kiss on your bicep. “—a participation—” a kiss on your knuckles. “—sport!”

“it can be. you’re cute enough.”

you made a sound of pure, unfiltered rage.

satoru laughed, turning his back towards your couch and releasing you. your body dropped gently—annoyingly gently, bouncing on the cushions with a soft oof.

the furniture dipped once, and his shadow was already over you before you could scramble away, his elbows planting on either side of your head. 

“y’know,” he said, voice dropping into something silky and quiet. “winner gets real kisses.”

your heart did a stupid little backflip.

“you’re not gonna win,” you lied, breathless.

he tilted his head, his lips pulling into that slow, dangerous, i-know-something-you-don’t grin.

“then stop me, baby.”

and you tried.

you bucked your hips in an incredible attempt to flip him, used your thighs to scissor his waist and reverse the position he had pinned you down into. he let you get almost there—let you think you had an opening—and then just shifted his weight with maddeningly little effort. 

satoru’s weight settled on you like an iron anchor, no neutral barrier keeping you at arm's length—just the raw, menacing density of a guy who knew he was completely unshakeable.

your body was giving its heart and soul in an attempt to grapple him; his, on the other hand, had yet to register your attempt as something worth exerting himself over. 

but before he could claim his victory, you did the only logical thing left in your arsenal. your teeth came down on the high collar of his t-shirt.

“ow! hey! unfair conduct! referee!” satoru squawked, flinching just enough for you to yank one hand free.

“no rules in street fighting!” 

satoru grinned, his hand catching your wrist mid-air with scary speed. “oh, so we’re playing dirty now? excellent.”

you could barely process the wicked tilt of his mouth as he adjusted his grip—sliding one arm under your lower back and the other under your knees, scooping you up like a barbell made out of fury, bicep-curling your entire body into the air like a horizontal maraca. no effort, no strain, not even a slight change in his breathing. 

“...three,” he counted, lowering you an inch before pumping you back above eye level. “four... mind-muscle connection...”

“SATORU—”

“not bad,” he mused, holding you at the peak of the curl as if testing your weight distribution. “you’re about... three bags of rice. four if i count the spite,”

“LET GO—”

he didn’t. you were beginning to suspect ‘training to failure’ wasn’t a concept satoru had ever personally encountered—and if asked, you were almost certain he’d define it as 'deciding when he’d had enough.'

satoru kept your entire body suspended mid-air with that single, immovable arm of his while the other pulled his phone out from his pocket.

“...just a sec.”

he flipped it around, his thumb tapping across the screen as he skimmed a notification. you hung suspended in mid-air, watching in horrified fascination as his brow furrowed with a level of concentration he hadn’t bothered to give your entire mass during his tiny, impromptu workout session. 

“ah. spam email.” he slid the phone right back into his pocket, his lifting arm having not so much as trembled the entire time.

you just stared, utterly paralyzed at the cosmic audacity of a man who apparently considered you light enough to multitask around, casually managing his inbox while you were still fighting for your dignity.

satoru leaned back against the top cushion as though he'd merely paused between sets, locking eyes with your stunned expression.

“rule number one of fighting the strongest,” he chirped up, wearing that impossibly pleased and unrepentant grin. “don’t bite the equipment. it voids the warranty.”

“you’re ridiculous—!” you swung a leg over, trying to find leverage, still very much airborne, held aloft by an arm that felt like steel in human form. 

“i don’t know. i kinda like it up here. fine view," he said, pulling his blindfold down past his nose. the striking glow of his eyes locked onto yours, sparkling with unveiled mischief. “can’t chomp on me from all the way up there.”

you glared down at him, but the sheer absurdity of the situation—and the way his t-shirt stretched over his shoulder where your teeth marks probably still were—cracked your composure. a snort escaped you.

“you have a mark on your shoulder.”

that made him pause for a second—barely enough to notice had you not been looking for it.

“yeah?” he tilted his head, his silvery hair falling across his brow. “are you gonna kiss it better?”

“i was thinking more along the lines of biting it again.”

the sigh that left satoru’s body was almost too entertained. he lowered you slowly, almost teasingly, letting your feet brush the floor before he let go entirely. you dropped the last inch, landing on your own two feet, ready to lunge—

and then he was behind you.

you didn’t even see him move as his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, chin hooking over your shoulder. his chest barely moved behind you, exasperatingly relaxed despite the fact that you were still actively trying to escape. “missed me?”

“YOU—” you elbowed backward, but he absorbed the impact, tsking as he tightened his grip around your waist and dragging you back until you were flush against his chest.

“illegal move number two: strike to the kidney. that’s a five-minute penalty in the kiss bin.”

“there is no kiss bin!”

“there is now,” satoru hummed, resting his heavy chin right on your shoulder, his nose nuzzling into the side of your neck. “i’m the founder, president, and sole referee. your sportsmanship is atrocious today.”

you huffed, trying to pry his thick arms off your stomach, but it was like trying to unbend rebar. every frustrated tug only made the muscle beneath his shirt tighten beneath your hands. zero traces of any cursed technique—just surprisingly irritating lean muscle.

his heartbeat thudded slowly against your back in an unbothered rhythm, as if manhandling you across his own body didn’t even seem to qualify as light cardio. 

“this isn’t over,” you pointed out, tilting your head back against his shoulder to glare at him.

“you were so brave,” satoru mumbled, his voice softening as he peered down full of affection. his lips met the side of your neck, a peck right over your pulse point. “a true warrior. a feral, teethy one.”

you shivered despite yourself—the traitorous little jolt that always happened when his mouth found the spot. you hoped he had missed it.

“ah,” he breathed against your skin, the word vibrating through you. “found it.”

“found—found what? there’s nothing to find—”

“your off switch.” another kiss, slower this time. “right... here.”

you elbowed him again, weaker this time. “there isn’t an off switch.”

his lips curved into a smile against your neck. “mhm, that’s why you just went all melty.”

“i did not go melty.”

“you went so melty. turned into a puddle of... of...” he paused, clearly searching for the most ridiculous possible comparison. “pudding.”

“that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“no, wait.” he reconsidered. “custard. vanilla. crème brûlée if you're feeling fancy. i’m a crème brûlée kind of guy, honestly. the caramel on top?" he sighed dreamily. “chef's kiss.”

apparently that counted as enough justification for another smooch beneath the side of your jaw.

“i’m going to commit a crime.”

“you already did. general assault on a beautiful man.” he squeezed you tighter, almost cuddly now. “i’m just trying to reform you through physical love.”

“you’re not reforming anything—”

“true,” he said cheerfully. “i wanna make it worse. that’s the goal.”

you gave up struggling, slumping back against him with a defeated groan. “i despise you.”

“you love me.”

“hate.”

“love.”

“hate.”

“love love love—” he was peppering kisses along your shoulder now, each one punctuating the word. “—love—you—so—much—”

your resolve was crumbling. you could feel it, like sand slipping through your fingers.

“this doesn’t mean i forfeit,” you managed.

“no, of course not.” he was grinning against your skin—you could feel it. ”you’re still fighting. very formidable. extremely intimidating.”

“i am—”

“especially the part where you went completely boneless the second i kissed your neck.”

“THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN—”

you tried to twist away, but he just laughed and held you tighter, burying his face in your hair.

“your favorite thing is watching me suffer.”

“mm. top three. right behind sugar and my own reflection.”

you shook your head. “unreal.”

“yeah well, tell it to the judge,” satoru teased, easing his grip just enough to spin you around in his arms, ungraciously falling back against your couch with you on his lap. 

you expected him to strike another cocky pose or drop another infuriating one-liner, but as his palms settled loosely on your waist, his expression softened. 

the blindfold was resting around his neck, and those endless light blue eyes were looking down at you with so much fond that it made your chest ache in the best way possible.

”eight out of ten.” he said softly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against your hip.

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest to keep up the facade. “is the referee issuing a revised statement?”

“mhm. bonus points for the biting,” he purred, looking entirely too satisfied with himself. “still went down, but at least you made it interesting.”

that smug little smirk was your final straw.

you uncrossed your arms, hands snaking upward as you pretended to adjust your posture, before your fingers hooked firmly into the black fabric of the blindfold dangling around his throat in a yank.

satoru’s head pitched forward, but he didn’t even stumble—just let himself be pulled down completely unfazed, those glowing blue eyes blinking at you in mild, amused curiosity.

“i’m trying to choke you into submission,” you informed him, holding the fabric as taut as your knuckles would allow.

“and you’re doing great, sweetface, truly,” he was all smiles, not resisting the pull at all—in fact, the tension on the blindfold was only helping close the remaining space between you, until his lips were barely an inch from yours. “except you forgot one tiny detail.”

“which is?”

“you’re directly in the kiss range.”

satoru closed the final inch.

the kiss wasn’t the victorious, smug-enough- to-power-tokyo-for-three-days-straight standard he usually went for. his lips met yours, lingering just long enough to steal whatever breath you had left. 

he slid up his hands from your waist to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone as he pulled back just an inch, grinning down at your thoroughly dazed expression.

“ten out of ten,” he breathed against your lips, gleaming with pure satisfaction. “ref’s ruling is final.”

ryomen sukuna

⤷ has a clingy s/o. - fluffy comfort

fushiguro toji

⤷ has a clingy s/o. - fluffy comfort ⤷ golden cuffs. - slow burn - ch. 1 // ch. 2

nanami kento

⤷ has a clingy s/o. - fluffy comfort

˚˖𓍢ִ໋` headcanons

˖ when you initiate 𑣲 gojo satoru 𑣲 nanami kento 𑣲 kamo choso

˖ has a clingy s/o.⭑.ᐟ 𑣲 kamo choso

︵︵︵ ๑ textfics ๑ ︵︵︵

pt. 1 -> satoru, suguru, sukuna

pt. 2 -> toji, kento, megumi

pt. 3 -> yuuji, choso, toge

pt. 4 -> yuta, hiromi, naoya

︵︵︵ (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝) ︵︵︵

you’re on the couch above him, scrolling on your phone, half-watching some show.

yuuji’s head tilts—then tilts a little further, his brows knotting with the intensity of someone trying to exorcise a high-grade curse.

“hey.”

you hum absentmindedly, eyes glued to your screen.

“hey.” a blunt poke hits your knee.

“what?”

he holds up the magazine, turning it toward you to reveal a glossy two-page spread. a model is draped across the hood of a sleek sports car, another kneeling on the pavement before them with lips hovering barely an inch above their ankle. it’s dramatic, absurdly high-fashion, and entirely over the top.

yuuji’s face is completely serious.

“do people actually do that?”

you blink. “do… what?”

he gestures vaguely at the photo. “the—y’know. the car thing. is that a real thing people do? like, regularly?”

you let out an amused breath. “yuuji, that’s a perfume ad. no one’s—”

“but could they?” he sits up, pink hair flopping, eyes wide and earnest.

“like, if someone wanted to, could they just… do that? on a car?”

it takes your brain a full three seconds to process the question. “i mean… technically, yes?” you pause, searching for the right words. “but—”

“okay, cool.” he nods once, decisive, like he’s just filed that information away for later. then he drops the magazine, turns fully toward you, and rests his chin on your knee.

“is that fun? like, actually fun? or is it just for photos?”

you stare down at his entirely unbothered face, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of his chin resting on your knee. “i don’t know, yuuji. shockingly, i’ve never—”

“because i wanna try it with you.” yuuji says. the admission is matter-of-fact, spilling out without any hesitation or embarrassment—spoken in the same sincerity he’d use to announce what he wants for dinner.

it makes your brain buffer, a light giggle punching out of you. “you—what?”

yuuji blinks up at you with an unabashed stare, his chin still propped on your knee. “i mean, not right now. but like… someday. if you wanted to.”

“yuuji.” your phone slips onto the cushion as you press a hand to your forehead.

yuuji stays rooted, head tilted in quiet confusion as he waits for you to peek out from behind your fingers.

“you can’t just drop that on someone, y’know.” your hand lowers, a single pointer finger pressing against his broad shoulder—although poking a brick wall would’ve yielded better results.

“why not?” his brows knit together in genuine confusion. “you’re my girlfriend. i think about stuff with you. that’s normal, right?” the tone of the question is akin to the time he asked if it was normal to double-dip a chip.

you press your palms to your heated face. “yes, but.. you have to build up to that. y'can’t just.. blurt out that you wanna try car stuff in the middle of a tuesday afternoon like you’re asking if i want pork buns!”

his eyes light up, entirely missing the point. “wait, can we get pork buns later?”

“yuuji.”

“right, right! sorry.” he raises his hands in quick defense, leaning back just an inch, though that bright, goofy smile doesn't fade.

he clears his throat, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as his tone softens. “i’m serious, though. not about just the car specifically—well, kinda—but about…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “trying stuff. with you. if you’re into it.”

he stills, the playful detour long forgotten as his gaze anchors right back on yours.

you take in the restless press of his fingers against his knee, the nervousness devastatingly sweet and entirely too effective.

“yuuji,” you shift closer as a heavy warmth settles low in your chest. “are you asking me what i’m into?”

he doesn’t pull back. “yeah. i think i am.”

you reach down, curling your fingers around his where they rest against his knee, rough and steady under yours.

somewhere down the hall, a door clicks shut.

“i think,” you say slowly, “that’s a conversation we should have somewhere with a door that locks.”

it takes a second for the implication to sink in. the quiet hesitation of yuuji vanishes as his entire face lights up, eyes flashing with unmistakable interest.

“like—right now?”

you laugh, eyes drifting to the common room clock on the wall as you press a palm against his chest to hold him off. “later. training starts in ten minutes, and i need time to actually think about what i want.”

“time?” yuuji stands, offering a hand to pull you up. you take it, standing with a quick “mhm.”

he sways into your space before you can step away, his nose bumping into yours. “can i help you figure it out?”

“you’re already helping.”

“fair.” he gives a satisfied little nod, the grin settling into a fond curve as he continues holding your hands.

“what?”

“nothing.” his thumb rubs over the back of your knuckles. “i just like that you’re thinking about it with me.”

two weeks of vague promises and lingering looks, and it finally catches up to you both on a weekend night.

you’re returning from a convenience store run—yuuji balance-walks along the curb with a bag of meat buns held high while you sip an iced tea—right as you round the corner of the jujutsu high parking lot.

under the single buzzing streetlamp sits a sleek, obnoxiously expensive dark sports car, low to the ground with windows tinted pitch black. the amber streetlamp reflects off the polished hood, heat shimmering off the metal as the faint smell of hot engine oil floats into the cool night air.

yuuji stops mid-step, the meat bun still in his mouth as his jaw drops around it. a slow grin spreads past the food shoved in his cheek.

you follow his gaze—tracing the luxurious outline of the vehicle, the loud, familiar flex of it setting off alarm bells in your head.

“no,” you say immediately.

“i didn’ say anythin’.”

“you’re thinking it.”

“’m just looking—”

“yuuji.”

he turns to you, and there it is—the earnest, puppy-eyed, ‘i’m-being-so-reasonable-right-now’ look that always gets you in trouble.

“it’s gojo-sensei’s car,” he says, like that’s a point in favor. “he tells us to ‘live a little’ every single day. this is following instructions.”

“he means like taking time off,” you pinch the bridge of your nose. “maybe trying new foods. not—”

“not what?”

yuuji steps closer, meat bun forgotten in his grip. the playful edge leaves his voice, dropping into something quiet, lower, and entirely too close. “not us?”

your mouth goes dry.

he’s not being coy. he never is. there’s zero pretense in yuuji, no hidden angle—just that straightforward intensity that makes your chest feel too small.

“just sayin’” he takes a bite of his meat bun. “this feels like an opportunity.”

you glance around the empty lot, where the last bit of the fading dusk light glints off your teacher’s absurdly shiny hood in a taunt.

you swallow hard. “yuuji. it’s sensei’s car.”

“i know.” he’s already wandering back toward it, the last of half-eaten meat bun still held aloft in one hand. “that’s what makes it funny.”

“it makes it insane—”

wolfing down the last bite of the soft dough in two quick chews, yuuji settles back against the driver’s side door.

he tests the cool metal, trailing a hand along the frame as he wanders toward the front.

elbows braced against the hood, he hits you with that look—the one that says he’s already decided and is just waiting for you to catch up.

“two minutes,” he says. “that’s all.”

your heart hammers. “two minutes of what?”

yuuji turns to pat the hood. “just—come here. let me try something.”

you should say no. you should absolutely, definitely say no. this is probably a crime, it borders on trespassing. this is—

your feet are moving.

you cross the parking lot, drink abandoned on a nearby bench, and stop in front of him.

the sports car practically hums with leftover horsepower, engine heat soaking through your clothes the second your thighs meet the hood.

before you can convince yourself to retreat, yuuji closes the distance—framing you in, palms flat against the warm metal on either side of your hips.

“okay?” he asks, quieter.

you tilt your head, forcing your voice to stay steady. “are we really… doing this. on sensei’s car. in basically broad daylight.”

“broad dusk-light.” he corrects. “very different.”

“dusk-light isn’t a word.”

“just made it one.”

yuuji crowds right into the space between your knees. his hands shift from the hood to brace gently on either side of your waist, the heat of his palms soaking straight through your clothes. the sudden proximity makes the whole parking lot disappear.

“…crazy,” you whisper.

“yeah.” he dips his head, his nose trailing softly along the curve of your jaw before resting against your neck. “a little bit.”

your breath catches, your fingers instinctively grip the edge of the hood behind you. “i came over to talk you down.”

“i know,” he murmurs against your skin, warm as his mouth brushes the sensitive spot just below your ear. “thanks for coming over.”

you fight the shiver running down your spine. “don’t thank me like you’re not a terrible influence.”

“m’just trying something,” yuuji mutters into your neck, tickling your skin. his hands tighten around your waist, his grip shifting down to your thighs as he sinks down into the ground.

a heat rushes straight to your face when his knees hit the ground. you lean back, palms pressing into the hood behind you.

“yuuji—this isn’t even how the ad was,” you breathe, a soft hitch escaping your lips as your head tilts back, the dusk sky swimming above.

“the ad didn’t have you in it.” his breath tickles your skin, kissing his way up your calf, slow and deliberate, and you’re very aware that you’re in a parking lot, sitting on your teacher’s car, and anyone could walk by at any moment—

but yuuji’s hands are steady on your knees, and his mouth is warm, and when he reaches the hem of your shorts, he pauses and looks up at you.

“…still okay?” he asks, voice barely above a murmur.

your throat tightens from the way he asks, like he’d stop in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

“yeah,” you manage. “yeah, i’m okay.”

he holds your gaze for a second longer, searching—and you realize he’s nervous too, the faint tremor in his hands barely visible against your thighs.

then he ducks his head again, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your knee.

oh.

your fingers scrabble against the warm metal. the sky spins above you, distant stars just beginning to peek through the dusk, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound because anyone could walk by.

yuuji hums against your skin, pleased, and continues his slow ascent—open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, teeth grazing lightly, tongue soothing the spot after.

you make the mistake of looking down at him.

“you’re really pink right now,”

you blink at his observation. “what?”

“your face.” yuuji tilts his head, the infuriatingly earnest look back. “it’s really pink. like about the same color as my hair.”

“i—” you press a hand to your burning cheek. “yuuji, you’re kneeling in a parking lot kissing my legs, of course i’m—”

“i like it.” he says it simply. “i like that you get flustered. makes me feel like i’m not the only one losing my mind.”

your heart stops. “you’re losing your mind?”

“constantly.” he presses his forehead against your knee and just… stays there for a moment, breathing, letting the silence settle.

when he looks up again, his voice is quieter. “i meant what i said. i want all sorts of things with you.” he kisses the curve of your thigh—lips dragging softly.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper. “you need time. you can have all of it.”

“yuuji…” your chest feels full.

“mm.” he grins against your skin, and the mischief creeps back in. “was it too sappy?”

“a little bit.”

“good.” another kiss, higher this time.

“you said two minutes, y’know.” your voice strains.

yuuji’s head snaps. “…how long has it been?”

“weren’t you the one counting?”

“i was.” he responds, his hand settling under his chin. “but i lost count.”

you look at him. “you lost—”

“when i heard footsteps like thirty seconds ago.”

your eyes go wide. “what—”

“i’m pretty sure it was just a cat.” he replies, but he’s already tugging you away from the car, grabbing your drink from the bench with his free hand. “still, just in case we should—”

“you knew?!”

“only seventy percent sure.” he’s jogging now, pulling you along, laughter spilling out of him. “sixty-five.”

“YUUJI—”

“fifty-fifty!”

the sound of your hurried footsteps fades down, leaving the parking lot dimly quiet once again.

a beat passes.

then the driver's side door swings open.

a blindfolded man steps out, a plastic-wrapped suit slung over one shoulder from the dry cleaners.

he stares at the empty stretch of pavement where the two of you disappeared, then his gaze drifts to the front fender.

‘great.’ he exhales through his noise, mumbling to himself “kids,” before fishing his keys out of his pocket, shutting the door with a solid thunk.

the morning air in the classroom is quiet the next day, save for the chalk dust floating in the sunlight.

the door slides open with a loud thud. gojo saunters in, a fresh cup of iced coffee in hand, dropping his lesson plan onto the lectern with way too much energy for the early hour.

“morning kids,” he hums, his voice entirely too pleasant. he views the window, tapping his chin in mock contemplation. “ah… crisp air today. great driving weather.”

yuuji perks up instantly, but you stiffen.

“so? anyone see my new car?” gojo turns his blindfold toward the room, a dangerously casual smile curving his lips. you freeze, your hand halting mid-air over your notebook.

“what do you guys think? nobara?”

“obnoxious.”

your teacher clutches his chest. “you haven’t even seen it yet.”

“don’t need to.” she shrugs.

beside you, yuuji’s brain takes a full three seconds to process the exchange before his boyish enthusiasm completely overrides any sense of a set trap.

“i think it’s awesome!” he leans forward over his desk. “looks straight out of some movie!”

“does it?” gojo’s smile widens, accompanied by a light chuckle. “glad you liked it.”

he takes another sip of his iced coffee. “you two really got a close look at it last night, didn't you?”

you both still. across the room, megumi’s pencil stops at your reactions, one dark eyebrow knitting as his eyes dart slowly from yuuji to you.

“but y’know,” gojo continues, almost thoughtfully. “that salesman really oversold me on the tint. couldn't even get two teenagers to realize someone was already inside.”

you practically hear the neck pop of nobara as she turns to look at the only two people in the room who’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“what did you two do?..” her eyes squint with a mixture of intense investigative intrigue and unveiled disgust. “and why are you turning the color of a boiled shrimp?”

“we didn’t—” yuuji squeaks, stopping himself as he answers. “i mean we’re not!” you try to melt through the floorboards.

megumi connects the dots and immediately regrets having a brain, a soul-weary sigh escaping him. “couldn’t you guys just keep whatever that was to yourselves?”

gojo sets his iced coffee down on the lectern with a soft clack and everyone quietens. he reaches into his jacket pocket with an alarming lack of haste.

“itadori.”

yuuji stiffens at the surname usage. “yes?”

gojo flicks his wrist.

something soft and bright yellow flies through the air as yuuji’s hand shoots out, catching it in time.

he unfurls the item, peering down at a microfiber detailing cloth like it’s a cursed object, his ears burning bright red.

“sensei!” he holds it up in panic. “we—i mean the engine was off!”

gojo hums, nodding down at him as he steps closer.

“we swear we didn’t know you were in there!”

he pauses right in front of him. “was the hood warm?”

“i—yeah.”

gojo exhales, his long finger flicking yuuji right on the forehead, making him yelp in response. he watches him rub the spot, folding his arms. “a middle schooler could have deduced someone had just parked it.”

“sorry.”

“sorry.”

your heads drop lightly in an apologetic bow. gojo shakes his head before turning back towards the chalkboard without a word.

you both look up warily as he breaks up a piece of white chalk.

“yes, sensei?”

gojo points over his shoulder, directing his thumb towards the door. “chop chop.”

“okay.” yuuji dashes up, clutching the cloth. he spares an abashed look at you as he rushes out of the classroom.

“also, yuuji.”

“yes?” he stops in his tracks.

“work on your counting.”

yuuji’s entire face turns crimson. “…okay.”

he’s already bolted off as gojo adds the last strokes of the date onto the chalkboard, muttering under his breath. “seriously, kid, your internal timer..”

⬇︎ geto suguru

⬇︎ ryomen sukuna

you’re mid-chew, texting, when you feel satoru materialize behind you. that and the rustling of his plastic bags give him away . his chin hooks over your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

“gum?”

you nod, not looking up. “yeah. want a piece?”

“mm.” his voice drops. “already have one.”

before you can ask what that means, satoru’s hand cups your jaw—gentle and firm—and turns your face toward him. he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t warn. he just leans in.

he kisses you slow and deliberate. you reciprocate after a moment, a motion mostly on instinct, which ends up giving him the right access. his tongue slides past your lips, not to deepen it, but to sweep.

satoru coaxes the gum from your mouth with an infuriatingly skilled curl of his tongue, pulling it into his own mouth with a soft, wet sound that has no right to make your stomach feel that way.

he pulls back and chews, his dimples showing as an unapologetic grin spreads across his face.

“mint,” he hums, like he’s tasting a fine wine. “good choice.”

you’re frozen, face burning and brain short-circuiting.

he plucks the slick gum from his own mouth and presses it back to your lips with two fingers. “open.”

you do. pathetically.

satoru pushes it past your teeth, taps your chin to close your mouth, and pats your cheek like you’re a good pet.

“now we match,” he says sweetly. “shared flavor. shared spit. shared everything.”

then he turns, waves at the cashier, and strolls out of the store front like he didn’t just ruin you in public.

ii. later during dinner, you both are eating something disgustingly sticky together—honey-glazed chicken wings and melted s'mores, because satoru having zero self-control around sugar is nothing new.

your hands are messy. his hands are a crime scene.

you see him eyeing your hoodie. that soft, oversized, perfect fit that you love more than life itself.

“don’t.”

satoru freezes, hand hovering. eyes wide and innocent.

“don’t what?”

“don’t wipe those fingers on me, satoru. i swear to god—”

satoru gasps, offended. “i'd never.”

you stare. satoru holds your gaze. too long. then, with the exaggerated deliberation of a man performing a magic trick, he slowly—so slowly—wipes both hands down the front of his own white t-shirt.

dark streaks bloom across the fabric. he looks down at the mess, then back up at you.

“see?” he beams. “respectful. courteous. boyfriend of the year.”

you blink. “you literally just ruined your shirt.”

“my sacrifice.” he clutches his chest dramatically. “anything for you, my love. i would never defile your sacred hoodie. i would rather die.”

then he opens his arms wide.

“now. hug.”

“no.”

“hug.”

“satoru, your entire front is—”

satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges, wraps his sticky, honey-drenched, s'more-crusted arms around you and squeezes. his open palms find your back. your shoulders. you try to save your hair.

you feel the tacky residue transfer. everywhere.

when he finally takes mercy and pulls back, both the front and back is a disaster of regret. and he’s grinning as if he contributed to your life in such a meaningful way.

“looks good,” satoru says, tucking a sticky strand of hair behind your ear as you continue to scowl. he inspects the honey smeared across your hoodie with genuine satisfaction.

“perfect.”

“perfect?”

“now everyone will know we hugged.”

the spar was fine, really.

you were absolutely not watching his hands—the way his fingers curled and splayed with every summon and command, shadows bending to his will.

you were definitely not watching the way his shirt started clinging to his torso as he moved, sweat darkening the fabric across his chest, his back, the dip of his—

nope.

nope.

you were a respectful partner.

at least right until the spar ended with megumi pinning itadori to the gravel, dust settling around them in the humid air. he had one forearm locked across his classmate’s throat, the other—oh—the other hand twisted tight in his collar, knuckles white. his breathing was heavy, rough pants echoing in the quiet yard. his hair had come loose from its usual spikes, falling across his forehead in damp strands. sweat traced a path down his temple, his jaw, the column of his throat—

oh, you were done for.

megumi released itadori, who was complaining something about ‘unfair pet privileges’, and pushed himself to his feet. he was panting slightly. his chest rose and fell, shirt clinging in ways that should be illegal, and his hands—those hands—were flexing at his sides like he was shaking off residual tension.

long fingers. elegant knuckles. veins. and the way his thumb dragged across his lower lip, wiping away a bead of sweat—

you made a sound.

you hadn’t meant to. it was somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and it had escaped before you could stop it.

megumi's head snapped toward you. his eyes—dilated, still half-feral from the fight—locked onto yours.

oh, you were so dead.

or perhaps... you weren’t. megumi put space between himself and itadori’s sprawled, resting body on the field. perhaps his distance would give you the repose you needed to compose yourself.

except it failed. miserably.

because he was still there, a few feet across the yard, stretching cool-down muscles. arms reached over his head, shirt riding up to expose a sliver of pale stomach. his hands—god—were clasped behind his neck, fingers interlaced, knuckles pressing against his spine like he was trying to crack his back.

and then he bent forward, palms flat on the ground, hips flexing. the line of his spine, the way his shoulder blades shifted, the way the t-shirt was stuck to his skin with sweat, highlighting hidden muscles beneath—

you stood up so fast you knocked over your textbook.

megumi straightened and looked at you.

and smiled. a real smile—soft, private. knowing.

you walked over. you had no choice. your legs were moving on their own, drawn to him like gravity.

“your staring was distracting.” there was no bite to his words.

“me?” you pointed a finger at yourself. “i wasn’t the distracting one.”

he nodded, disbelieving.

“i mean it. i didn’t get any studying done.”

“that’s not good.”

“it isn’t.” you shook your head. “i need to be compensated.”

megumi tilted his head.

“i know, i know. no kissing in public.”

“no,” megumi agreed.

‘shame,’ you thought, ‘so strict.’—until he brought one hand to his own lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles—and then offered it to you.

you stared at his hand.

those long fingers, slightly callused, knuckles still faintly pink from where they’d connected with itadori's jaw. the same hand that had been twisted in his collar moments ago, holding him down with quiet strength.

now it was just... there. offered. fingers relaxed, waiting.

“you just—” you started slowly, brain short-circuiting as you looked from his mouth to his hand. “and now you’re offering them to me?”

“mm.”

“that’s..” you swallowed. “that's, you’re—”

megumi’s eyebrow arched. “you want me to take it back?”

“no!”

you grabbed his hand before he could. you wrapped your fingers around his palm—a little sweaty from the spar, and you didn’t care at all. you cared so little that you lifted it to your own lips and pressed a kiss to the same knuckle he’d just kissed, right where his lips had been. same place. same pressure, deliberate.

megumi’s breath hitched, barely, a tiny catch in his throat that you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t obsessed with every sound your quiet boyfriend made. you needed more.

“what?” you pulled back, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “you thought one would make up for it?”

megumi blinked. something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or that quiet intensity he got when you caught him off guard.

“i—” he stopped and swallowed. you watched his throat bob, the way his fingers, still in your grasp, tightened just slightly.

“one kiss on the knuckles,” you continued, voice dripping with mock consideration, “for forty minutes of watching you be distractingly attractive? for the lost study time? for the vein crimes?”

“vein crimes?”

“yeah, especially those.”

megumi’s lips twitched in that soft, hidden pull that was threatening to break through, but he was fighting it. losing the fight.

“so,” you said, lifting his hand again, “i think i deserve—”

you pressed another kiss to his knuckles. slower this time, lingering. your lips dragged across the skin, and you felt the faint tremor run through his fingers.

“—at least—”

another kiss. this one to the next knuckle.

“—a few—”

and another.

“—more.”

by the time you’d kissed each knuckle individually, megumi’s hand was trembling. just enough. it was a fascinating contrast—the very hands that commanded cold shadows were now radiating a sweet warmth beneath your lips.

his face—his beautiful, composed, impossible face—was faintly pink. a dusting of color across his cheekbones was creeping toward his ears.

oh, you’d won.

“that’s—” he faltered. “that’s enough.”

“is it?” you asked, sweet. “dunno. i’m still feeling pretty uncompensated.”

megumi’s jaw tightened. his eyes—flustered—locked onto yours.

his free hand came up—and you watched it, watched the way his fingers curled, the way they stopped short of your jaw, wanting to tilt your face up. his thumb traced the air over your lower lip, featherlight.

“i can’t kiss you here,” megumi said quietly. “outside. itadori’s still—”

“wheezing. yeah, i know.”

and then he leaned in—pressing his thumb against your lips, kissing his own finger.

his lips met his own skin, just barely brushing, but you felt it—the warmth, the promise of what he couldn’t do. his eyes stayed locked on yours the whole time, intense and just a little bit flustered.

when he pulled back, his ears were definitely red now.

“compensation,” megumi murmured.

“you—” the word came out strangled. you cleared your throat. “that’s not how it works. you can’t compensate me by kissing yourself.”

“seemed fair.”

you wanted to kiss him so badly it physically hurt. but megumi was right—itadori was finally staggering to his feet, and kugisaki was walking back into the field after taking a private phone call, and your teacher was probably—

the quiet bubble around you both shattered instantly.

“MEGUMIII~II~!”

your soul left your body.

gojo materialized out of nowhere, sunglasses pushed up, eyes wide and sparkling with unholy glee. his phone was already out.

“did i just see that?! did you JUST—kiss your own thumb—while touching your girlfriend’s face—in public—and think no one would notice??”

megumi’s face went from pink to red.

“don’t.”

“don’t what? don’t immortalize this moment for future generations?? don’t show this to everyone at the next meeting??”

“just don’t.”

the man was already cackling, phone held high, spinning in a dramatic circle like he’d just captured the rarest footage known to man.

“this is pure gold. just amazing. the fushiguro megumi, known stoic, emotionless brick wall, kissing his own thumb because he can’t smooch in public?? that’s—it’s art. cinema. that’s—”

before the words even fully left his mouth, megumi’s hands were already coming together, wrists crossing in a lethal motion. the airy-ink pooling at his boots aggressively surged upward, the temperature in the yard dropping a sharp five degrees as a heavy, ancient pressure began to manifest under the sun.

“ah-ah-ah! you wouldn’t.”

gojo didn't even blink, his cackle looping seamlessly into an amused, sing-song warning, but he did take a step back. smart man.

the shadows snapped back into place, deflating as he aborted the summon, scowling and choosing to glare holes through his teacher. you, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to laugh and failing horribly.

“your ears are so red,” you whispered delightedly. “i’ve never seen ‘em this red. it’s my new favorite thing.”

megumi side-eyed you, brows knitting. “i don’t forgive you.”

“you will.”

he finally looked at you—and despite the red ears, the ongoing laughter in the background, itadori stumbling over to ask what was so funny—megumi smiled, small. private. for you. your hands found each other, fingers lacing together.

“you still owe me compensation though.” you muttered.

satoru’s got you pressed into the mattress, one hand holding himself up near your hair, the other hooked under your hip like you might try to escape. you’re not. you couldn’t if you wanted to. not with the way he's anchored you down, trapping you beneath himself.

satoru lifts you, just enough, to press himself flush against you.

“say it again,” he breathes against your mouth, all smug and wrecked in the same breath.

“say what?” breathless, your nails dig down his back.

he grinds into you thoroughly. “that thing you said about my legs.”

you’d laugh if you had the air for it. “you’re obsessed with yourself.”

“mm.” satoru kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your pulse. “and you’re obsessed with here.”

he grabs your hand, drags it down his thigh. the muscle flexes under your palm, warm and solid and ridiculous. “go on. touch. i know you want to.”

you do. you really do.

but you don’t. which makes satoru shift, spreading his knees wider, caging you in completely.

there you are—nowhere to go, nothing but him and his stupid perfect body and that insufferable grin. and doesn't he know just how to rub it in.

“see?” he rolls his hips again, sluggish and dirty, and you actually whimper. “told you these legs were good for something.”

“shut up—”“taking it so pretty.. and you were complaining about my legs earlier.”

you try to respond, but he drives deeper and the words turn into a choked moan.

“mm, that’s what i thought.”

your nails rake down satoru’s back. he groans—loud—and bites your lower lip hard enough to sting.

“fuck—” you gasp and he pulls back just enough to look at you, blindfold half in place, teeth sharp and dangerous. “you like that? like when i get a little mean?”

you yank him down by his stupid perfect hair then and kiss him like you’re trying to devour the ego out of him. satoru laughs into your mouth—a bright and unhinged sound—and then flips you both so fast you barely register the motion.

his firm hands find your hips in a stifling grip. and his legs—god, his legs—bend up, feet planted on the mattress, giving him leverage to fuck up into you like he's trying to break you.

you brace your hands on his chest, trying to find some rhythm, some control—but satoru doesn’t let you.

he thrusts into you, sharp and merciless, his hips snapping up to meet yours with brutal urgency. the sound is wet, filthy. you feel every inch of him, every ridge, pulse, and your brain’s melting.

the blindfold sits right under his bottom lip now. “look at me.” satoru demands, the tenor low and rough.

you shake your head, barely, eyes squeezed shut. it’s too much. way too much.

his hand leaves your hip in response, grabs your jaw and forces your face up in an unforgiving clasp. “i said look at me.”

you force an eye open. both the feel of him, and the intensity of his focus is hard to stand.

“there you are,” satoru breathes. “there’s my good girl.”

his thumb traces your lower lip, and you part your mouth without thinking. he pushes in, just the tip—and you suck it instinctively. satoru’s hips stutter.

“fuck—”

you smirk. weakly, but you smirk. got him.

his hand tightens on your chin. “oh, you think that’s funny?”

satoru flips you again—the fast motion is disorienting. now you’re on your stomach, face pressed into the pillow and he is behind you, one hand on your hip and the other pressing between your shoulder blades to arch you back into him.

“since you wanna play games,” he murmurs by your ear, “let’s do that.”

satoru pushes in again—gradual, cruel. he’s everywhere—his height, his heat, his presence. you can’t move. can’t think. can only take what he gives.

“take it,” he grunts, pace increasing. “take—it—all.”

you’re sobbing now, tears soaking your cheeks, your fingers clawing at his grasp.

“please—”

“please what?”

“please—i can’t—”

“yes you can.” satoru says, final. “you can.”

his hand slides from between your shoulder to your hair, fisting it gently and pulling your head back just enough that you can hear him slightly better.

“don’t you dare quit on me now.” satoru whispers, or at least he intends to, but the words come out moreso in a growl. “you owe me that much.”

your mind’s too far gone to know what he means. satoru is ‘owed’ simply because he says so. because he’s gojo satoru and he’s earned every sound you make with every devastating hilt of his hips, every torturous clasp of your body against his, and every bit of vulgarity that falls from his lips.

and my god, does he deliver, continuously, refusing to to let up in any way shape or form. if anything the snap of his lower body gets dizzyingly speedy, skin slapping against yours with a rhythm that’s lost all pretense of control.

he’s chasing something now, and so are you.

but then—his hold falters, a scantly tremor in the hand that fisted your hair and a jerk in the steady motion against your back. you feel it in the way his breathing turns real ragged against your neck. he’s close. so close.

yet, satoru pushes to hold on—because the competitive streak in him wants to best you, hear you fall apart first.

only for his body to be in the process of actively betraying him, of course.

“satoru—” you groan his name, because you feel it too—the how of him losing it, shattering behind you.

“don’t—” he tries, voice cracking. “don’t you dare—not yet—”

his hips twitch again. his clutch on your hair tightens—then loosens—then tightens like he’s clinging to the last thread of his control.

“please—” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for. more. less. him.

and that’s what does satoru in. the sound of you pleading—for him—sends him over the edge. he groans your name—a broken syllable—and spills into you with a force that makes his knees buckle. satoru’s forehead drops to the back of your neck, his breath hot and jagged against your sticky skin.

then he collapses. not gracefully. not dramatically. just… falls, taking you with him, his weight pressing you into the mattress like a weighted blanket of pure exhaustion.

“holy shit,” he mumbles into your hair.

you huff, giving a faint laugh. the reaction itself is energy enough for satoru to stir again.

he pulls out of you slowly, rolling over. his stupid long legs curl around you— successfully cocooned, entirely tucked against his chest.

“toldya.” satoru murmurs against your temple. “useful, right?” your hand moves up to smack him—and he catches your wrist right before you can make impact.

he doesn’t see your mouth coming, however, so you bite his shoulder. hard.

by the time he’d walked back, he’d already ringed someone who owed him a favor.

“fushiguro?” a gruff voice greeted him on the other end of the call.

“run a plate.” he leaned back on a light pole.

silence erupted from the other end, followed by the sound of keystrokes.

“that’s it?” his contact asked.

he thought about it.

the way you pushed a finger at his chest, how you called him exhausting, offered chocolate like he was some stray you’d decided to tolerate.

“that’s enough,” he said.

keys clacked on the other end.

“well, shit.”

“what?”

“you know who it belongs to?”

“should i?”

“...yeah.” the man breathed. “...it isn’t registered to a person.”

toji’s jaw tightened. “explain.”

“plate’s registered to a holding company. subsidiary of a larger group. the name on the registration is a shell, but i traced it back.” a pause. “you’re looking at the granddaughter of the late chairman. inherited the whole thing when he died.”

he was quiet.

“she’s been in the seat for a few years now. she’s young, too—running something that size.” the man’s voice dropped. “you know how the paper talks about the ones who inherit?”

“i don’t.”

“it’s not gossip.” the voice exhaled. “she’s been making moves. buying out competitors, restructuring divisions.” a low whistle. “got a reputation.”

he thought about the manicured finger tapping against his chest.

“didn’t seem that scary.”

“well she wasn’t in a boardroom, was she?” the man laughed, dry and humorless. “doesn’t seem to be the type to lose much. a reason she’s still in that seat.”

toji’s fingers tightened on the phone.

“what about the partner? takada?”

“takada... hold on.” more keystrokes, another beat of silence as his plug read. “executive director.”

toji went still.

“anything else?”

"nothing interesting.” the man exhaled. “your woman’s a big name, though.”

toji stared.

he didn’t correct the man.

“send me everything you have on her,” he rumbled. “the company. the grandfather. takada. everything.”

“that’s going to cost you.”

“i know.”

he ended the call.

the file arrived a few hours later at 3am. toji read through it on the burner phone, sitting in the dark. your name. age. education—top-tier accelerated, like you’d been running toward something your whole life. the grandfather’s death. the inheritance. the restructuring.

toji read it all.

then he read it again.

for the time being, it was enough. by the time the sun came up, he had one thought: you were an asset.

he didn’t feel bad for you.

but he understood, and that was worse.

on sunday, 06:41 pm—he witnessed the same attendant from friday night pulling your sedan around.

then you took the keys yourself, alone. no driver. no security detail.

he came to the conclusion that you were either very confident or very stupid.

he hadn’t decided on which one yet, but he was beginning to lean toward the former.

someone stupid wouldn’t have been able to make it this far.

more importantly, though, confident people eventually encountered problems money alone couldn’t solve.

come monday morning, you had little patience for fragmented memories.

your phone was already replaced.

by the time you pulled into the underground parking of the office building, you had already abandoned last week’s happenings.

and friday’s nights along with it—the dark alley after leaving the izakaya followed by the cold bite of the garage, deep voice rumbling in both.

finance was expecting your approval on circulating the quarterly report. the executive meeting would begin at nine-thirty sharp. and your nemesis, —takada, the devil himself—would, inevitably, find a way to test the limits of your professionalism before noon.

you pulled into the underground garage, easing into the reserved executive space.

the engine of the car fell silent.

as you reached for your handbag, something in your cup holder caught your eye.

crumpled wrapper.

the chocolate bar that was missing its third.

your hand slipped into your bag almost on instinct, fingers brushing against a bent business card.

you exhaled through your nose, tucking it away before stepping out.

work first.

employees glanced up from their desks as you passed, offering brief bows before returning to their screens.

the familiar cadence of ringing phones, muted conversations, and tapping keyboards cut out as you stepped out of the elevator, walking into the executive floor.

“good morning.”

nishi, your personal assistant—wearing a pristine blazer, not a hair out of place—bowed.

she spared no glance at the tablet she was holding and began as she always had. “the materials for the executive meeting are on your desk. finance is awaiting your approval before circulating the latest report, and the revised acquisition documents have been returned by legal half an hour ago.”

she followed after you to the frosted glass door of your office, pausing. “ma’am?”

you didn’t turn, instead putting your handbag down.

“is something on your mind?”

“i fell asleep in my car with a stranger after he tried to rob me.”

nishi blinked.

“...i’m sorry?”

you rubbed your temple, wavering your other hand. “nothing. forget it.”

nishi nodded, professional composure determined to not crack.

“actually—yes.” you answered the earlier question. “i need to courier something.”

“certainly.” nishi created a note. “may i have the company name?”

you froze. there wasn’t one.

“it’s... not a company.”

nishi looked up. “...an individual?”

“yes.”

“may i have the recipient’s name?”

you hesitated.

fushiguro toji.

the name sat oddly in your mind now that you weren’t under the influence of alcohol. last week’s lapse in judgment was one thing, but monday’s would have been another entirely.

what exactly was he?

a mugger? a driver? a man who’d extorted nearly hundred-thousand from you?—not that the amount could ever make a dent in the slightest.

a stranger—that’s what it was. one who’d taken a bite out of your chocolate and walked away, leaving you with unresolved problems.

“...he’s a business associate,” you settled on at last.

nishi’s pen lingered above the screen. she didn’t question it. she never did, but after years of managing your schedule, your correspondence, and nearly every professional relationship you maintained, confusion subtly seeped under the composition.

“understood,” she said nonetheless, nodding. “may i have the address?”

right. another thing.

that you didn’t have either.

only a phone number scribbled across the back of a business card that wasn’t even his.

sending money to a man who you had no company, no address, no bank account, and no legal relationship with you was.. proving more difficult than drunk you had accounted for.

there’d be no invoice or receipt, nor a paper trail that made a lick of sense.

the absurdity of it settled over you at once. this would not work.

sending your assistant meant dragging her into a situation that belonged nowhere near your office or your company—nor you, but the situation had surpassed that.

“nevermind.” you let out a quiet breath. “leave this one with me.”

“very well.” nishi bowed, taking her leave.

the door clicked shut behind her.

you reached into your handbag, unfolding the crumpled business card between your fingers.

the man. fushiguro toji.

you’d negotiated acquisitions worth billions of yen without breaking a sweat.

the amount—eighty-thousand yen—wasn’t even anywhere close to a rounding error.

and yet, the process was. settling such an insignificant amount of debt with one seemingly unemployed menace was turning out to be infinitely more complicated than it had any right to be.

you put it down. you didn’t have time for it.

the bent piece sat on your desk for the next three hours.

every time your eyes drifted to it, you told yourself to have nishi handle it anyway so you could throw it out and hopefully the absurdity of friday night could be a distant blur.

of all the ridiculous things he’d done, taking a bite out of the chocolate you had offered him remained inexplicably irritating. but you didn’t have time to unpack why that bothered you more than the ominous card itself did.

and at 01:07 pm, alone with your half-eaten lunch and frayed patience from a meeting with the one and only nuisance, you picked up your brand new device, typing the number into the keypad.

it rang once.

twice.

three times.

then a low voice answered.

“...sure took your time.”

you should have never called.

you leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. “send me your address. for the payment.”

a quiet chuckle gave from the other end. “can’t give you an address.”

“huh?”

silence.

“no address. i have places.”

you sat up. a spark of irritation was close to shooting up through your temple.

“you don’t have an address.”

“perceptive.”

“that’s.. not—” you stopped, pinching the bridge of your nose. “how am i supposed to pay you, then?”

“bring it yourself.”

your breath caught at the staggering audacity.

“i’m busy.”

his unresponsiveness stretched a beat too long. you could practically feel him deciding whether to let it go.

“busy.” he tried the word. “i’d settle my debt if i were you, heiress.”

it was you who was silent this time.

the nickname hung heavy in the quiet of your office, agitating.

the fog of friday night had left completely, leaving behind only the cold, hard math of your situation. you didn’t have an address, but he knew yours. he knew your car, he knew where you lived.

you weren’t weak, but you weren’t stupid either—a ghost with nothing to lose was the most dangerous kind of asset to leave unaccounted for on your balance sheet.

“8 pm.” he cut through your quiet spiral. “tonight.”

“what?” you spat.

“same izakaya. bring the cash. grab yourself a drink.”

it wasn’t exactly an obscure location. just like on friday, employees gathered there often enough after business hours.

moreover, you’d spent years making yourself exceptionally difficult to gossip about. you weren’t about to leave room for hearsay to attach itself to your reputation—let alone i saw the company president handing an envelope to a man who looked like he’d never seen the inside of an office.

“i don’t drink with strangers.” you said, falling back on your most commanding boardroom tone. “and i certainly don’t let them dictate my schedule. we can meet in—”

“suit yourself.” his response emitted a total lack of interest through the speaker. “don’t be late.”

the call ended with a beep.

you stared at the screen as it went black. he had actually hung up on you. a man who probably possessed a negative net worth had, unilaterally, concluded the negotiation.

your calendar blinked at you from the monitor. 01:22 pm. you had a 02:00 pm with legal. a 03:30 pm with marketing. a mountain of emails.

and at 08:00 pm, you were going to meet a man—a scruffy guy who might as well not exist—in a bar just to hand him cash, because you weren’t exactly sure what would happen if you didn’t.

you leaned back into your chair, fingers tapping against the armrest.

irritating.

you were going to meet him.

you were going to hand over the cash. you were going to walk away, and that would be the end of it.

that was the plan.

and despite an afternoon swallowed by hefty presentations and paperwork, eight o’clock arrived anyway.

your eyes swept the traditional pub.

the red lanterns behind the sliding door were in sharp contrast to the sterile environment you had spent entire nine hours in.

the crowd was sparser on a monday night, but the air inside still reeked. no immediate rogue salary men from the office caught your eye.

you had dressed down for the occasion, multiple reasons to such a decision.

a repeat of friday night with yet another shady man was out of the question, which is why there were no designer labels, at least not in direct sight.

however avoiding recognition in your employee’s frequented afterwork hangout was the real priority.

the company president looking like herself—handing a closed envelope to a huge and scruffy guy in an izakaya would be a death sentence for your standing.

then there was the smell. charcoal smoke, spilled liquor and cheap tobacco would cling to fabric like a second skin. if you were going to ruin a wardrobe out here, it was going to be the pieces you didn’t care about throwing away the second you got home.

tonight, you looked like a normal person. a normal person who definitely wasn’t about to hand over nearly hundred-thousand yen to a man you didn’t really know all that much about.

speaking of, he hadn’t been hard to find.

a man his size did not blend into a crowd less easily than a blunt instrument in a booth built for toothpicks.

fushiguro’s imposing frame slouched against the corner booth, long legs stretched casually into the narrow aisle, prompting the passing servers to step around him.

his dark hair was messier than you remembered, and the scar across his lip caught the dim light—too relaxed for someone meeting a woman he’d essentially extorted.

“you’re late,” he said, not shifting his posture by a single inch.

“i’m on time,” you settled onto the edge, sliding your bag onto your lap. “you’re early.”

he flicked a blunt finger to push a clear glass toward you—with a condensation-beaded rim and a single slice of lime floating at the top. you didn’t move your eyes from his face.

“told you i’m not drinking.”

“it’s water,” he said, a smirk creeping its way onto his lips. “or you not hungover anymore?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. the sooner you had obliged, the sooner you would be getting out of here.

your hands found the glass, glaring at him over the rim as you took a stubborn sip.

it was practically a chug.

“parched, huh,” he watched, musing while leaning on a big elbow.

you set the glass down with a thud, not giving any comment. your fingers tightening your fingers around the strap of your bag as you prepared to open it, pull out the cash, and end this.

unzipping it just enough to slide your hand inside, your fingertips brushed against the smooth texture of the off-white envelope—until an aggressive vibration buzzed right against your knuckles from the bottom of the bag.

you paused, shifting your grip away from the paper to fish out the device instead, and pulled it into the light.

the name you had come to hate the most illuminated the glass.

takada.

you let out a small breath through your nose, aggressively swiping the screen to silence the call before dropping the device face-up onto the table in irritation.

fushiguro’s eyes dropped down to your screen. a tiny glint passed through his heavy but unblinking lids—filing it away.

your fingers dug back into the bag, grabbing the item you had intended all along this time. “here. eighty. count if you want.” you pushed it to his side.

he stared, expression blank.

“just take it so i can go home.”

fushiguro’s large palm found the envelope.

he made no move to take it.

“no routing number?” he tilted his head. “no tax forms?”

you stopped your eye from twitching, tapping a manicured nail against your side of the table.

he showed teeth at your lack of retaliation, stuffing the envelope into his pocket with a casual ease that made you wonder how often he had done this.

but it didn’t matter. the transaction was over. it was done.

relief replaced your chest as you breathed, gathering your handbag and sliding toward the edge of the bench—the same exact beat your phone buzzed from your bag. again.

you pulled it out.

the screen flashed the name of your parasite. your newfound peace died at your chest, giving its place to a quiet, boiling fury at takada’s persistence.

a shadow fell on you as your finger hovered over the red button.

before you could even register the movement, a thick finger tapped the green icon right out from under your thumb with lazy precision.

“what are you—” your head snapped up.

fushiguro’s arms crossed across his broad chest as he leaned back once more.

“—finally picked up,” takada’s nasal voice blared into the open air of the booth.

you scrambled, shoving the display against your ear. the death stare you shot fushiguro must have been enough to drop a man twice his size.

yet he made no noise, aside from a dry, single-syllable huff as he watched your silent rage with an amused stare.

“good evening,” you forced out, your voice dropping into professional cadence that you hoped hid the way your teeth were actively grinding.

“i just reviewed the marketing drafts for the q3 pitch,” takada droned on, completely oblivious to the hostage situation on your end. “completely uninspired. we ought to log back onto the server tonight. restructure the asset allocation tables by tomorrow morning...”

your fingers white-knuckled the edges of your phone as the leech went on and on. your ice-cold gaze locked dead on fushiguro, who stared back, completely unimpressed.

he raised a hand, calling over a server with a lazy flick of his wrist. a young waiter slid up to the edge of the booth, notepad lifted—right on cue as your nerves were beginning to snap.

“listen to me carefully, takada. i am off the clock.” you took a sharp breath. “if the drafts are uninspired, i suggest you spend the evening inspiring yourself. do not contact me, do not touch anything, and do not call again tonight unless the building is actively on fire. i’ll re-evaluate your competence tomorrow at nine.”

the poor waiter stilled his pen. he wasn’t even able to utter a polite greeting as his eyes darted rapidly between fushiguro’s unbothered posture and the unadulterated venom radiating from your stance. he took a cautious step back from what seemed to be a deeply toxic domestic dispute.

you slammed your thumb onto the red button. click.

“yakitori.” fushiguro said, glancing at the nervous man with zero care. “three servings.”

the young man jotted the order down.

“make sure you bring at least a dozen skewers.” he added, turning his eyes on you with a grin. “and whatever boss is having.”

“nothing for me.” you spoke, the tense tenor carrying over the residual frost of the intrusive call.

you made a definitive move to slide out of the booth. the departure didn’t seem to concern fushiguro, who only breathed in in a not-interested manner, if one could do such a thing.

the waiter attempted to leave.

“where are your manners,” the giant stretched his upper body, arms falling behind his head. “let the lady order.”

somehow his horrible acting had been enough to tether the young waiter to the spot.

your heels met the floorboard, passing by the waiter who hovered beside the booth unsure.

freedom was only steps away now. just a few steps.

“so,” fushiguro called out. “heading back to your desk?”

you kept walking, your shoulders straight, steps determined to reach the exit and leave him to his mountain of chicken.

“the ‘balding’ guy,” the sound of glass hitting the wood echoed behind you. “sounded like he gave you a direct order. better hurry home.”

you stopped—hand resting on the edge of the wooden partition near the door

“get started on whatever files like a good little executive, right?”

the sheer, condescending weight of the phrase made your blood run white-hot. you knew fushiguro was testing the you. the leash. seeing if you’d scurry right back to your safe corporate cage the second a mediocre man barked a few demands at you.

going back to your quiet penthouse to stare at a blue-light screen until midnight to prove this lawless giant right sounded utterly miserable.

the implication alone was intolerable.

slowly, indignantly, you turned on your heel.

you marched straight back to the booth, slid right back into the bench across from him, and dropped your handbag to your side with a definitive thud.

“plum wine. double. neat.”

the employee bowed frantically, vanishing into the kitchen.

you bounced your foot, determined to hide the fact that his stupid, goading comment was the only reason you were sitting back down.

fushiguro let out a low chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling with raw, wicked amusement. he leaned forward, resting a wide forearm on the table, completely delighted by the second storm he’d just kicked up.

“double,” he rumbled a mocking vibration. “so much for not drinking.”

you crossed your legs, “i might as well dull the pain of your company.”

fushiguro nodded, a motion languid as his hand inspected the glass. “do i spend the night inspiring myself, too?” his eyes shifted up onto yours a lopsided stretch pulling at his scarred lip. “or do i get a pass, boss?”

“no, you don’t get a pass—” before you could continue, the same waiter approached at the edge of the booth and you decided to behave this time around.

he set down a clay cup of plum wine in front of you and a large platter of warm skewers in the center of the table.

the server hadn’t left, but you watched fushiguro pluck a skewer from the platter with practiced ease.

it was the two of you again.

your mind drifted back to the half-eaten lunch and cup of coffee—the only things you’d consumed all day.

steam curled off the glistening meat in his grip. he took a bite, chewing, watching you back with a blank gaze.

didn’t matter.

you put the cup to your lips, ignoring the aroma of soy sauce and rendered fat aerating from the plate. the amber liquid tasted floral and fruity, burning your throat as it went down.

he swallowed, then pointed the skewer at you like a baton. “you not eating?”

“i told you. nothing for me.”

“you told the waiter that.” he shrugged, reaching for another skewer.

he had a point. a stupid, pedantic point, but a point nonetheless.

you wrapped your fingers around the cup, raising it to your mouth once again, letting the sweetly sharp liquid settle the last of your lingering irritation.

it helped. marginally.

fushiguro worked through two more skewers in silence, uncaring by your refusal. he ate with the kind of focused efficiency that suggested he didn’t always have meals this regular.

or maybe he just really liked greasy poultry.

at some point, you’d lost count of how many skewers he’d demolished. as his hand reached for the last one, so did yours.

your fingertips brushed his knuckles, stopping the both of you.

then, without a word, fushiguro let go.

he reached for his water, taking a long sip. you stared at the lonely skewer now resting on the platter.

“don’t let it go cold,” he uttered.

you picked it up. not because of his quip. because you’d spent the entire work day running on spite and your body was finally reminding you that it had needs.

fushiguro’s mouth curved, just barely, into his glass.

you took a bite. the tart glaze coated your mouth, mixing in with the aftertaste of alcohol.

maybe it was because you were starving, but it was humiliating how good the savory chicken tasted. even more humiliating was that you were eating it off a wooden stick, in a smoky booth across from a man who didn’t exist to the tax department.

none of it really mattered, though, as the warmth of the plum wine you had started to pool in your limbs, softening the rigid tension that had kept on your shoulders locked since early morning.

the ambient noise of the izakaya—the clinking of beer mugs, the sizzle of the grill, the distant, rowdy laughter—felt further away now, muffled by the sweet, heavy haze in your head.

you finished the skewer, placing the bare wood onto the empty platter, swirling the last drop of liquor from your cup.

fushiguro didn’t say anything.

despite his broad size, he sat with surprising stillness, looming in the dim, reddish light. for a lawless nuisance, he was surprisingly easy to be quiet with.

not for long.

the strict filter you held was under active infiltration, leaving behind a loose, stubborn curiosity. you leaned your chin in your palm, swaying gaze fixing on the giant across from you.

“what do you do,” the blunt question came out at once. “actually.”

fushiguro tracked the heavy, rhythmic blink of your eyes in a faintly lingering amusement.

“hands-on stuff.”

you looked at him through low-lids.

there was a light blur in your vision while you regarded the solid shape of his body.

he knitted his brows. “people hire me,” his gaze drifted somewhere past your shoulder.

“...you change the math.”

“something like that.” his eyes glinted with a dangerous sort of admission.

“you don’t look like you do math.” you knitted a brow. “you look like you break things.”

fushiguro took in the flushed, defiant tilt of your face, not looking anywhere near insulted.

“sometimes.” he continued letting you dig your own hole. “whatever pays.”

“that’s how employment works.” you rolled the stem of the empty cup between your palms. there wasn’t a single thing he said all evening that actually answered anything.

and a tiny, buried instinct tried to get through you—that a buff, untraceable man like him shouldn’t be questioned like an underperforming subcontractor.

unfortunately, whatever restraint had carried you through board meetings all day was proving far less resilient against alcohol and oneDoc infuriatingly unreadable man.

“odd gigs.” he finally spoke. “that’s what i do.”

“odd,” you scratched your forehead. “would hate to know what you consider odd.”

his chest heaved, brief. “you’re not any less strange, boss.”

you nodded as if he took the words right out of your mouth. “yeah. no. see, right there,”

he tracked your finger as it wavered, like one did while they corrected a toddler. “that’s that cryptic talk. if boss is what i am to you—then i fit right into your strange jobs.”

he closed an eye, itching at his brow with no visible urgency to untangle your point.

you stared at him, finger freezing mid-air before slowly dropping back to the table. for a second, the blurred edges of your vision seemed to sharpen, focusing entirely on the jagged line of his scar.

then you looked away.

the warmth in your cheeks suddenly felt far less attributable to the plum wine.

silence settled between you again.

somewhere beyond the booth, more customers got greeted at the door before sitting down. servers walked past and more beer got served. rambunctious laughter rolled through the walls.

you set your cup down.

“meeting over?” fushiguro asked.

you blinked, as though remembering where you were.

“obviously.” you said, smoothing an imaginary crease from your sleeve. “should’ve been long ago.”

you reached for your phone. the screen lit the moment your thumb brushed against it.

10:34 pm.

your brows pulled together, mouth flattening. nearly three hours.

somehow, you’d lost the entire evening to a profoundly frustrating man, in one deeply unhelpful conversation out of all things.

the realization landed in your stomach with all the grace of food poisoning.

fushiguro unfolded from the bench and began walking.

the waiter met you both near the entrance, offering a polite bow as he handed over the bill.

almost absently, your hand disappeared into your handbag. beside you, fushiguro reached into his jacket. your hand stilled as the off-white envelope emerged between his fingers.

he thumbed through the stack, peeled off several notes, settled the bill, and tucked the envelope back into his jacket.

ridiculous.

the staff bowed in thanks.

warm air spilled onto the sidewalk before the night swallowed it whole.

crisp air cleared the heat from your cheeks as the door slid shut behind you with a dull rattle. the wine in your blood settled differently out here. you drew a short breath, pleasantly-off balance.

somewhere farther down the street, someone laughed loud enough to turn a few heads before disappearing into the district.

fushiguro came to a stop beside you, both hands slipped into his pockets with the same unhurried pacing he’d carried all evening.

for a brief moment, neither of you said anything.

then you palmed your phone again. it fit comfortably in your palm, screen awake—clean, intact, zero cracks running through the display.

the corner of your mouth lifted, the smile coming on your lips before you could stop it.“see?” you tipped the phone toward him “not broken.”

“mm.” his eyes dropped to you more than the display.

“so...” you gave the phone a tiny wave. “don’t need you anymore.”

the corner of his mouth pulled upward. “sure.” the answer was so effortless it bordered on dismissive.

“whassat mean?” your brows furrowed.

“phone works.” then a beat. “glad you figured it out.”

you narrowed your eyes. that hadn’t felt like what he’d meant. before you could decide whether it was worth pressing, he turned, lifting one hand in an absent wave over his shoulder.

“night, boss.”

then he wandered off, too-wide frame disappearing into the steady current of salarymen, smokers, and late-night diners as though there wasn’t a thing waiting for him.

your business partner, takada, had been getting on your nerves, to say the least, for the past week. no, make that the entire semester.

you sighed, steps coming to a halt—clearly your inhibitions weren’t with you as you adjusted your luxury coat against the wind chill, stretching your neck to calm the ache throbbing in your temple.

the very motion sent a jolt of pain into your head and your palm shot up to rub the area. regret was starting to form fresh in your chest for turning down the private driver service takada had suggested earlier. but what else could you do when the suggestion came from the coworker who annoyed you to death? still, your hand went into your pocket, considering. you had to fix this.

“stupid, smug, balding—” you fumbled for your phone, the slurred words doing the heavy lifting.

the glowing screen illuminated the frustration etched onto your face as you tapped the screen on, looking for the ride-hailing app. before you could tap it, a ping blocked your finger.

stupid, smug, balding.

“you can’t be fucking serious,” you stared at the screen. of course the literal embodiment of patience’s natural predator, takada, thought this was the natural time to message you his next pitch one line at a time.

you swiped the notification away. or tried to-instead, you tapped it open. “shit.”

and there it was.

being met with ‘seen’, mr. unsolicited opinion was now calling you.

“i could really kill him,” you ground your heel against the pavement. “have him killed.”

then it happened.

the phone was slipped from your grasp in your irritation, meeting the hard ground.

“ugh,” you kneeled to pick up the device, your feet aching from your heels.

the glass had cracked. of course it had. worst of all, the parasite was still calling.

you refused the call, the ringtone suddenly dying-replaced by a deep, rough voice cutting through the once again quiet of the alleyway.

“hey.”

a voice the kind that didn’t ask but announced-came from right behind you. you flinched, shoving the phone into your pocket and scrambling up, feet moving before your brain caught up.

you made it two steps.

overly huge and broad-shouldered, a man moved in front of you, his height towering.

“didn’t you hear me?” no emotion, just flat. “i said hey.”

you stared. dark hair that fell into sharp eyes-they looked like they’d seen too much and cared too little. a scar cut across his lip. you opened your mouth.

nothing came out.

move. say something. do literally anything.

your feet were glued to the pavement, your tongue was a dead weight. you’d read the statistics-women, dark alleys, late nights. you’d donated to the shelters, signed the petitions, nodded along at the charity galas. you’d never actually been the statistic before.

this wasn’t a catcalling drunkard in the streets, nor a tout trying to drag you into a dingy host club. it was a man who’d appeared from behind without a sound, blocked your exit without rush.

he held up a hand as if he owned the space around him, unhurried. danger. this was how people died in true crime podcasts, your brain supplied helpfully.

something small glinted between his fingers.

“dropped this.”

running on cold adrenaline, you glanced. gold. an earring. your eyes snapped back. thankfully the alcohol had yet to quiet all your senses. you clocked everything-his glance toward your clutch, the twitch of his fingers, how he’d seemed to materialize from nowhere, like a wolf sniffing out a wounded deer.

your hand tightened on your bag, feeling the weight of both studs in your lobes in a small but undeniable anchor.

“it’s not mine.”

his expression didn’t budge. “sure it is.”

you recognized the tone. you’d heard enough sales pitches to know when someone was reading from a script.

“no, it’s not.” you stepped sideways.

he blocked you, swift and easy. like he’d called the motion before you had even tried.

“looked expensive. thought you’d want it back.”

you stared at his broad chest, a sense of lethality rolled off him, and for a terrifying second, your heart hammered against your ribs. he was probably waiting for you to shriek, fumbling to pull your wallet out of your bag, offering him everything and begging him not to hurt you.

“no, move out of the way.”

the man didn’t argue-pocketing it smoothly as if he expected the answer. “got cash?”

but you had had enough.

takada. the ruined semester. the tension in your forehead. the minor inconvenience of a half broken phone. all crashed into you in one vicious spike.

“oh for fuck sake,” you stepped closer into his space instead of backing away-a move so stupid your future self would probably have words about it. “i don’t wear cheap gold plated brass and i’m already wearing earrings to begin with. if you’re going to rob me, just go through with it. i’ve had a week, i don’t have time for unskilled grifters.”

the man froze, brows lifted ever so slightly, sharp eyes blinking once then twice. he was clearly unused to being scolded by a pint-sized, tipsy corporate elite like some disappointing employee.

“you’re taller than takada, but you’re just as exhausting,” you pointed a manicured finger at his chest, not registering the fact that this guy could probably break you in half. “i just wanna go home without someone trying to pitch me a terrible idea after business hours or steal my handbag. is that a luxury? huh? is peace of mind a luxury i can’t afford now?”

your finger jabbed at his hard chest. “take the clutch. go on. take it. inside my wallet is three platinum cards, and around forty-thousand yen in cash. take it all, then buy yourself clothes that actually fit, because if i have to stand in this alley for another thirty seconds witnessing your mugging skills, my head is going to explode.”

the man’s eyes dropped to your clutch, then back to your face, his face settling into a quiet calculation.

the tension bled out of his massive frame, replaced by amused fascination. he shoved his hands into his pockets and jerked his chin.

“walk you to your car. you pay me. i listen to you complain.”

your hand hovered in the air. “wha—”

“forty-thousand yen,” the stranger’s voice gravelled as he looked you up and down, a lopsided smirk splitting his scarred lip. “my fee.”

you blinked. he stepped past you, leaning against nothing in particular like the air owed him rent.

“no actual muggers to touch a hair on your snobby head as you get to talk shit about... what was it?” he scratched his head. “that ‘stupid, smug, balding’ guy.”

you stared at his back. it was a completely ridiculous, financially irresponsible, arguably life-threatening offer.

“deal? or wanna try your luck with the cracked screen instead?”

“forty-thousand,” you replied. “that’s it? that’s your price?”

you watched his shoulders go rigid as the realization hit-he was asking pocket change from you. a dark glee passed through his eyes as a slow grin spread across his lips.

“yeah.”

you took the deal.

the giant strode a half-step behind you.

strange.

under any other circumstance, navigating the edge of this place at this hour as a slightly stumbling, visibly wealthy woman would be prime real estate-aggressive hosts and intoxicated salary men, hands reaching too close.

nothing like that was coming close to happening.

you spent the ten-minute walk detailing, in aggressive detail, how your business partner takada was a rude, inconsiderate, unprofessional idiot—how he’d mismanaged the quarterly budget, mishandled assignments, and generally existed as a personal insult to your sanity.

the stranger grunted occasionally. that was it.

you made it to the main road, rather the path had practically cleared itself. the man’s-because what robber offered their name-massive frame had almost made a natural barrier, completely shielding you against the ongoing rowdiness spilling out from the nearby bars.

by the time your heels clicked into the upscale parking garage, however, the adrenaline had nearly worn off. the amalgamation of booze and the long week were washing over you in a decelerating wave.

you stumbled slightly, your shoulder brushing against a concrete pillar—or was it his arm?—your lids heavy as lead.

you stopped at the back of the car. he watched your hand fumbling with your bag’s clasp, pulling out your wallet, then you were shoving four crisp ten-thousand-yen bills toward his chest. “here. as negotiated. now go away so i can sleep.”

he didn’t take it. the man looked from the money to the car behind you, his eyes settling on your face. your head was drooping, eyes half-shut as you leaned against the trunk like it was the only thing holding you up.

the stranger wasn’t the type to ever let an easy paycheck slip away from him.

a wicked smirk spread across his scarred lip. his thick fingers wrapped around the bills, smooth and practiced as he pocketed the cash in one motion.

but he didn’t walk away.

“new deal,” he loomed, blocking the harsh fluorescent. “you can barely stand, let alone drive.” his eyes raked at your vulnerable form. “if you fall asleep at the wheel, my future source of income would go up in smoke.”

you tried to process his words, brain hazy.

“heck are you talking about?”

“another forty,” he said, holding out a large, calloused hand. “and i’ll drive. make sure you get to your castle.”

you let out a weak scoff, digging back into your wallet, flipping through slots-credit cards, receipts, a crumpled mint wrapper.

empty.

you pulled it open wider, staring at the cash compartment.

“i told you i only had that much in cash,” you mumbled, holding it up to his face. “deal off. hand me my keys.” you didn’t care if they were still safely tucked inside your own coat pocket.

the man stared at the empty wallet in front of him, then looked down at you, eyes glinting in opportunity-an entertained curiosity. he didn’t look disappointed at all; if anything, the fact that you couldn’t pay him right now just made it a whole lot more interesting.

“outta cash..” he mused, tilting his head and clicking his tongue. “guess you owe me.”

you lowered your hand. the heavy fog of alcohol was suddenly pierced by his words-practically dripping with suggestive weight to your ears in the quiet carpark. a flush crept up your neck.

“excuse me?” your face twisted. “what exactly are you implying? if you think for one second that—”

the man let out a chuckle, light and brief, genuine amusement at your immediate panic.

“relax. you’re not my type.” his eyes landed at your flushed face, letting out a short, ugly laugh. “i want cash. cold, hard paper,” he rumbled, popping his knuckles.

the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding left your lungs as the terrifying scenario in your head shattered. a prickly indignation followed in its place, because what did he mean by not his type? you wore a coat that cost more than his entire life, yet the overgrown, penniless extortionist was looking down his scarred nose at you. he was a menace, that was for sure—a manageable, money driven menace at least.

“then let me wire it,” you countered, shoving down the hit to your ego as you reached for your pocket, ready to end this bizarre transaction. “give the routing number. i’ll transfer it right now.”

“bank account?” he knit one of his brows, expression going blank. “do i look like a guy who pays taxes?”

you unlocked your phone screen, not processing that you were dealing with a literal ghost to the financial system. you tapped, once, twice, aggressively trying to open one of your banking apps but the glass screen was shattered from the drop earlier, the digitizer refusing to cooperate. the screen flickered under your thumbs, a neon green line cutting through the display.

“told ya,” the man murmured, his tone laced with peak smugness.

before you could solve the puzzle of where your keys were and protest any further, an engulfing shadow stepped seamlessly into your personal space. his overly toned chest skimmed against your shoulder, his hand dipping right into your right coat pocket—the one you’d forgotten your keys were in. he fished out the fob, letting the key jingle between his fingers.

“keep up, boss,” he grinned as the car beeped, walking around to the driver’s side. “tab’s running.”

you exhaled, shimmying into the passenger seat. his eyes swept over the interior—the leather seats, heated cup holders, the faint scent of a faint, gourmand air freshener. the AC hummed to life as he started the engine. “a damn nice car,” he commented, breaking the silence.

“mmn,” you took in the compliment with a muffled sound-humility not crossing your mind as your hand caught the seatbelt.

he pulled out of the parking lot. “and,” you began. “y’know, he, my business partner—takada,”

“i already listened.”

“no. you don’t understand. he’s really a snake, that guy. he took my idea too—” you slurred. “presented it. like, like it was his. to the board.” you sighed, rubbing your eyes.

“fire him.”

“then everyone just clapped like he was some kind of—”

“are you listening?”

“you’re listening to me,” you snapped. “you offered to listen. for cash. that was the deal. so sit there, shut up, and let me vent my frustration.”

his jaw slackened, unreadable. “go on.”

you blinked. “...what, not gonna negotiate with me for higher pay?”

“didn’t say that now, did i,” he steered into the midnight traffic.

“okay, so, takada, he.. he messed up the presentation,” you said. “the clients were in on the idea before. important clients, and he... he just...” your voice trailed off as the car smoothed out onto the main road, the motion making your head spin.

he was quiet for a moment, just like you told him to.

“you need him gone?”

the question came out casually, a little too fluid; in the tone of someone asking you if you wanted fries with your meal.

half sleepy, your eyes wandered over to the steering wheel, idly tracking the prominent veins on the man’s hands. “gone?..”

his mouth twitched for an instant, then stilled. “yeah. fire him if you do.”

“no can do,” you groaned, facepalming. “contractual clause. it’s a whole mess.” your eyes closed. the darkness only made the car feel like it was tilting. “buying out his stake now would cost far more than tolerating him for another quarter. millions of yen.”

to him, the solution to an annoying person was entirely binary. he didn’t know whatever buying out his stake meant, but he had understood the phrase ‘millions of yen’.

you snapped your eyes open, suddenly realizing a crucial detail.

the buildings outside were completely unfamiliar. “wait. where are you even going?”

the man didn’t even answer or look at you.

right. your house. he didn’t know where you lived.

you fumbled for your phone again, forgetting once again that it was useless, before letting out a pathetic whine and dropping it back into your lap. “i.. don’t remember the exact block number. it’s... near minato? high-rise. glass lobby.”

the man let out an irritated scoff, tapped a blunt fingernail against the dashboard screen and leaned forward to squint at the console. he poked around with a finger entirely too large for the interface.

you leaned over, shoulder brushing his arm-like solid stone, the contact was sobering, pressing at random until the screen lit up, loading a route to a notoriously exclusive tower.

his eyes flicked to the address, then back to you. the smirk returned-wider. “off we go.”

you were out of it again. you pushed open the glovebox, grabbed a forgotten chocolate bar-tore it open with your teeth.

“d’ya want some?” you tilted it toward him.

you expected him to break off a square. or politely decline, hands on the wheel and all. instead, he leaned over-sharp gaze never leaving the road and took a huge bite straight off the top.

you stared at the bar, where the crater of his teeth had sunk, a third of your sweet treat gone with a distinctly large bite mark.

...kay, well, never mind.

disgust washed over you. you couldn’t eat it after a strange man had taken a bite-the same strange man you’d paid forty-thousand, owed another forty-thousand, and who was currently hijacking your car with you in it. there were limits. you wrapped the mutilated bar back haphazardly with an offended pout, tossing it into the cup holder.

the car slowed at a red light, washing the interior into a crimson hue. a soft ding came from the console.

you looked over. he was poking the heated seat button. poke. poke. ding. poke. ding.

“are you...”

“this thing works.” like he’d just discovered fire. he pressed it again.

you sighed, turning back to the window. “..you can keep it on,” but you didn’t look away.

you watched his thumb hover near the button from the corner of your eye, chest easing just barely. then the light turned green. he shifted gears, and you remembered you were sitting next to a stranger.

“you’re no good samaritan.” the sentence tumbled out of your mouth. you gestured vaguely at him with a limp hand. “you’re too... big. and your eyes are dead. have to be either a cop or a crook.”

he snorted. low vibration in his chest. “not a cop.”

“figures,” a small, cynical smirk pulled at your lips. “so what do you do then,”

“got my own business.”

you should have probably kept quiet around someone who radiated this much sinister energy, but you didn’t.

“a businessman..” you blinked slowly. “..who pays no taxes, has no bank account,”

“deregulated market.” he shifted gears, taking a sharp turn toward the highway.

“name, then,” you doubled down. “can’t keep calling you ‘the giant’ or ‘the tax evader’ in my head.”

silence.

“if i’m writing an imaginary invoice for eighty-thousand yen, i need a name.”

the man let out a short, raspy chuckle, thumb tapping against the slick wheel, eyes looking on the dark streets ahead—but the lopsided stretch to his lips was there again.

“fushiguro,” the surname rolled out. “fushiguro toji.”

“fushiguro,” you closed your eyes, the engine’s hum lulling you under. “don’t crash my car. you can keep the chocolate.”

there came a dry, quiet scoff from the driver’s seat.

“no thanks,” his words faded into the dark cabin. “tasted like straight cardboard.”

your eyes didn’t have the strength to snap open, but a faint, sleep-deprived indignation flared in your chest at the audacity nonetheless.

“ungrateful,” you muttered into your coat collar. “zero taste.”

you were sure whatever he murmured back carried an extra ounce of self-satisfaction as the car coasted forward.

the rest of the drive passed in a blur of warm air and the low hum of the engine. you weren’t exactly sure if you’d actually fallen asleep or floated somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, but the car was slowing down, a familiar glass lobby gleaming through the windshield.

“..ey. we’re here.”

you blinked. the world swam back. the high-rise towered above. clear glass, warm gold light spilling from the lobby. your building. home. a nervous valet hovered on the driver side.

the man—fushiguro—had one hand on the wheel, the other dangling out the window, watching you with that same unbothered expression, tracking your sluggish movement.

“you gonna sleep in the car or actually go inside?”

“m’going,” you fumbled with the seatbelt. it clicked open as you sat there a moment, gathering yourself. head pounding. mouth like cotton. a strange man in your driver’s seat who’d taken a bite of your emergency chocolate and driven you home.

you should have probably felt more alarmed about that last part, but all you felt was tired.

“gimme a pen.” fushiguro said.

“huh?”

“a pen. you deaf?”

you stared at him for a long moment, then breathed, reaching into your handbag. fingers brushed past a tube of lipstick, a compact mirror, a crumpled receipt-finally closed around a sleek fountain pen. you handed it over.

he reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled business card-didn’t seem to be his, from the looks of it. flipped over, he scribbled something on the back with surprising speed, and held it out.

you took it. numbers. just a string of digits. no name, no company, nothing.

“and this is for..?”

he gave you that look again, like he was enjoying a private joke you weren’t in on.

“how else are you gonna pay me back?”

“right.” you turned the back of the card. the business card was seemingly in some lawyer’s name. you tossed it in your bag. “i’ll have my assistant courier the cash to you on monday.”

he huffed-the faintest laugh.

“what?”

“an assistant must be a necessity when you can barely find your own building.”

“i’m competent during business hours,” your voice carried a hint of your usual sharpness. “this is... after-hours. different skill set.”

you pushed open the car door and the cool night air hit your face like a splash of cold water. wobbling slightly, you gripped onto the doorframe for support as you stood up. fushiguro didn’t move to help, idly watching as if he was waiting to see if you’d fall.

“monday,” you pointed at him. “i’ll text the office address just in case.”

he shrugged. “i’ll find it.”

your scrunched up your face. “that’s not ominous at all.”

“didn’t mean it to be.” he leaned over, pulling your door shut from the inside, got out. “sleep it off. you look like shit.”

the valet timidly stepped in, moving to the driver’s seat. and then fushiguro toji was walking away-disappearing around the corner.

you stood, blinking at the empty street before shuffling toward the lobby-already thinking about discarding the bent business card you had thrown into your handbag.

fushiguro toji.

no company. no title. just a number.

after all it was a sweltering sunday afternoon, one where the mugginess of the air made the very act of breathing feel oppressive.

the AC in the apartment had been wheezing valiantly, albeit in a losing battle, and satoru had decided it was too little too late, peeling himself off the couch fifteen minutes ago to declare he was ‘literally evaporating, like, gone, bye-bye’ as he had shuffled out the door.

naturally, you had waved him off from your spot on the couch, too hot to offer any parting words.

and now, he was back.

barefoot, satoru padded into the living room and stood in front of the couch, effectively blocking out the pathetic breeze of a lifeline from the fan. you cracked one eye open.

“what.”

“don't you ‘what’ me,” satoru pouted, offense all mock. “i went on a quest. a perilous journey. have you any idea? i almost melted into a puddle on the sidewalk. is this the thanks i get?”

you squinted at him. his t-shirt had become practically see through at the chest, clinging damply at the collar. his hair was slightly less gravity-defying than usual, wilted in the humidity akin to a golden retriever that just ran through a sprinkler.

“you bought snacks,” you observed.

“i bought solutions,” satoru corrected, holding up the bag with a flourish. “solutions to the heat. solutions to your grumpy face. solutions to—”

“your face is grumpy.”

“my face IS grumpy.” satoru nodded. “like yours.” he dropped to his knees. “and i’m going to fix it.”

you propped yourself up on your elbows, acutely aware of your own wet dishrag-ish state as you shifted—sticky with sweat under your shorts and thin tank top, hair sticking to your neck.

satoru trailed the movement, eyes unhurried, like you were his second lunch.

“i got the good ice cream,” he said pulling the tub out, a veil of cold still clinging to the outer layer. “not the cheap stuff. the good stuff.”

“wow,” you exhaled. “a prince among men.”

“i know!” satoru popped the lid, a puff of cold air kissing his face. he sighed, dramatic and pleased. “ugh, that’s the spot. feel that.” he waved the tub toward you. “put your face in it.”

“i’m not putting my face in—”

“fine. be that way.” satoru dropped the tub on the coffee table. the bag crinkled as he pulled out the chocolate syrup next, setting it beside the tub with a deliberate clunk.

he surveyed his haul like a general reviewing his troops.

“okay,” he said. “here’s the thing.”

you raised an eyebrow.

“see, i was out there. in the heat. just... suffering. existentially.” he gestured vaguely. “and then i start thinking. i’m thinking. i’m thinking about you. and i’m thinking about how much i want something sweet. and then.” he paused, smug smile widening. “it hit me.”

“what hit you?”

“you!” satoru leaned in, close enough that you could feel the residual warmth radiating off his skin. “i want something sweet. and. well, you’re sweet, too.” he tapped the lid of the ice cream. “why not combine them?”

you blinked at him. then looked at the ice cream. then back at him.

“satoru.”

“yes, my love?”

“you want to put ice cream on me.”

“i want to put ice cream and chocolate syrup and maybe a mochi or two on you,” he corrected, utterly unrepentant. “and then i want to lick it all off. slowly. thoroughly.”

you opened your mouth.

“that's—” you stopped, considering. “that's going to be a mess.”

“oh, absolutely,” satoru agreed, already brightening. “a huge mess. a catastrophic mess. we’re going to need like... three showers. minimum. maybe four.” his eyes gleamed. “but don’t worry! i know a way we can save on water, too.”

you groaned.

satoru picked up the chocolate syrup, giving it a playful waggle. “so. whaddya say, you in?”

you looked at him—the ridiculous, impossible, insatiable man he was. hair a mess, sweat beading on his temples. t-shirt stained, glowing in anticipation.

“fine,” you said, the word left your mouth before you could stop it. “but if you get chocolate on the couch—”

“i will get chocolate on the couch,” he blurted cheerfully. “probably on the floor too. maybe the ceiling. i’m very ambitious.”

“satoru.”

“what? no points for honesty?” he was already moving, twisting to grab the ice cream tub and settling it between his knees. “okay. okay. here’s the plan.”

“there’s a plan?”

“oh there’s always a plan.” he scooped out a perfect, creamy mound with his fingers, holding it up to your lips before you could protest. “open.”

you did.

the cold hit your tongue, rich and velvety, the vanilla spreading across your taste buds. you made a small sound of surprise—it was good.

satoru watched you swallow, his gaze sharpening as he tracked the movement of your throat. “how is it? yummy?”

“yeah,” you admitted. “it’s good.”

“told you.” he dipped his finger back into the tub, but this time he didn't offer it to you. instead, he dragged the cold, creamy stripe along your collarbone.

you sucked in a breath.

“cold?”

“yes, you ass—”

“sorry, sorry,” satoru murmured, not sounding sorry at all as he leaned down. his tongue chased the melting trail, hot against your chilled skin.

you shivered.

satoru hummed against your throat. “mm, tastes better on you,” he added, muffled. “way better even.”

“you didn’t—you only tasted it off me. you don’t actually know if—”

“i know.” his lips shined, a little pink from the cold. “i prefer it like this. hmm, but...”

he dipped his fingers back into the tub, scooping out another mound. this time he brought it to his own mouth, tongue darting out to catch the melting edge.

you followed the movement, ready to blame the heat.

“oh,” he said, eyes widening slightly. “okay. no, that’s actually good. i see why people like this stuff.”

“you’ve never had vanilla bean ice cream before?”

“i’ve had ice cream,” he said dismissively. “but this is the good kind. the expensive kind. different.” he scooped up another bite, holding it out to you. “here. taste it again.”

you leaned forward, and he—the bastard—pulled his hand back just before you could reach it, popping the ice cream into his own mouth instead.

“hey!”

“what?” he said, stifled around the cold sweetness. “i’m sharing.”

“that’s not sharing, you’re—”

satoru leaned down and kissed you.

his mouth moved against yours, chilled and mellow, vanilla flooding your senses as his tongue slid against yours in a slow and deliberate pace. you made a noise—surprise, maybe, or something hungrier—and he captured the sound like he’d been waiting for it.

you didn't let him pull back far. your fingers tightened in his hair, keeping him close. his mouth was cold and then hot and then cold again, and you stopped trying to keep up. satoru's breath came in shorter bursts, and when you finally let him go, he looked almost dazed, lips breaking away from yours in a content sigh.

“oh,” he said, voice thin. “okay.”

“now..” satoru made no attempt to break out of the spell you'd put on him, his hand already finding the chocolate syrup. you heard the click of the cap opening.

“where to next?” he mused, more to himself than to you. the cold tip of the bottle traced a path down your sternum, dipping up into the hollow of your throat.

“you know,” you started, voice a little hoarse, “i’m kind of—” you gestured at yourself. “sweaty. it’s gross.”

satoru blinked at you. then he laughed—genuine amusement in his tenor.

“baby.” he said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “i just licked ice cream off your collarbone. you think i care about a little sweat?”

“even so, sato—”

“shh.” he squeezed, thick chocolate ribboning down your chest, pooling in the dip between your breasts.

“a little salt never hurt nobody,” satoru added.

he put the bottle aside and went after it with his tongue—in broad strokes that left nothing behind but a slick, warm patch—rapidly escalating your heartbeat.

“such a nice flavor,” he breathed against your skin, following the glaze with his mouth before it could drip onto the couch. “so fucking sweet. needed that.”

satoru’s hands found the hem of your tank top, pushing it up just enough to expose your stomach.

the ice cream had started to melt in the tub, a shallow puddle of cream pooling at the bottom. “good,” he said, dipping his fingers in. “perfect.”

he painted a cold stripe down your abdomen, going after it again with a drag of his tongue, the contrast of temperatures making you arch into him.

“you know what i thought about,” he started, like he wasn't currently licking ice cream off your stomach. “when i was walking back. in the heat.”

“what?” your voice came out breathier than you intended.

“i thought about how you’d taste.” he pressed a kiss just below your navel. “and i thought about how you’d sound.” another kiss, lower. “and then i thought about how you'd look.”

he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a smear of chocolate on his lower lip.

you stared at him, your chest heaving. satoru looked entirely in his element—a little messy, unbothered, all while being consumed by you.

then he glanced sideways, a boyish laugh huffing out of his nose.

“wow,” satoru murmured. his thumb traced the line of your hip. “there is... actually so much left.”

“satoru,” you warned, your voice a breathless thread. “if you think you’re painting my entire body with ice—”

“i mean, i was going to,” he interrupted, his fingers dipping into the plastic bag to pull out the small container of mochi bites.

he popped one into his mouth—matcha, green and sweet—and chewed thoughtfully while his eyes locked back onto yours. “but honestly? it’s melting too fast for my liking. plus i’m getting impatient.”

his fingers hooked into the fabric of your shorts, pulling.

“satoru—”

“yeah?” he looked up at you. “tell me to stop.”

you didn’t.

“didn’t think so.”

but before satoru could go further, his hands found your waist—pulling, not rough but insistent, tugging you off the couch and onto the floor with him.

you landed in his lap, caught easily by one hand steadying your hip.

“floor’s better,” he murmured, eyes raking your lips. “more room.”

then he dipped you, guiding you down onto your back and settling between your thighs like he'd found his rightful place.

“there you go,” he breathed. “that’s it.”

satoru dipped his head lower, his lips pressing hot against the jut of your hip bone. his fingers tugged at your panties, pulling them down your thighs with an efficiency that made your breath catch. you lifted your hips to help him, and he made a low sound of approval.

“good, good,” he murmured. “so good for me.”

the undergarment landed somewhere, you didn’t care where—and satoru’s hands settled on your thighs, pushing them apart with a slowness that felt like torture.

“sa—”

“shh,” his lips brushed the inside of your thigh. “i’ve got you.”

he imprinted a kiss. then another, higher. whatever you were going to say dissolved into a sound you barely recognized as your own.

satoru hummed against you, satisfied when the vibration of it made your hips jerk. his hand pressed down, holding you in place.

“patience,” he breathed, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “i told you. slow. thorough.”

true to his word, satoru’s tongue lapped at you in a languid manner, savoring as if he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to do, nothing else in the world to pay attention to but you.

you shuddered, starting to get louder.

“there,” satoru murmured, his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs. “that’s the sound.”

you made it again, just to hear him approve.

satoru worked you open with his mouth, relentlessly, until your thighs were shaking and you couldn't remember your surroundings, twisting fingers in his hair, trying to chase the pressure with your hips. he let you for a moment—let you rut against his mouth—before pulling back just enough to make you sob.

“what?” he asked. “want something?”

“i, ah—” you gasped. “satoru, you know what—”

“i do.” he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “wanna tell me anyway?”

you glared down at him, breathless and wrecked. “i hate you.”

“you love me.” he said, a sly smile. “say it.”

“please—” the word broke out of your lips. “just—”

“just what?”

“just more—”

satoru gave it to you. his mouth returned, open tongue nudging into that perfect spot, and he didn't let up until you were arching off the ground, a broken syllable tearing out of you as the pleasure crested.

he worked you through it, gentler now, panting as your body went limp. he pressed a softer kiss to your inner thigh, almost reverent, before pulling back with that insufferable grin, chin slick.

you stared at him, unable to form words, watching as satoru through heavy-lidded eyes wiped his jaw with the back of his hand, licking off your release.

“now... where were we? hm..”

satoru stretched his arm towards the coffee table, dipping his fingers into the puddle of cream. they came up glossy and dripping. “want some?” he asked, holding them out to you.

without overthinking it, you leaned forward and took his fingers into your mouth.

satoru’s breath caught, jaw slacking as your tongue traced the length of his fingers, holding his gaze.

“oh,” he breathed in. “okay. that’s—”

you pulled off with a soft pop, leaving his fingers glistening. “what?”

he stared at you for a long moment, something hungrier passing through his eyes, darkening them. then he laughed— a little incredulous and unhinged.

satoru reached for the melting tub again, dipping his fingers in and bringing them to your lips. you opened for him without hesitation, letting him feed you.

“taste good?” he asked, voice rougher.

“mm.” you sucked his fingers clean. “better the second time.”

“is that so,” his hand drifted to the squeeze bottle, eyes glinting as he picked it up, thumb finding the cap.

“wanna try the chocolate?”

he didn’t wait for an answer.

he pressed the tip against your lower lip—not pushing, just resting there, cool plastic way closer than it needed to be. he tapped it on your cheek, once. twice.

satoru firmed his grip and the syrup released thick, sliding across your lip down the corner of your mouth. you caught it with your tongue instinctively.

satoru watched, easing off the pressure. the bottle stayed where it was, tip still grazing your lip.

“delicious?”

you licked the syrup off your lip, holding his gaze. “yeah.”

he dragged the bottle down—slow—from your mouth to your chin, leaving a glossy trail behind.

“glad,” he breathed. “cause i get to clean that up.”

satoru dropped the bottle. his mouth found your throat, tongue dragging up the trail of syrup.

“mm—”

he got about halfway up before his hips rolled, his next words dissolving into a groan.

“fuck.” his forehead dropped to your chest. “okay. i’ll get the rest later.”

satoru stayed there for a moment—breath hot against your skin, hands still gripping your hips. you could feel him, hard and impatient, pressed against your thigh.

then he lifted his head, and whatever daze he'd been in was gone, replaced by a starved look.

“you know what i want now?” he asked, pulling his hand back. his voice had dropped an octave, playfulness bleeding into something heavier.

“i wonder?”

“you.” his hand found your hip. “on top of me. right now.”

“satoru, we’re both—”

“that’s the point.” he grinned, pulling his shirt off in one fluid motion and tossing it somewhere with the rest of the clothes, his chest damp with sweat.

“c’mon,” he said, reaching for you. “let me feel you.”

you let him pull you up, let him guide you onto his lap—his back against the couch, your knees on the floor, straddling his thighs. his hands found your hips with a firm grip, thumbs pressing into your sides.

“there,” he breathed. “that’s better.”

you could feel him against you, poking through his shorts—hard and warm. he rolled his hips up, just once, and you gasped at the pressure.

“yeah?” he asked, voice low. “you want that?”

you answered by kissing him, messy and desperate, and he laughed against your mouth. “that’s my baby.”

satoru’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer. you rubbed against him—the heat of his skin meeting the sticky residue of the chocolate smeared across your body, the tight hold of his palms against your hips.

“ride me,” he said, breath ghosting your ear. “i wanna watch you fall apart on top of me.”

satoru lifted his hips, ready to shove the shorts down his thighs in a quick motion before you stopped him, your hands finding the waistband before he could act. “let me.”

satoru went still beneath you, watching with something like wonder as you pushed the fabric down his thighs. “right,” he breathed. “yeah. okay. this is—this is good.”

he sprung, bare below you, hard and ready and waiting. you reached down between you, guiding him to your entrance. satoru hissed at the contact.

you sank down onto him, and whatever he was going to say dissolved into a strangled groan.

“fu—” his fingers pressed harder into your skin. “yes—so fucking good—”

you did it again, faster this time, moaning as satoru’s hands flew to your thighs, gripping like you were the only thing keeping him tethered onto life itself.

“yeah,” he gasped. “fuck yeah, just like that—”

you found a rhythm, slow and deep, and his hands roamed your body like he was taking inventory.

you arched into his touch, and he groaned. “like that?” he asked, voice scraped. “like when i touch you?”

“mh, yes—”

“good.” his thumb circled again. “‘cus ’m not gonna stop.”

satoru felt up your thighs, palm squeezing your hips, fingers tracing the curve of your waist—

then stopping as his eyes landed on a leftover patch of chocolate on your collarbone.

he brought it to his mouth, licking it clean. “saved some for me,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “aren’t you so—so thoughtful.”

you rolled your hips, a gruff sound leaving his parted mouth.

“fuck, look at you,” he mumbled, thumb brushing over your nipple. “riding me like you've got something to prove.”

“maybe i do.”

“oh?” he tilted his head, even as his voice wobbled.

you rolled your hips in a slow circle, evil glimmering in your eyes as you watched satoru lose his composure.

“oh, i see,” he accused, straining, “you’re doing that on purpose,” his voice cracked. “that’s—so mean. fuck, i love it. i—” he broke off with a moan as you did it again.

the fan wheezed uselessly in the corner, neither of you caring. you felt the coiling in your lower body, not realizing how tightly you'd been gripping his shoulder until your fingers ached.

the world had narrowed to this—his hands on your hips, his breath in your ear, the sound of his voice telling you how good you were, how perfect, how much he’d wanted this—and the tight squeeze of your body around him.

your hips fastened, and satoru’s head tipped back fully. “yes—fuuck.”

his hands found their way back to your hips, urging you on. “that’s it,” he murmured. “take what you need baby.”

you did. you took and took and took, and satoru gave it all— hands, voice, the way he looked at you through half-fluttering lids, brows knitting in a fight to not close his eyes.

his lap started meeting yours, thrusting up to meet your movements, and the rhythm broke into something slipshod.

“god—you’re so—” his voice broke. “i need to feel you—please—baby,”

he did. you came apart with his name on your lips and his hands pressing into your skin.

satoru pulled you down against his chest, the slick of his torso sliding against yours as he held you close, shuddering through his own undoing.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

then you felt him shift beneath you, already stirring again.

you laid a hand on his chest, pinning him down. “give me a second.”

he whined—puppylike. “but—”

“a second, satoru.”

he slumped back against the couch, frowning magnificently. “fine. tell me when. i’m counting.”

your forehead drooped to his shoulder, a light chuckle escaping out of you.

his reply came even, without a hint of inflection. he turned to open the back door of the black sedan. “you can find the result within permissible parameters. we should head back before the traffic near the toll gate gets heavy.”

he was always eager to get debriefs over with. tired after a high-output expulsion, all megumi usually wanted was an energy drink or a quiet corner.

you slid into the backseat beside him, and you could swear you saw him growl, or snarl, some low and quiet noise—the micro-expression gone before you could fully clock it.

the engine hummed to life as megumi crossed his arms, the motion entirely languid as he cast his eyes to the window.

“fushiguro-kun,” the manager murmured, addressing him from the front seat. “would you like me to drop you off at gojo-san's apartment instead? i figured you might prefer that in this moment.. as he had to leave right away for a mission.”

you glanced over at megumi, expecting him to jump at the chance of a weekend at home, free of his guardian slash your mutual teacher to annoy him.

“no,” megumi replied curtly, not taking his eyes off the passing highway lights. “the dorms are fine.”

the driving man didn’t ask any other questions. you felt yourself still riding the adrenaline wave as the car passed various roads, gate still a ways off. the floaty feeling in your stomach slowly dissipated, fingers tapping against your thigh while you replayed the scenario—the split-second decision, the way the curse's attack almost clipped you right before totality bit down hard on it.

your eyes landed on megumi.

his head was still turned toward the scenery outside, arms draped across himself. the streetlights flickered across his face in uneven strips, the muscle near his temple jumping once. easy to miss from the outside but you knew him, and how the one tendon in his neck flexed every few seconds when he was chewing on something he wouldn’t say.

“hey.” you called.

nothing.

“megumi?”

a beat. then, a flat monotone. “what.”

“you okay?”

another heavy beat as the car hit against a bump on the road, his shoulder barely shifting.

“..fine.”

you narrowed your brows, snorting lightly. “really? because you’re really quiet. like... mad-quiet.”

megumi’s eyes slid away from the trees outside, shifting right into the seat in front of him before he finally turned his head, just enough to look at you. unreadable, except for his eyes, where the accusation smoldered underneath.

“i’m not mad.”

“okay.” you put your hands up, shrugging. “just checking.”

the silence settled as you turned away from the short exchange, watching the road from the front window.

but the tension radiating off megumi’s body persisted. twice you caught him in your peripheral—looking at you as if waiting for something, or trying to figure out whether to even say it.

at last the car pulled into the parking lot of the dorms, prompting ijichi to clear his throat after parking the car. “i’ll have filed the report by tomorrow morning. please get some rest.”

megumi was out of the car before the manager finished his sentence and the car door locked back into place. he moved towards the entrance with no wait in sight. you thanked the manager, grabbing your bag and following right after him.

the entrance of the building was quiet, the white fluorescent lights overhead buzzing a faint, sterile vibration. the dizzying rush from the mission earlier had left your body, replacing itself with exhaustion, every step you took.

he didn’t rush, nor did he slow down. shoulders set, hands shoved in his pockets—every line of megumi’s frame screamed ‘don’t talk to me’.

so, naturally, you sped up.

it was nearby anyway, his room, closer than yours.

you picked up the pace, hoping to part ways in good terms before you continued down the hall—beyond ready to unlace your boots, crash onto your mattress, and sleep for the next twelve hours.

yet, megumi didn’t stop.

you watched, footsteps faltering slightly, as he walked right past his own door without so much as a glance at the handle, silhouette carving a straight path ahead.

feeling slightly puzzled, you addressed him.

“okay. what is it?”

no answer.

“hey. megumi. can you talk?”

his chest expanded. “nothing.”

your shook your head. “i don’t buy that.”

he stopped, making you almost crash into him.

megumi turned halfway, looking at you, and there it was again—a flicker, barely contained.

“you want to do this here?” he said, low, controlled. “in the hallway?”

you stilled, blinking at his demeanor, bouncing a singular leg for a moment before making space between your bodies and passing him. “jeez, fine.”

he trailed behind you, until, there it was, your room in sight. you took out your key, irritation already bubbling in your nerves from megumi’s unusual display. the key scraped against the lock, the metallic sound giving way as you turned the handle. you pushed the door open, stepping into the cool, dim sanctuary of your room.

megumi followed right over the threshold, catching the edge of the heavy oak door with a swift, backward motion of his hand. he swung it shut with a definitive thud that seemed to cut off the rest of the world.

you dropped your bag on the floor, turning the bedside lamp on.

his hands were out of his pockets now, arms hanging straight at his sides. megumi’s torso rose and fell in a tightly coiled rhythm.

and the silence stretched.

agitated, you couldn’t take the suffocating weight of the situation anymore. you crossed your arms, turning fully to face him, the last remnants of your post-mission adrenaline flaring back to life as anger.

“what’s your probl—”

“you.”

megumi’s voice wasn't loud, a low, gravelly whisper instead that barely carried across the small room, but the gravity behind it made the breath catch slightly in your throat.

“me? what?”

the silence that followed his words felt worse than you expected.

you stood, arms loosened, looking at him. megumi met your eyes—then didn’t, opting to look at the floor. his jaw worked, hands opening and closing at his sides like he was physically trying to squeeze the anger out through his palms.

he closed his eyes, brows furrowing.

“why would you do that?”

“huh?” you reacted.

his head snapped up. “you know what.”

“megumi, i genuinely—”

“you. know. what.” he stepped forward, tone cutting.

“i don’t.” you matched his expression. “i saw an ope—”

“an opening.”

megumi closed in, tone sharpened, invading. “no signal. no wait. just—” he stopped himself, clenching his jaw tight.

“you had my back.” you shrugged, as if he was the one being unreasonable.

every muscle in his neck tightened.

“what if i hadn’t?” something in megumi’s eyes shifted, gone in a fleeting moment.

however, the meaning landed. one you had a zero response to.

his voice dropped to a mere order.

“don’t do it again.”

the argument had run out of words, the air seemingly compressing in the fraction of an inch between your faces.

“and if i refuse?” you met his eyes, neither of you yielding.

not until megumi’s eyes dropped to your mouth. wide eyed, brows-knit, breath hitching—his expression twisted before he caught it. he looked like he wanted to break something, like he was about to die.

and then, it frayed, shattering.

megumi crashed his mouth against yours, nothing gentle or soft; consuming instead, like restraint finally let off its leash, snapping and punishing in its wake, trying to pour every word he couldn't say into the press of his lips against yours.

he grabbed your jaw firmly, tilting your head with insistence. you gasped against his mouth, a sound swallowed by him.

his other hand found your hip, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling you against him like he needed to feel that you were real—that you were here, that you hadn't slipped through his fingers.

you kissed him back, angry, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling and pushing. megumi made a guttural sound against your mouth, vibrating straight through your chest and causing your knees to weaken.

he seemed intent on not giving you room to breathe. megumi pressed forward, his frame overtaking yours, driving his weight into you until your thighs were flush against his. the hand gripping your jaw slid down to the nape of your neck, fingers gripping into your hair with a fierce, possessive hold. he angled your head to take more, deeper, until your lips felt battered from the force of his own.

the heat between your bodies was suffocating.

you clawed at his back, nails digging through the heavy fabric of his uniform, desperate to pull him closer, matching the frantic pace megumi was setting. every inhale was sharp, filling your lungs with the scent of him—rain, ozone, and the bitter leftover tang of a successful mission.

megumi mouth tore away from yours with a ragged gasp. he dragged his lips down to your jawline, heavy and damp, burying his face in your neck.

he bit down on the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, a bruising nip that drew a breathy gasp from you. his fingers trembled against your skin, his chest heaving violently as he held you in a vice grip.

“idiot,” megumi panted against your pulse point, his voice a broken scrape. he dug harder into your waist, anchoring you to your desk beneath. “a reckless—”

“shut it,” you breathed, your fingers tugging sharply at his dark hair to force his face back up to yours. you were both flushed, sweating, eyes locked in the dim, striped light of the room.

“again.”

a hunger, full of danger, flashed in megumi's eyes.

you held his gaze, breathless. “do it.. again.”

megumi slammed his mouth back over yours, frantic, fueled by your words and the shared heat of your skin.

his hands began to slide down in a clumsy tremor, a rare impatience more than peeking through. fingers tangled in the hem of your uniform, he shoved it off your shoulders with brutal efficiency.

another barrier neither of you had the patience for was the stiff fabric of his uniform.

you fumbled with the stiff buttons at his collar, feeling the hot, rapid beat of his pulse beneath his jaw. he shoved your hands away, ripping the fabric open himself, not sparing a single thought to the scattering buttons.

megumi yanked the uniform down his arms, the heavy material hitting the floor and revealing the lean, hard planes of his chest—the shifting shadow of his energy dancing in the low light, untamed—he was slick with sweat, radiating the faint, sharp hum of leftover cursed energy.

with a heavy surge of momentum, megumi hoisted you onto the edge of your desk. the shift in gravity was immediate—a sudden slide of skin against skin as he locked you against the edge of the wood, the contents falling off, ending up as collateral on the floor, loud clatter mixing with the sound of his ragged breathing.

he crowded into the space between your legs, his hands gripping under your thighs to pull you right to the edge, anchoring you against him, the friction of your bodies and the possessive, wordless language of his hands on your skin doing all the speaking.

the surface was a stark, biting contrast to the blistering heat of him wedged between your knees. megumi pressed his head hard against yours, chest heaving against your ribs like a dying engine. his gaze tracked the rapid pulse fluttering in your throat, taking in the undeniable proof that you were still whole.

any leftover clothing standing between your bodies was starting to feel offensive. megumi’s fingers, still somewhat precise, clawed at the closures of your pants, his own belt buckle clinking against the desk in the quiet room. you tore at the remaining layers scraping over the damp, tense muscles of his, working to strip away the final distance.

when bare, the raw shock of skin-on-skin contact made you both flinch. megumi let out a fractured sound—a choked-back sob—and his thumbs dug mercilessly into the soft dip above your hip bones, stabilizing you hard against himself once more.

he didn’t wait. he didn’t have the capacity for it. the rigid heat of megumi overrode any gentle preparation, giving into the ache in your lower body. his hand slid, fingers pulling the back of your thigh up to angle you, lifting just enough to align himself.

then he pushed forward, entering you in one heavy movement, the sudden fullness of him stealing the air right out of your lungs. your fingers clamped into the meat of his shoulders, your back arching off the desk as a high-pitched cry broke from your lips. megumi captured the noise in his own mouth in a blind collision, his entire body shivering, burying himself completely inside you.

he held himself there, breathing you in as his fingers pushed against your sides even harder—proving to himself that you were trapped beneath him, alive.

you wrapped your legs around his waist to pull him closer. megumi took the cue like a directive, his palms locking onto your hips, driving himself against you.

every movement of megumi was devoid of hesitation, reckless neediness burning away. he moved, in a relentless tilt of his hips, deliberate and adamant, striking the breath right out of your lungs.

megumi’s head dropped into the crook of your neck again, his teeth grazing your skin as his breath came in uneven, strained whimpers—completely unraveled, absorbed by the friction of your skin. you felt the rapid, violent thud of his heartbeat matching your own as the room grew smaller.

the tension in his muscles wound to a breaking point, megumi’s pulse hammered frantically right against where he buried his face into. every thrust rapidly burned out the last of your reserves, dragging you both right to the edge with a fierce momentum that neither of you could stop if you tried.

megumi dialed up the pace, entirely unforgiving as his hands braced hard on the desk behind you. his knuckles turned white as he used the leverage to impel himself into you even deeper, harder, making your vision blur at the edges. your own hips rocked up to meet him, chasing the rupture—heels digging into the small of his back to lock him in place. loud, unsparing sounds hit the quiet walls of your bedroom. megumi did nothing to stifle them, he was way past the point of hiding.

he chased the same rippling release with you, movements clouding into a chaotic frenzy.

“me—gumi—,” the chopped plea broke from your lips, fingers catching at his lower back.

megumi let out a low, ragged groan, his teeth catching the skin of your shoulder as he delivered three relentless pushes that hit the exact spot. a wave of heat crashed through your lower body, pulsating your internal muscles around him in a tight, merciless spasm that sent him nearly over the edge. your back arched, breath catching in a high, choked gasp as your own high rushed through you.

the squeezing friction was the breaking point for megumi—his entire frame quivered, a fractured sob escaping him. he gave a final, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he came. his muscles seized up as he shuddered violently, pouring himself into you. head rested on your shoulder, his breathing dissolved into ruined, hyperventilating gasps.

the uneven cadence of your tangled breathing slowly came down together. you lay back against the wood, completely spent, limbs heavy and tingling. the anger that had fueled the entire night had burned itself down to ash, leaving only an open ache in your chest as the adrenaline ebbed and reality settled in.

the heat in the room was stagnant now, the frantic rush of heartbeats dropping back into normal. leaked under the door in a thin, sterile line was the white light from the hallway, cutting across the dim room, bringing your reality back into focus

megumi had planted his face against your collarbone, cursed energy finally settling back beneath his skin, leaving him feeling intensely, heavily human. every breath he took was still an unlevel vibration that pressed right against your chest. his hands were still clamped tightly, hooked around your waist, but the hold had softened into something more grounding.

you stared past the dark crown of his hair, eyes fixing onto the ceiling above.

“i trusted you.”

your words were dropped softly into the quiet, a simple statement of fact. “that is why.”

the light rise of megumi’s back stopped entirely, chest locking tight against your ribs. a new, cold dread began to pool right in the pit of megumi’s stomach—worse than the fury he’d arrived with, than the raging panic that had driven him to tear through your clothes.

the implication was clearer than day. the next time the curtain fell, your life wouldn't just be in your hands—it would be in megumi’s, too. if his shadows failed, if he was a half-second too slow, he would have to carry the corpse of the only person who had looked at him, choosing to put their undying trust into him.

his fingers twitched on your side, squishing the flesh, trying to hold onto something megumi was already terrified of losing.

he knew how fragile anchors were in the world of sorcerers.

“stupid,” megumi whispered, voice breaking.

he didn't look up.

face buried deeper, nose pressing your throat until it almost hurt, megumi tried to hide from the absolute certainty of your words. he wanted to tell you.

he wanted to tell you that one day, he might fail you. that ‘trust’ is a luxury that usually ends in a body bag, and the thought of you looking at him with that same trust while you bled out in some forgotten clearing made him feel physically sick.

“you’re so... stupid.”