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He does not notice them at first. The path is narrow, the terraces crowded with green growth, and his attention is momentarily occupied with locating the correct house of the elderly widow he has come to visit on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He steps forward—there is a soft, devastating crunch beneath his shoe—and he stops. Slowly, he looks down. A small green sprout lies bent sideways in the dirt. He moves his foot, and there is another crushed stem.

He blinks once. Then twice. “…Oh dear.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

There is a voice that comes from behind him, and Morax turns. You stand just a few steps away, staring at him in horror as though you have just witnessed a murder in its cold-blooded glory. (Perhaps murder is not far from the truth, of course—the plants are surely dead now.)

Your gaze drops to the ground. Then back up to him. Then back to the ground again. “You stepped on my jueyun chilis,” you say flatly.

Morax follows your gaze again, taking in the small row of plants he has apparently trampled with great efficiency.

“Ah, yes,” he says after a moment, looking only slightly apologetic. “It would appear that I have—my apologies for my carelessness.”

“These were only just sprouting,” you cry, crouching down to inspect the damage. “Now I’ll have to restart these sprouts,” you look up at him, utterly unimpressed.

“My apologies,” Morax says sincerely. “That was not my intention.”

You stand, brushing dirt off your hands, and look him up and down. Morax watches your eyes as they assess him properly—he can practically see the way you pick apart his appearance right before his eyes as you make your deductions. (He is dressed far too nicely to be a farmer or a villager. Too clean. Too proper. He can see it written plainly all over your face that you have already figured he is from the more urban parts of Liyue.)

“You’re not from here,” you say. “Liyue Harbor?”

“That is correct.”

“I can tell.”

He inclines his head slightly. “I am here on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”

Your expression shifts immediately.  “Oh.” The irritation does not disappear entirely, but it softens. Dare he say, your expression even saddens some. “You’re here for Madam Lu, then. For her late husband,” you say.

“Yes.”

“She’s been expecting someone.”

Morax nods as he explains, “I’ve come to discuss the funeral services she seeks. However,” he adds, glancing down at the damaged plants again, “I appear to have caused some trouble before arriving.”

You cross your arms at that. “Yes. You did.”

“I will compensate you for the loss,” Morax offers.

Your brows lift slightly, unimpressed—you are deeply, wholly, entirely unimpressed by him. It is a fascinating change of pace. Morax (or, perhaps sooner or later, he will have to grow more used to Zhongli) is not someone people look at so disdainfully. So dismissively. So irritably. The only individuals who have ever cast a look at him in such a manner are foes long fallen, long since taught the power of the Geo Archon and slain for daring to stand against him in battle.

“Do you think you can simply just pay for the damages you have caused to my agriculture?” you huff at him.

He hums, nodding as he says, “If that is what is required of me, I certainly can.”

You study him for a long moment, then snort softly. “You really are from the Harbor.”

“I take it that is obvious.”

“Painfully.” Then, you look down at the plants again and sigh. “Well, they’re not all dead,” you say. “You only destroyed…several. Not everything.”

“I am relieved to hear the damage is not total.”

You give him yet another look. “You’re very calm for someone who just committed agricultural sabotage to a small, humble villager’s plants.”

“I find panic rarely improves a situation,” he says honestly. 

You stare at him for a second longer. Then, much to his surprise, you laugh. He blinks, slightly taken aback. (Where goes all your agitation from just a few moments prior, he wonders.)

“You’re rather strange,” you tell him. 

“Am I?” he asks, slightly amused. 

You crouch again and gently press some soil back around one of the bent sprouts, trying to prop them upright. “Yes—quite strange indeed. You said you’re from the funeral parlor?” you ask.

“Yes. I am here to help Madam Lu arrange her husband’s funeral.”

Your hands slow slightly at that. “Right,” you say quietly. That sad look is back on your expression. You must have known him, Morax surmises—though, of course, that would not be all too surprising. Qingce Village is a small place, after all. “Master Lu was a good man. He passed last week. His wife is not taking the news well.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Morax replies evenly. “That is why I have come in person. Aside from the fact that she is grieving, it would be difficult for her to travel to Liyue Harbor at such an old age.”

Your gaze softens at his words—something…rather grateful seems to replace the earlier traces of resentment as you look up at him.  “That was kind of you.”

“It is only part of my duties at the parlor. Nothing worthy of praise.”

You stand again and wipe your hands on your skirt. For a moment, Morax locks his eyes with yours—they are rather easy to get lost in, he thinks to himself. Time is preserved so simply when he is looking into them, so effortlessly that he almost feels the eroded fragments of his soul settle down and rest. (This is all he has ever hoped to have for quite some time—just the chance to simply rest his old, eroding soul and enjoy something outside of the divine. How frightening that it is as simple as looking into the eyes of a village girl.)

“Well,” you say, gesturing up the path, “whether you can complete your duties to be worthy of praise or not, we will never know if you insist on going the wrong way, Mister…”

Morax, he itches to say. Instead, he smiles politely, says “Zhongli,” and introduces himself before continuing, “and I had suspected as much.”

You answer him by murmuring your name. It’s a beautiful name, he decides as he tests it on his tongue—as is everything else about you. Your smile, and the simple way you are dressed under the gold cast of light the sun coats you in, are easily the most breathtaking parts of Qingce village. Despite the lush patches of grass and the soft petals of glaze lilies in the distance, Morax finds he cares little for the sights of the village when you are in his line of vision.

“You’re heading toward the terraces,” you tell him. “Madam Lu’s house is in the other direction.”

“I see.”

You start walking off, and he stands there, partly stunned and partly not. Something about you makes it so that he is not entirely shocked by the abrupt way you saunter away, but he finds that being kept on his toes is not all that terrible. Especially not if he gets to watch you walk away, either—you are not a poor sight from behind, that is for certain. Then, just a moment later, you glance back at him.

“Come on, you fancy old harbor man. I’ll take you there before you destroy anything else.”

Morax huffs a small, amused laugh. Harbor man. When was the last time someone addressed him so casually? So carefree? His memory fades to long, distant times. Times he does not forget, of course, but times that are long enough into the past that he cannot help but lose his grasp on what it feels like to enjoy his days the way he once did. 

“I appreciate your assistance.”

“You can repay me by not stepping on any more plants,” you wave a hand off dismissively. 

“I will make every effort.”

He walks in silence alongside you for a few moments through the village. He eyes the terraces and takes in the breathtaking view of such simplistic beauty. The waters are clear, and the petals of the blooming flowers are wide as they face the sun like open arms. It has been a long time since Morax has come to this village—a long, long time, indeed. The last he remembers of this place is the great battle he’d fought before that wretched serpent god had fallen. They seem to be doing fine, he notes in satisfaction. Of course, that is not a surprise to him—he would surely hear about it, perhaps even make an appearance himself, had they not. 

But the villagers of this small, peaceful patch of land are doing well. And Morax is faced with the haunting proof that he has done his duties once again. Quite exceptionally, too—exceptionally enough that he wonders if he truly has any duties left for much longer. 

It’s not long before you glance sideways at him. “So…do you do this often?”

“Do what?” He hums. 

“Travel all the way out here to help people arrange funerals,” you say as you lead him over a small, wooden bridge. He is mindful not to trample a stem of jueyun chilis that grow along a patch of grass on his way. 

“Yes,” he nods, “if the director asks it of me, I tend to travel to clients.”

“That sounds…like a rather depressing job. It must suck the excitement out of the travels when you are working so closely with the dead.”

“On the contrary,” Morax says calmly, “I work with those still living. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.”

You glance at him with a slight scoff. “That is a very funeral-parlor thing to say.”

“I imagine it is,” he chuckles, “but it is true nonetheless.”

You walk a little farther before suddenly saying, “You know, you talk like an old man.”

Morax does not react immediately. He’s certainly heard that phrase before—how many times has he been called old? It’s…not exactly false, if he were to be technical about his age. “…Do I?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you snort, eyeing him in amusement. “Very philosophical. You sound like you’ve been alive far longer than you look.”

“I assure you that is not the case,” is all he says. If only you knew. 

“Mm,” you say skeptically. “I don’t believe you.”

He almost smiles.

Morax, as he follows you, reaches a small house near the edge of the village. Smoke curls faintly from the chimney, and the grass is perfectly trimmed with glaze lilies neatly sprouting along a line beneath the front window of the house. You eye them for a moment before sighing as you murmur, “The old woman hasn’t been watering them again—it can only be expected.”

Morax says nothing. He’s an observant person at his core—he has not reigned over Liyue for a short period of time, and that reign of power did not come to him overnight. Such is his nature as a god, as an adepti, as a warrior, to be observant. It’s easy to see that this old couple—this old widow, now—means something to you. That alone would not be a shock. Qingce village is a small place, and it would not be hard to piece together that a small village and its people are well-connected. 

But the grief on your face, coupled still with that familiar, fond expression as you sigh over the neglected flowers, suggests that there is more to your relationship with Madam Lu (and by extension, her late husband) than the average villager. Morax almost wants to pry, but if there is anything that being a funeral parlor associate—and, of course, a god who has seen many battles—has taught him, it’s to never pry when the grieving grieve.  

“That’s Madam Lu’s house,” you gesture at the door, “she’s home, so you should be able to take care of business rather swiftly.”

“Thank you,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “And again, I apologize for your plants.”

You roll your eyes as you wave a hand dismissively. “You should be. But, I suppose they’ll survive. Well—probably.”

“I am most hopeful that they do,” he nods. 

Morax watches as you start to turn away, walk to the flowers and inspect the slightly dry soil beneath them, and reach for the watering can abandoned at the side with a sigh. 

“You know,” you say, glancing back at him, “you’re not what I expected for someone from a funeral parlor.”

“In what way?” he raises a brow. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I thought you would be gloomy. Or cold. Maybe a little creepy.”

“I see,” he smiles in amusement, “I would hope I am none of those things, lest director Hu receives complaints.”

“Hurt no more of my chilis, and I will allow you to leave Qingce village with no complaints, harbor man.” You grab the watering can and start walking away towards a well in the distance.  Then, you pause and call over your shoulder: “Do try not to get lost on your way out—I cannot escort you every time.”

“I will try my hardest,” Morax hums. He watches you go for a moment before turning toward the house.

────────────────────────

You end up seeing plenty of the harbor man for the next few weeks to come as you help plan Master Lu’s parting. 

Master Lu was a well-respected man in the village, and his doting wife strives for nothing less than a proper tribute for his send-off. Qingce village is a simple place. The people here lead plain, straightforward lives—most are those who seek something quiet and easy after retiring. They are people who have aged and feel the tug and pops of their aching muscles and bones. They are people who know that life is something to cherish before it is easily taken from you, before you are ready. 

As such, funerals are done properly. There are traditions to honor, respect to pay, and well wishes to part the dead with before they are off to the afterlife. 

You don’t know what is waiting for you in the afterlife—nor do you even really know if you believe in one at all, but you do know you cherished Master Lu. He took you in, after all, when you were nothing but a young child—too much of a responsibility for your adepti father, who had enough as is to do, evidently. And too much of a burden for your mortal mother, who could not bear the so-called injustice of having a non-human lover and child. 

So, following the abandonment of your parents—two different reasons for the same betrayal—you end up dumped in Qingce village because that is where it is safest to abandon young children, apparently. And that is where Master Lu, alongside many others in the village, finds you, at your tender age of ten, with your helpless, bitter distrust of adults around you. Slowly, but surely, he is but one of the many who rebuilds your image of the world you are surrounded by, much like he rebuilds practically anything with those adept, carpenter hands of his.

Your first bed, and the swingset in the grass that you played on, and that little bench where you’d sit and watch Madam Lu water her crops in the distance. He had built them all for you with his own callused hands, much like he’d built that easy trust that mended your wounded child-heart. 

And now Master Lu is gone. But he has helped build you a stable enough, sturdy enough foundation that even without his cunning smile and his crinkled eyes, you trust the world around you despite it all. And you trust that funeral consultant, too—clumsy as he may be around your precious plants. 

“Madam Lu tells me you have arranged for a florist to bring flowers from Liyue Harbor,” you hum, walking with him through the terraces. 

He nods, inspecting a glaze lily. “Yes, but there will be glaze lilies supplied by the village itself—we do not often see glaze lilies bloom like this in Liyue Harbor. Not so naturally, that is. They are artificially sprouted by modifications, but they lack the same fragrance.”

“Qingce village didn’t always have glaze lilies as full as these,” you say proudly, “it was only after I came to the village that they grew so fresh and full—it brought Madam Lu lots of business, you know. No one seems to be able to tend to them the same way as I, no matter the effort.”

“I see,” Zhongli says thoughtfully. Almost like he sees through you. 

You quickly change the subject—you wouldn’t want him to realize you aren’t human quite yet. (Not that it’s a dark secret that you keep, of course. But you find mortals tend to feel more at ease around you when they believe you, too, are yet another mortal.)

“Have you trampled any more chilis on your way here?” you huff, “don’t even consider lying because I will find out in due time. I will be deducting the damages from our final bill, you know.”

“I assure you all of your chilis are fine,” he chuckles, “and I have already informed director Hu of the discount you will be afforded for my mistake.”

“I hope your position is still intact,” you tease. “I’d hate for your livelihood to be at stake for such a simple mistake.”

“Well,” he smiles with what you can only describe as a bit of a devious grin, even despite how proper and polite he holds himself, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cost the funeral parlor a mora or two. Such is the risk of running a business—some losses are to be expected.”

At the start, Zhongli left immediately after his weekly visits with Madam Lu to plan the funeral services. Master Lu has already been buried, of course, but the funeral itself won’t be held until the following month to ensure that all the proper traditions are seen through. But, well…Madam Lu is a lonely woman, and Zhongli is good at conversing with the elderly. Almost too good. She has grown rather fond of his presence, and you think that Zhongli is equally as fond of her cooking as he is shirking off his duties for a bit, so he puts up little argument when she asks him to stay for lunch. 

And that is how you end up entertaining him for the time it takes for her to cook her meals. 

Couldn’t you cook your meals ahead of time, you’d asked the old, nagging woman, it’s not as though you don’t have the time to spare.

And how often do you see such a handsome, young face in this village, she’d tutted, giving you a disapproving look, I have to stall for time somehow, so you can charm him. He is a fine man, you stubborn child—make sure you waste no opportunities. I want grandchildren.

You’re already an old granny, you’d huffed, fighting back the flustered look that threatened to make itself apparent on your face. 

That damned old lady and her damned need to meddle where she didn’t have any place meddling. But you suppose that is why you grew up the way you had—so loved and well looked after, despite being practically an orphan in function. And you suppose that Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not…the worst candidate for a man, should you choose to settle down. 

Not that you would choose. 

Your life span is too long for that of a mortal lover, and adepti are difficult enough to come by as it is. Never mind the fact that they are likely all too old to settle for someone like you—you are still a young lady in mortal years. Surely, if a strong, capable adepti man were looking to settle down, he would spare little time with someone like you who does nothing more than tend to crops with your days. 

You have never dreamed of settling down and loving a man—not when mortals such as your mother can see the true curse that it is to fall in love with a long-lived being such as yourself. Mortal men, especially gentlemanly, smooth-talking, and granny-pleasing funeral consultant mortal men from Liyue Harbor of all places, would waste little time with you. 

But you shake the thought off as you turn to look at the old lady’s house in the distance, and see her waving by her front door to indicate that lunch is ready. You nod before turning to Zhongli to bring him along with you—

—and the world is suddenly shifting. Why is it shifting? Why does it feel like gravity is no longer keeping you firmly cemented in an upright position on the ground, and why does it feel like air is rushing past you all too fast? Surely…surely you couldn’t be falling?

Except you are. If your poor luck as a half-mortal, half-immortal being wasn’t enough to deter you from charming a man, your clumsiness sure is. And you had the gall to call him clumsy, you think. Not…not that you care to charm him of all people anyway because…well, because why would you? You do not. 

But if you were to care, well then. This would be your sign to swiftly put those dreams behind you. It’s a good thing you never cared for such silly fantasies anyway. 

But, just as quickly as you are falling over the edge of a terrace and onto the ground a hefty distance away, the earth beneath you is shifting. It shakes and rumbles, and then it lifts so that soft soil reaches your back faster than heavy impact can. It isn't long before you are carefully raised to the terrace once more, where Zhongli is waiting for you with a polite, respectful hand outstretched just close enough that you don’t have to stretch to reach it, but just far enough that it doesn’t impose on your personal space, giving you the option to decline it. 

You take it. Because you are shaken, and not because you would like to hold his hand, of course. And he gently pulls you, where he steadies you easily as you shake on your wobbly legs when they take your weight. 

“What…” You furrow your brows, confused. Dazed. Still a little shaken. 

“You slipped on some of the wet soil,” he says calmly, “and lost your balance over the edge. I caught you using Geo.”

“Geo?” You furrow your brows deeper.

“My vision,” he explains simply, “I made a construct to catch you.”

“Well, thank you,” you nod slowly. 

Geo…you think to yourself. Undoubtedly, his power certainly was Geo. But…but you have felt the sensation of Geo around you before from a vision wielder, and…this power is different. More powerful? No—more concentrated. Like it is the source of Geo itself. Like it is where it all stems from, with how fierce and deep the energy runs through it. You know little of your lineage or of how the elements work, but you know that for a vision wielder, he seems abnormally strong. Almost…almost like his power is not that of a vision at all. Almost like he is the power—he and he alone. 

And then you blink, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“When did you get your vision?” you ask, hoping to sound casual. 

He hums, looking at you. And there it is again—that look. Like he sees right through you. “Perhaps I will tell you in due time,” he chuckles, still holding your hand as he pulls you alongside his steps forward. “Come, Madam Lu is waiting.”

He is not human, you think—no, you know. And for a short, brittle, fleeting moment, you dare to hope that perhaps Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not a mortal, and that he might have enough time to spare in this life to waste it with you. 

────────────────────────

Morax values those who follow traditions closely. It is sacred and ancient, the culture of Liyue. And Liyue is a richly cultured nation, indeed. Qingce Village, he is pleasantly surprised to find, pays its respect to the dead properly and does the culture of this nation justice.

You are standing in front of Master Lu’s grave, holding your offering with trembling fingers as he watches in the distance.

“You don’t have to worry about the old lady,” you mumble, voice oddly shaky. Morax never hears your voice shake—you are always so sure of yourself and what you say, so at peace with your existence and the way that your life is. But you are so different now, faced with grief.

For a while, you almost didn’t seem to be grieving at all. You spoke so easily to him—so casual and at times, playful with banter. All that really hinted that this passing was a tragedy to you was just a small, sad smile when you’d think about or mention the late Master Lu and his lonely, widowed wife. Just a tiny, long look like you’d been parted from an old friend rather than lost a dear loved one. 

Morax has seen loss and the many different shades it comes in. It’s a devastating color—it washes out all of the other colors that paint life. But you seemed almost like this passing was just any other passing in the everyday world. Just a natural occurrence that you couldn’t help. You’d been strong when Madam Lu couldn’t—spoke with a strong, steady voice as you continued the discussion on the services when the poor old lady broke down in sobs or simply couldn’t bring herself to speak at all. 

For a while, Morax almost wondered if you were grieving at all. If you were simply at peace with an inevitable goodbye.

But he sees your grief now—here, as you are kneeling on soft yet cold soil, clinging to your offering like it’s the last piece of Master Lu you will ever have. 

“I’ll watch over her. Her and those flowers she doesn’t water anymore—that old granny. Always insisting she isn’t aging,” you scoff—fond, exasperated, sad. “It’s like she doesn’t look in a mirror at all. Doesn’t see the way her skin is sagging more and more. It's like she thinks she’s immortal or something—can you believe it? You’d think losing her… her husband would make her take a look at herself for a second and worry about her own health, but she’s still… still that same old meddling old woman. But I’m going to… t-to take care of her—the stubborn old thing. Don’t you worry.”

Your voice breaks off into a quiet sob as you press a small wooden box into the soil before covering it carefully with dirt to keep it buried in place. It’s worn—Morax had only gotten a small glimpse of it as he’d walked with you to the grave. As the overseer of this funeral, it’s his duty to make sure the offerings made to the deceased are appropriate and respectful, to keep the dignity of those who have passed on intact.

He hadn’t asked you what the box meant to you, nor what was in it, but the way you clutched onto it so tightly, so desperately, could only mean that it was important.

“That old lady keeps talking about joining you soon,” you sniffle, rubbing your chin free of the tears that have collected there. “Says you’ll get lonely over there, dead all by yourself. She’s not alone, even if you’re not here—she has me. And Madam Yundan. And Master Hanfeng is still eyeing her, too—too bad you’ve gone ahead and died and can’t keep an eye out for his advances anymore, you fool. He’d still try to match me with that son of his at Liyue Harbor if he could, I bet. But the old lady needs me here, yeah? So I have to stay. And I need her, so you’ll just have to wait over there for a while before anyone joins you. You…you’re the one who left after all, so that’s on you. You old man.”

You sniff again, quieter this time, and brush some loose dirt from the top of the grave, patting it flat with absent care, like you’re smoothing down a blanket.

“Don’t go wandering off too far, alright?” you mutter. “If there’s an afterlife, you'd better stay where she can find you when she gets there. Don’t go gambling, or go drinking, and don’t go getting into trouble like you always did. You always did say she kept you in line, so you’d better behave until she gets there to do it properly again.”

You let out a small, shaky laugh that turns into something breathier, something that almost sounds like another sob before you swallow it down.

“She keeps pretending she’s not lonely,” you continue quietly. “Says the house is only quieter now, that’s all, without all your hammering and sawing and nonsense. Says she sleeps better without you snoring. But she sits by your chair, you know. Still sets out two cups when she makes tea sometimes. Then she gets mad at herself and puts one back.” You wipe roughly at your eyes, like you’re frustrated with the tears that won’t stop. “So you’d better be waiting for her. I doubt it’ll be too long before…before she comes and finds you. Maybe a few years. Maybe a decade, if she’s stubborn. She always is, so who’d be surprised? I’ll probably take some more time,” you say—it almost sounds bitter. Resigned in a way Morax almost…almost understands. You’ll probably take plenty more time. 

“I only have the people of this village, you know,” you say after a long silence. “So that old lady is stuck with me. And I’m stuck with her. So you don’t have to worry about her being alone. I won’t let her be. I’ll fix the roof before the rainy season, as you showed me. I’ll carry the buckets of water so she doesn’t try to do it herself and hurt her back again. I’ll make sure she actually waters those flowers she keeps talking to like they’re people. I’ll listen to her complain about the heat every morning like she always does. So you don’t have to worry. I’ll handle everything here. So just…rest, alright? You worked enough already—worked until the day you died, you stubborn old man. What’s all that you said about retiring? And to think, you live where people come just to retire, you old fool. But anyway…don’t rush her to come find you. Let her stay here a while longer.”

Your hand lingers on the soil for a moment longer before you finally pull it away.

“…Goodbye, Master Lu,” you murmur, all too quietly. “Don’t be lonely over there. We’ll come visit you—I know you love to hear that old woman babble, anyway.”

You stand slowly after that, brushing the dirt from your hands, but you don’t leave right away. You stay there for just a little longer, staring at the grave like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re trying to make sure he knows you really did come.

“You must see this plenty,” you mumble finally, looking over your shoulder to Morax. He stays silent, so you continue. “Still, sorry you had to see such a sorry display.”

Morax does not answer immediately. He stands with his hands folded behind his back, gaze resting not on you, but on the grave, the disturbed soil where you’d buried your offering. Only after a long moment does he speak.

“There is nothing sorry about grief,” he says at last, “a funeral is not a display of composure. It is a contract between the living and the dead.” You blink at him, a little confused and a little exhausted, too. “The living bring offerings, words, remembrance. The dead leave behind their names, their stories, perhaps a legacy, even. Both sides fulfill their duty. That is what gives a life a fair and just ending. Grief is proof that the departed were loved. Tears are an offering no less valuable than incense or mora. There is no shame in them.”

You let out a small breath through your nose, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You really do talk like a funeral consultant.”

He inclines his head slightly, smiling just a little. “It is my profession, after all.”

“Do you ever hear people say the wrong things?” you murmur. “At funerals.”

“All the time,” Morax replies without hesitation. “Well, I suppose wrong and right are subjective—but there is always a time and place, most would agree. But thankfully, the dead never show they are offended.”

That pulls a small, real laugh out of you, quiet and brief as it is. 

“That’s good, at least,” you murmur. “I called him an old fool at least three times.”

Morax looks at the grave, then back at you. “Then I am certain he departed this world feeling accurately remembered.” You snort softly at that, wiping under your eye again. After a moment, Morax speaks once more, voice softer now, less like a consultant and more like the old man that he is (not that you would know, of course). “It is the belief of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and many, I’m sure, that farewells do not end at the funeral. The living always continue to speak to and of the dead. In this way, the dead are not yet forgotten, nor are they truly gone—they are simply living somewhere else, where we cannot yet follow.”

You stare at the grave for a long moment after that. And he wonders if you perhaps do know that he isn’t the young mortal that he appears, as you say, “You sound especially like an old man now…but I’ll come visit and complain to him a lot,” you huff. “He always liked to gossip.”

“A good plan,” Morax agrees.

You nod once, satisfied with that answer, then brush the last of the dirt from your palms.

“Alright,” you mutter. “Let’s go, harbor man. The old lady will knock me with a watering can if I’m late for dinner.”

Morax turns to walk with you, but before you leave, you glance back at the grave one last time. As if to make sure the old man knows you really did come.

-- — --

Dinner with you and Madam Lu is as pleasant as it is heavy. Both of your eyes are red and slightly swollen from the crying that comes with a funeral service (as to be expected), but there is also the silent, but oh so obvious reality that this is Morax’s last meal with you and the elderly woman.

He will have no reason to return to Qingce village again after this, and as a result, this is the final time he will eat (such lovely) cooking by Madam Lu and converse with you over his food. 

He takes his time eating. 

The goodbye comes all too quickly, and your face is mortified as Madam Lu brings Zhongli down to her height by his cheeks as she says, “Young man, do come and visit! Such a handsome face like yours is rarely a sight we get, you know! You’d keep my stubborn child good company. Think about it, alright?”

“M-madam Lu!” you hiss, quickly intervening as you pry her hands off of him and give her a withering look. “Mister Zhongli is here for business—you mustn’t make him uncomfortable!”

“I assure you,” he grins, just a little too amused, he’s sure, for your comfort, “it is quite all right. I’m flattered you think so highly of my presence, miss.”

Your glare extends to him, then, too. 

And then you are both leaving the old lady’s residence, you on your way to your own home, and he on his way to leave the village and return to the harbor as always after a hearty meal from the woman. 

It just so happens to be the same direction, so you both walk together.

“You could always stay the night, you know,” you murmur. 

“Is this your way of offering your residence?” he raises a brow. 

You sputter, giving him another heated look before you hiss, “No, you sneaky little schemer! I meant there are inns for passing travelers in this village, and the journey to the harbor is surely more risky at night as opposed to during the day. That’s all.” 

He chuckles. “I appreciate the thought, but I assure you, this isn’t my first time making a journey at this time of day.”

“Yes, well, it only felt right to offer, that’s all,” you shrug petulantly, still flustered by his earlier comment. 

Morax keeps his chuckle at bay for your sake, but you seem to know he is holding back a laugh anyway, so you send him a sulky-looking warning glance before continuing to look ahead as you walk to your home. 

You reach it in no time. And now…now Morax must say goodbye to you properly. For the last time, likely. Unless there is yet another death in Qingce village that requires his travels, but he doesn’t think that is an appropriate circumstance to hope for in order to be in your presence some more. 

Your presence—what a fascinating reality it is, now, that he wishes for it more and more. He has taken to thinking of you when he is back at the parlor, and he often finds he leaves earlier than necessary when it is finally time to come make his journey to the village. Almost as often as he pushes back his time to leave. 

Morax turns to you as you stand by your door, unwilling to look into his eyes. 

“Well,” you mumble, “I suppose this is the last time you will have to come to his boring old village, isn’t it, harbor man?”

“Yes, for now,” he nods, “but boring is perhaps not the word I would use for this village.”

“Is that so?” You finally look up, raising a brow as you afford him a smile, “Do tell, what is so interesting about a small farmland?”

“For starters, those who tend to the crops are exceptionally skilled at creating difficult walking paths,” he murmurs, “therefore, I must always be alert when wandering this village. It’s as though they are trying to make it difficult—perhaps for a discount or two from wandering businessmen.”

You laugh, bright and free, and back to that steady version of yourself he is so used to. The grief is gone, even if only for a moment. That is how grief works, he supposes—it comes and goes as it pleases. Chokes and releases when it is feeling particularly punishing or merciful, depending on its mood. But grief is not all bad, he has learned. Both from experience as a warrior and a funeral consultant. 

It is grief that tethers people to the memories of loved ones. Grief that makes it so that life is not just a constant forward-moving force. There are still old, stubborn rocks that stay still, refusing to rush along with the current. That isn’t so bad—sure, the pain is there, but so is the preciousness of old memories. Memories that have no business being forgotten, no matter how much time passes. Memories that make it so that a life is not merely just a life, and an existence is not merely just an existence. 

He wonders then, if he died, how long his memory will go on. How long he will be grieved for, and how long the grieving will keep his memory sitting stubbornly in that stream that pushes forward, so willing to move on with or without him. 

You look at Morax with a soft, delicate look. You are fond of him; he is not a fool. He has lived thousands of years, and he has learned what a look of fondness looks like, even if he has never quite understood what it feels like to be so fond of someone, or to be the object of it himself. 

But you look at him like that, and he finds he enjoys the simplicity that comes with the way life is when you live like a mortal. When you live like you do not have enough time to leisurely be in the same place for hundreds of thousands of years. When you live as if you may pass on to the next life, and must move on from one thing to another, so that you may experience enough. 

Morax has been alive for so, so long. And yet, he wonders if the mortals have lived more than he has. 

So, when you fiddle with your fingers as you murmur, “Perhaps I made it difficult to walk along this village so it would take wandering businessmen longer to leave. It’s not often that they make their company known in a place like this,” he steps closer. 

“Is that so?” Morax asks. 

You don’t meet his eyes as you nod. You’re a funny being, he thinks—so sure of your existence, yet so unwilling to step beyond what you have deemed yourself worthy of. You are confident with your life. Happy with your place and sure that you belong where you are. So certain that you are deserving of what you have and what has been given to you, but you never dare ask for more or take beyond the scope of what you allow yourself. 

Even if you want it. 

But perhaps you are starting to change, he thinks. Because you step closer as you nod, looking at him as you say, “I have never wished for a businessman to stay until now. But there is always a first time for everything.”

He laughs. Low and amused as he says, “I have never felt compelled to stay the night anywhere on my journeys—but there is indeed a first time for everything, you are correct.”

And that is how Morax is kissing you. 

He has yearned for it for some time, he thinks. He has yearned for you for some time, and there is no point in denying it. You and your chilis and your flowers and your simple ways of life. You and your soft smile to the villagers and the gentle way you play with the few children that reside here in this far, distant, yet peaceful land that he saved so long ago. He is glad he saved it—of course, he would never regret this deed, whether or not you existed here. But he is especially glad for it now. 

He has done his duty—hasn’t he? Then isn’t it only fair that he rewards himself with the luxury of enjoying his accomplishments? 

Morax is kissing you, and you are kissing him back, and he thinks you have wanted this for just as long. Your lips are soft, and the lip balm you use is sweet and sticky against his own mouth. He swallows down the taste with a low hum, fingers grasping at your hips as yours latch onto his coat. You are so small against him—he towers over you even in his human form, and you have to crane your neck up just as much as he needs to bend his down to end the gap between you for your lips to touch. 

Your breath is hot against his as you exchange it between every kiss, and he tastes you on his tongue with every time they swipe against each other. He has never felt desire like this—never felt his cock twitch like this between his legs or press so tightly against his pants. (Oh, how he aches, he thinks, to take you in his proper form, and satisfy…both of his endowments. But for now, he must settle for this much, in this form, and that is if you even allow him to take it that far. He is not a scoundrel, after all.)

He is grateful that the front of your home is angled so that there are no nearby houses to see you both this way. The path that people walk along faces the back of your home, and that gives him all the encouragement he needs to shamelessly press you against your own door and kiss along your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin and sucking as you let out a soft cry. 

The sound shoots straight to his growing member—and he is reminded just how lonely he is from these duties as a god. Just how lonely it is at the top. 

He is hard between his legs, and you are aware of it, too, because you boldly move your thigh to slot between his. The first brush of you against his clothed cock, and he lets out a low, satisfied groan that makes you shiver. You are encouraged, it seems, by the sound to keep going, rubbing against his bulge and creating that sweet drag from the friction. 

It’s so good, he thinks deliriously—so, so good. He feels the way blood rushes to his cock, the way it makes him ache with how he swells, and then there is a jolt of something so pleasant and mind-numbing when there is pressure against his girth. 

Morax has been alive a long, long time. Longer than some of the mountains and trees shape Liyue, and longer than some of the villages that make up the nation for what it is. He is no stranger to pleasure, and he is no stranger to what it feels like to grind against something when he is fully hard and aroused.

But he is a stranger to carrying affection for the person responsible—at least, affection of this kind. So he groans, loud and uncaring in a way only someone inexperienced might, and you seem to find pleasure in that with the way you smile against his lips as you tilt his jaw and bring him back to your mouth and away from your neck. 

“My, my, harbor man,” you tease, “it’s as though you wish for the old lady to hear us from here. Are you trying to get her attention or mine?”

“A fine one, you are to talk,” he bites at your bottom lip, smiling smugly when you whimper, “you are touching me so freely out here in the open, where anyone may wander by and hear closely. Tell me, do you wish that they do? Perhaps you are even, dare I say, excited by the prospect.”

You stiffen under his arms before you give him a (weak) glare as you huff. “Alright then, you loathsome man,” you say indigantly, reaching behind you to open your door as you fiddle with the lock, “if you insist on doing this properly, then so be it.”

 Morax pushes you into your home as soon as that door opens. It shuts behind him, and he pushes you and pushes you and pushes you—keeps on going until there is a hard wall behind you, and something to keep you in place as he quickly closes the gap and kisses you again. 

You’re not mortal—he has known that as soon as he met you. How could he be considered the prime of adepti if he did not recognize his own kind? But here, under him, pinned and dripping and so pliant for him, he can smell it. The sweet, lingering scent of adeptal blood in your veins and the way it radiates off of you between your thighs.

(How kind the greater divine has been to him, if they are in charge of destiny, to grant him the luxury of developing these affections for a non-mortal. For someone who will not die in what is considered a small fraction of his time. He will have proper time with you—to explore you and this world that he will now live in as his new self if he allows it to be. And oh, how he wants it to be.)

“You smell sweet,” he grunts, “so ridiculously sweet, I wonder how I’ve held myself back all this time.”

“So you’ve been lusting for me for some time now, is that it?” you hum, and edge of cockiness to your voice. He smiles despite himself, exasperated. “What a shallow businessman you are, indeed. What, the meals didn’t satisfy your fill?” 

“Is it so wrong to hope for seconds?” he chuckles. 

Then he is crouching down, and your eyes widen as you register the loss of him against your upper half, pressing his heat against you. When you blink, looking down, he is already hooking a leg over his shoulder as he kneels between your legs, lifting your skirt and pulling your panties aside. 

Wet—you are, for lack of better words, fucking dripping down your thighs, and Morax is having simply a ball. He grins, trailing his nose along the wet trail along your inner thigh, inhaling the scent of you before pressing his tongue to get a taste of your essence. You let out a mortified, choked sound, squirming, and he tightens his grip along the plush of your leg.

“Don’t move too much,” he says lowly, “that is the agreement we are to have, if you want this.”

Evidently, you do want this—and badly, with the way you still immediately. He chuckles before pressing his lips to your clit, kissing it sweetly once, twice, a third time just to tease and swipe his tongue against the sensitive nub while you whimper. Your walls clench around nothing, and he hums in amusement at the sight. 

“You are a foul businessman,” you huff, “loathsome. You ought to hold your end of the deal, seeing as I am.”

“My apologies,” he grins wickedly. 

And then Morax latches onto you, hungry and thirsty and unwilling to be satisfied until he’s turned an inch into a mile, a drop into a stream. He sinks his tongue into you, tasting your sweetness and exploring between your folds. You whine, throwing your head back against the wall, gripping onto his shoulder tightly as your one knee, not thrown over his shoulder, buckles from weakness. 

He hums, pausing only for a moment as he says, “Put your full weight against me. I can take it.”

“But—” you try to protest, but he cuts you off. 

“I said,” he all but growls, “put your full weight against me. I can take it.”

Morax—Rex Lapis—the warrior, the god, who shaped mountains and slayed more gods than you could ever imagine existed. The strong, fierce divine being who could not be crushed by even the largest of boulders, and you are worried by the weight of your body. How laughable—how ridiculous. You hesitantly lean some of yourself on him, and he grips your thigh, digging his fingers into the meat of it as he pulls the rest of you in. 

You squeal—it cuts off into a high-pitched moan when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking while he rolls it back and forth along the swollen bundle of nerves. It’s a nice sound—the way you wail. He likes the way it makes him feel powerful. He almost wonders if there is more power now, when you are crying for the mercy of his tongue, than there is when opponents are crying for the mercy of his stone spears. 

His fingers sink into your cunt, feeling your walls close around his digits as he stretches you open—you are so tight. So impossibly tight, he feels his cock twitch between his thighs at the thought alone of sinking past them. He thinks for a moment about how warm it would be when you clench around his fucking aching cock instead of his fingers, and then he is groaning against your heat as he feels a wave of desire burn at the pit of his stomach. 

You seem to like that—you shiver at the vibrations he makes against you from the sound, and he hums in appreciation at that. His fingers sink deeper into you, pressing against the back of your walls until he feels you tense before humping into his hand and letting out a desperate cry when he hits a particular spot. 

So you like him there, he thinks. He can certainly do that. After all, a skilled fighter such as Morax is adept at pinpointing exactly where his blows will land. Striking his fingers is infinitely easier than striking large spears of stone or giant boulders, so his fingertips bully mercilessly into that sensitive spot over and over again as his tongue flicks back and forth along your swollen clit. 

Once, twice—and then you are rolling your hips into his face, completely abandoning your worries about him holding your weight (which he is taking exceedingly easily, thank you very much) while you come undone on his tongue, on his fingers, on his face. 

There is the wet essence of you smeared around his lips, partially on his cheek and his chin, sweet and sticky and delicious. Like a sweet sunsettia that he has devoured without care for having an ounce of shame. There is no shame in tasting you, he would argue—only a fool would savor his taste of this nectar instead of devouring it. 

He works you through the entirety of your orgasm, until you are quivering from the aftershocks and whimpering, squeezing your legs to get away from his hungry lips that stay latched to your cunt. 

“S’too much,” you whine, “s-stop.” 

(It’s a cute plea. He’ll entertain it for now.)

Morax is fucking throbbing between his legs. His cock is hard enough that he knows there is a wet patch on his pants against his crotch—he can feel the dribble of precum even before he has freed himself from the confines of the tight fabric. When he stands, keeping your steady with an arm around your waist, he is burying his face into your neck as he groans deliriously into your neck. 

“I have little patience, if not, little sanity left,” he says, voice gruff and low. “Tell me now if this is what you want because it won’t be long before I will be in no position to stop what you are starting.”

“You are starting this,” you have the gall to argue, even after he has fucked you so thoroughly with his fingers alone, “and I will finish it, so don’t even consider the idea of stopping—not unless you intend to be a coward.”

A coward. Oh? What a fierce, stupid little thing you are. He wonders if allowing yourself to have what you have always denied yourself the possibility of has made you bolder than ever. Maybe now, you consider the possibility that you may take as you please if what you wish for is right there in your reach. 

Morax, the god of Geo, has never been known for being a coward, and he will not start today. So he grabs you easily, bringing your legs to wrap around his waist as his hands dig into the plush roundness of your ass. 

“Which way to your bedroom, then?”

“Down the hall, first door to the left,” is all you can say before his lips are immediately on yours. That lip balm you use—the taste of it will drive him to madness. You will drive him to madness. 

When you are tossed onto your mattress, there is only a second’s interval he bothers to allow you to catch your breath before Morax is impatiently hovering over you. He is raking his eyes over your form hungrily. You, and that skin that he has committed to memory under the sun, and those delicate fingers that tend to plants and pull weeds that are now fisting the sheets. He is going to take you, sink into you inch by inch, and mold you onto his cock, and you are going to look beautiful as he does it. 

And when he is done, he will ask you if there is anyone else better suited to fuck you like that. (The answer, he is confident, will be no. No one could hope to fit you better than Morax himself—and you are only seeing one of his cocks tonight.)

Stripping you fully is easy enough—you are eager, very eager to shed your clothes, and even more eager to pull his own off of him. You marvel at the size of him—first his torso and the sheer broadness of him and his muscled physique, and then his cock and the thickness of him at full mast. His hands toy with your breasts, squeezing and groping as his thumbs roll over your nipples, and you impatiently gasp while trying to roll your hips lower to rub against his hard cock. 

You succeed for a short second—and that short second is enough to make him pause as the wet friction brushes against him. He shivers, lets out a low groan—and then whatever patience he had left snaps. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says bluntly, “and you are going to take me fully. Here.”

His finger draws a line against your belly where his cock lies flat against you, long and thick and fucking swollen with desire. Your breath hitches as his fingertip trails over his tip, right along your skin, and then you whimper as you breathe, “P-please.”

“Say it again,” he grunts. “Say please—I want to hear you want me.”

“Please, Zhongli,” you sob.

Morax, he wants to correct—for a tense, fleeting second, he almost does. He debates it, decides against it, and grits his jaw in frustration. Frustration that he can only be rid of if he sinks into those tight walls of yours, he’s sure. 

So he does. 

He grips your jaw, pulls you into a hot, searing kiss, and presses his tip to your entrance, rubbing along your folds, coating you in his precum while coating himself in your own arousal, and when—and only when—you are sobbing out an incoherent plea of how badly you need him, how hard you want him to fuck you, how deep you need him to be, does he sink into you. 

Because Morax is still Morax. And a god is still a god. He is to be worshipped before he will answer. 

“Zh-zhong—li,” you whine the latter syllable of his name when he sinks fully into you, fully bottomed-out and pressed into your wet, hot folds. You take him well, he thinks—so good and pliant and obediently accommodating for the less than humble size of him. 

(He did take his time preparing you, of course, but he isn’t one to skip out on giving credit where credit is due. You are good—so good. Good to him and good for him. He will reward you accordingly for it.) 

“Yes, yes,” he chuckles, “worry not, I will answer your little prayers.”

“You loathesome, arrogant man,” you hiss, still filled to the brim with him. And yet, that does not stop you from speaking so freely. He’s amused, really. 

“You certainly are not one to sweet-talk those whom you bed,” he notes. 

“And you’re not one to be humble with those whom you bed,” you argue back.

“No, I suppose not,” he laughs. 

And he will prove it to you, he is certain, that he deserves to be at least a little arrogant when he starts to fuck you. His hips pull back, almost fully slipping out of you, before he snaps them forward and buries himself all the way again, rolling and thrusting with a steady rhythm that angles the blunt head of his cock exactly against that same spot he found earlier. The stretch this time, of course, hits harder, hits spots his fingers couldn’t reach, drags along areas that he didn’t press into then. But he does so now, and you clench around him in response, welcoming him in, gripping him hard and tight and so fucking hot, his mind blanks for a second. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuck you’re tight.”

“Yeah, and full, too,” you whisper into his ear as his face buries into your neck, “feel that? I’m full of you—all of you.”

Oh. He’ll get you for that. Get you for the way you make him moan so shamelessly at your words, for the way he loses his rhythm a little and fucks into you a little more desperately, for the way you giggle as he twitches inside of you. 

He’ll get you, so he brings his lips lower, to your breast, and latches onto a nipple, rolling his tongue over it and sucking harshly so that your back arches into his touch when you feel it. 

“Indeed, I do feel it,” he murmurs, switching over to the other breast, not leaving one nipple neglected in favor of the other, “I feel how needy you are around me, squeezing. I can hardly move, you know—are you really that desperate to be fucked?”

“B-be quiet, you awful thing,” you hiss. 

He laughs. Chuckles as he finally lets go of your breast with a pop, before his lips are on yours. Kissing you, he finds, is the only thing that makes it even a little bit possible to lose consciousness of that tight, pleasant sensation of you around him. Kissing you is the only thing that could hope to distract his mind a little bit from you. Kissing you is the only thing that could be more important than this—than you, taking him, fitting him, and making yourself his just as much as he is yours right now. 

He snaps his hips faster, and you drink in the low groans he lets out just as much as he drinks in the high mewls you feed him. 

And when you cum again, erratically clenching around him as your walls spasm with the force of your second orgasm, he can hardly breathe as he feels his own high approaching. He tries—Morax tries, to his credit, to pull away and spill elsewhere, but you insist as your legs wrap tightly around his hips and pull him in closer, deeper. 

“Inside,” you babble, “p-please inside!”

“Are you…” He pants, head spinning and vision blurring as you squeeze around him yet again. He’s so close—and it aches so good. “Are you sure?’

“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry, still babbling away as you ride out the final waves of your pleasure. 

You finish, and Morax starts—the end of your orgasm triggers the beginning of his, like the ebb and flow of the tide, one wave retreating only for another to roll in and take its place.

Hot, thick ropes of his seed spill into you, and he tenses as the force of his pleasure crashes over him, hard and brutal and dragging him into the depths of some hazy, incoherent place in his mind where he can hardly breathe. Your hands are on him—distantly, he’s aware of that. One is in his hair, and the other is shakily gliding over his back, like you’re trying to soothe him while he’s gone—so far gone into the throes of pleasure. 

“Fuck,” he barely registers his own voice, “fuck—th-that’s…good.”

When he’s done—when his hips are finally finished rolling and give you a break from the extra stimulation, he collapses beside your body, and you instantly shuffle closer to cling to him, resting against his chest. 

He lets you—happily, he lets you. His arms are tight and wrapped around your body, and you are so close that he can feel your erratic heart right against his. 

“I don’t think this is what the old lady meant,” you mumble into his chest as you curl into his side, “when she said to keep me company.”

“I don’t believe she specified that this was what she didn’t mean,” he grins tiredly, and oh, you are so beautiful. So breathtaking when you are so small and vulnerable against him, and only him. “So we have not breached any agreements.”

“You are a bothersome businessman,” you yawn.

He chuckles, and then you sleep. 

────────────────────────

When dawn comes, he awakens you with a kiss to your temple, and a soft promise of, “I will return when time allows it of me, this I promise if you will be waiting.”

“I’ll be waiting, harbor man,” you mumble sleepily. 

He hums, presses yet another kiss to your temple, before he says, “Then we have an agreement.”

He is gone by the time you are properly awake, his clothes gone, and his scent lingering. The only proof that he truly was there, and that your mind is not playing tricks on you, is the simple qingxin he leaves on your bedside table and a note that reads, a flower that is not from your own fields, from a wandering businessman who hopes to evade incurring any further losses.

Perhaps time is not wasted, you think with a smile, if time is well spent. And perhaps Zhongli would not mind spending some of his abundant time with you. 

-- — --

Zhongli keeps his word and returns not long after that. 

And then he leaves, and then he comes back again. It goes on like that for some time. He never stays for long, but he comes and goes at least once or twice a month. For now, that is enough—you have a long life ahead of you, after all. What’s a few weeks to you? You can wait. 

The more he visits, the more thrilled Madam Lu gets, much to your dismay—and worse, the more he visits, the more attached the two seem to be with each other. You cannot spare yourself from her horrifyingly embarrassing words now and then, nor can you save yourself from his thoroughly amused looks as she says them. 

Zhongli, you think, could cut your long life span into a quarter of what it is at this rate. He starts every trip he makes, first, with a visit to Madam Lu—who, without fail, insists he stay for breakfast every time (and, of course, she does not have to insist for long because he agrees to her meals so easily), before sending you both off afterwards. Not without giving you a pleased, knowing smile as you leave, of course. 

You shoot her a glare before tugging Zhongli along by the wrist, hissing something like, come—before that old lady says any nonsense that will fry your brain. He chuckles every time, eyeing you with mirth, before following you without much argument.

In the time that you wait for his next return, there is news that the god of Geo has fallen. Rex Lapis is dead, they say. 

You are shocked to hear it—you are part adepti, after all. The Geo Archon is of your kind, and though you were never a devout worshipper, you have heard of the deeds he has done for your village, your people. You glance at Madam Lu as she sighs heavily, shaky and bony fingers watering her plants. 

You grab the watering can from her hand, and she lets you. 

“So much loss as of late,” she murmurs sadly, “how will people deal with so much grief, I wonder. At the very least, I hope they honor the lord well with a proper funeral.”

“I’m sure they will,” you hum, “after all, a funeral is for the living, not the dead—and the living cherish the Geo archon well, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’ve spent an awful long time with that funeral consultant,” she grins, eyes gleaming with excitement—with a certain glint that tells you she knows more than you’d like. “When is he next returning, then?”

“I’ve not a clue,” you huff, “he’s a busy man. He’s no reason to come spend all his free time here.”

You walk off, swiftly crossing over to another side of her garden to water flowers a distance away, but Madam Lu already has heard what she wants to—what she needs to. 

“Not a clue, hm? So you do expect him?”

“Leave me alone, you nagging old lady!” you hiss over your shoulder. She only laughs, and even if it’s at your own expense, you are glad to finally hear the sound from her. 

-- — --

There is much to catch up on with Zhongli the next time he comes—the most current update of the Geo Archon’s passing at the harbor, the investigation and the controversy surrounding it, the rite of parting he is handling on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor with the aid of some wandering traveler passing by and her odd, floating companion. 

You listen closely, feeling an unfamiliar, unsettling weight on your chest as he tells you about all the progress she has helped him make with the many, many ceremonies. And by contrast, there is little to tell him—nothing more than the idle gossip the older women conjure up in all their free time in the village, or the disagreements there have happening between merchants who purchase and transport the crops you grow and sell here. 

He tells you of all the knowledge he has on Liyue and its history, on its late Archon, on all of the duties he is so graciously carrying out, and you listen with interest—you do. But there is still an acrid taste lingering on your tongue as you swallow down his stories. 

“This traveler friend of yours,” you mutter, “she seems very capable—what a stroke of luck it is that she’s helping you.”

“Yes,” he agrees easily. You are self-aware enough to know that there is a pout on your face—you cannot help it. And he chuckles as soon as it curls onto your lips. “Why the long face?”

“I’ve no long face, you bothersome man,” you huff, “this is my everyday face. You don’t like it?”

“I like your face enough to tell it apart from your everyday one and your sulky one,” he teases with an amused smirk. 

He enjoys this, you realize—enjoys the way you are…well, what are you, exactly? Jealous? Insecure? Bitter? Or simply scared? Or are you everything all at once? You don’t know. 

When the shift occurs on your face, the one where you are deep in thought, he gently pulls you by the hand and laces his fingers with yours as he walks up to your home. You are pressed against the door—and suddenly, you are getting deja vu from very different yet similar times where you were pressed against this very door by this very body.

“There is no need to sulk,” he murmurs. 

“I am not sulking,” you huff.

“Well, in that case, if you were,” he laughs, “then there would be no reason to. I’ve come to keep you company—it was an agreement I made, after all. I am a businessman of my word, you see.”

Your chest is lighter as you look up at him with a small grin, and when he kisses you, you let him back in past your doors again, and into your bed. And you afford him some of your abundant time, just as he affords you some of his. 

You’ll tell him, you think to yourself as you free his cock from his underwear—he groans when your hand wraps around him, and you watch the way his lips tug between his teeth as you stroke him slowly. You’ll tell him that you’re not just a mortal, just like he isn’t either, and that you have plenty of time to spend with him if he’ll spend it with you, too. Time that won’t be a waste.

“You can go faster, you know,” he says tensely, chest falling and rising rapidly as he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you shift on his lap, looking down at the way his girth makes your hand look so small. You marvel at the weight of him in your hold, giving him a small squeeze, teasing your thumb along his slit as he leaks pre cum, and he throws his head back with a choked gasp. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, “then this will all be over before we’ve begun. Surely, you have better patience than that.”

“I don’t see you enough to have much patience,” Zhongli says flatly, unimpressed by your teasing. Still, he lets you have your fun, as much as it seems to pain him, sitting patiently under you while he waits for you to get him off. 

You kiss his jaw, his chin, his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, before finally moving your hand again, gently squeezing around the tip with every upward tick of your hand. Zhongli likes it that way—you’ve learned that when you touch him with the intention of making him cum, he likes it when you squeeze at the tip and when you slow down when he’s close and drag it out a bit longer, even if he might complain. He likes showing off his stamina—for such a polite and polished man, he can be a bit of a show off when he wants to be. 

You watch as his face slackens, as it morphs beautifully into that look of raw and pure pleasure. You admire the way he bites his lip and parts his mouth and says your name when he feels particularly good. You admire the way he looks when his abs clench, his hips buck, and his brows crease when he’s getting close. 

“You came to spend time with me,” you murmur against his cheek as you nuzzle your nose into it, kissing it softly. “Right?”

“Yes,” he pants, giving you a flat look even despite the way he is teetering so close to the edge, so worked up. “Of course I did, or do you think I let just anyone touch me so freely?”

“Just making sure,” you giggle. “Businessmen are known for being greedy.”

“I think the real greedy one is you,” he breathes. 

You kiss him softly, quickening the pace of your hand, and with a twitch of his cock, he spills into it. You drink in the low moans and gasps he lets out as he cums, smiling when he croaks your name in between ragged breaths. It tastes so lovely when you drink in the sound of your name from his tongue. So sweet and decadent and rich. 

“I’m the only one who waits so patiently for you, you know,” you peck his lips as he catches his breath when he’s finished coating your hand with his seed, “so you should only keep me company.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is that the new term of our agreement?”

“Yes,” you huff. 

“Well, as I said, I am a businessman of my word.”

“Good.”

You’ll tell him, you think resolutely. Soon, you’ll tell him the truth of who, of what, you are, and perhaps he will tell you the truth of his in return. And you can continue to spend more time in abundance together, you can finally stop wasting your days and simply passing them by—they’ll have meaning soon. 

────────────────────────

“Qingce village was ruled by a terrible god once,” you murmur to him one day, “or so the legends say.”

Morax feels your fingers trace aimlessly along his bare chest. He breathes steadily under your wandering little digits. For a moment, he tries to decipher what pattern it is you are tracing into his skin. He comes up with nothing. Another intricate design on the cloth that is mortality, he thinks—such seemingly frivolous acts of touch. Shapes drawn without thought, wandering lines with no meaning in mind, and yet they are not meaningless at all. There is something tender in it, regardless. Affectionate, perhaps, and expressed by the small comfort of touch alone.

He wonders if such things will become natural to him if he tries his hand at this life for long enough. They are natural to you—and you are far from mortal. He knows you are, even if you don’t tell him. Surely, if it were possible to become natural for you, then there is no such thing as impossibility for him. 

“Ah, so you are familiar with the legend of Chi,” he murmurs, “though I suppose it’s to be expected of someone who was raised in this village.”

You pout, gaping at him in shock. He smiles at the sight. “Is there anything of Liyue’s history you don’t know?” you huff. “Just when I think I can teach you something.”

He chuckles at that—you feel it rumble under your cheek against his chest where you lie. The deep, fond sound alone washes away any lingering trace of irritation you had just a moment prior. “Very well,” he hums. “Teach me.”

“You already know the legend,” you point out flatly.

“Teach me anyway,” he insists. “Hearing the same story told by numerous people is advantageous still. One comes across many different viewpoints, you see.”

“You still talk like an old man, huh?” You snort. “Imparting life lessons one after the other—I suppose working at a funeral home and seeing so many losses has all but turned you into one.”

“A terrible fate,” he says mildly.

You huff again, though there is little heat left in it. Your fingers continue their idle wandering over the warm expanse of his chest as you begin.

“Well,” you say, “the people of Qingce say there was once a great demon called Chi. Some sort of dragon-like creature that forcefully took over this place. They say he was powerful enough to challenge the gods themselves.”

Morax listens silently beneath you.

“But he was defeated,” you continue. “Slain by the Geo Archon long ago. Afterward, his body was broken apart so he could never rise again. Each of the parts was sealed away in different places—hidden in the mountains and fields around Qingce so that none might gather them. Rex Lapis even taught the people of Qingce Village to make Geo statues to crush the Chi’s remaining power.”

Your fingertip traces a slow circle over his sternum as you think.

“Oh—and the villagers say those ruins scattered around Wuwang Hill? Those are the seals. Old mechanisms the Archon left behind to keep Chi’s remains locked away. If they were ever undone…” You pause, wrinkling your nose faintly. “Well. I imagine that would be rather bad.”

“That would be a reasonable conclusion,” he murmurs.

“And the old stories say the people of Qingce protected those seals for generations,” you go on. You tilt your head, glancing up at him. “That’s why the village values its stories so much. They’re not just stories. They’re warnings told through traditions, you could say.”

His gaze lowers to you.

“An admirable tradition,” he says quietly. “I did not realize the people of this village looked at it that way.”

Your finger pauses against his chest as you beam. “Ah, so I did teach you something.”

He smiles faintly—fondly. Yet there is something hollow in his eyes as he says, “Yes. You did. You’ve taught me quite a lot more than you realize, you know.”

“How so?” You raise a brow, reaching over to poke the tip of his nose. “I taught you the joys of bedding an easy woman, is that it?”

He laughs at that, bright and warm as his arms tighten around you. There is something akin to affectionate exasperation in his expression as he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.

Your breath hitches at that. He notices it so easily. Morax notices so much about you. He cannot afford to give you such physical affection as often as he’d like, given how little you see of him. He holds these small, fractional moments close to his heart the same way you do, as well, whenever they come—they are few and far between, after all.

“You have taught me the joys of sharing a bed,” he agrees, pinching your hip teasingly (and he makes sure that he is rather careful to remain gentle, too), “the joy extends elsewhere, too, however. Not just the bed.”

“Mister Zhongli,” you gasp, “dare I say a businessman such as yourself has turned sentimental on me?”

“Ah, yes. A most strange development indeed,” he plays along, shaking his head in amusement. 

────────────────────────

When you awaken in the morning, your bed is empty. Zhongli has already made his departure for Liyue Harbor. Before disappointment can claw its way to your chest and make you bleed, however, you pause as you sit up and look to your bedside table. 

A single qingxin is laid carefully there, waiting for you, along with a single coin of mora. 

You smile to yourself—time is not wasted. Zhongli will afford you more time. 

-- — --

The next time you are visited by Zhongli—or rather, this time you suppose it would be more accurate to say he hunts you down—he is desperate to touch you. You have never seen him this way.

You are tending to the crops when you notice him striding toward you across the fields, his pace unusually hurried. You straighten, brushing dirt from your hands as a smile pulls at your lips.

“Back so soon?” you call lightly. “Don’t tell me your bed was so lonely you had to come all this way just to see—oh!”

He catches your wrist before you can finish, his grip firm but not painful, and immediately begins pulling you along behind him.

“Zhongli—?” you protest, stumbling once before matching his pace. “Where are we—?”

He does not answer. Instead, he guides you away from the fields, away from the paths the villagers usually take, toward the rocky edges of the mountains that loom behind Qingce village. The ground grows uneven beneath your feet, tall grass giving way to weathered stone and uneven ground. There is a small opening for what seems to be a cave of sorts at the base of the mountains, and he leads you inside. 

You recognize the place soon enough. And then your eyes widen.

“Zhongli,” you hiss, tugging slightly at his hand as he finally stops inside the cave. Moss-covered stone walls and old mechanisms greet you, and you shiver just from looking at them.

The ruins. The seals. This is one of the places, you are certain—one of the places where, according to the stories, remnants of Chi still lie, dormant and fragile.

“What are you doing?” you whisper sharply. “We cannot—” Your protest cuts off when he pulls you close. The movement is sudden enough to steal the breath from your lungs as his hand finds your waist, and his other settles against the back of your neck. “Zhongli—!”

Your words dissolve the moment his mouth finds yours. It is not the slow, measured affection he usually affords you. This kiss is urgent—desperate, almost. He pulls you flush against him like he fears you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.

For a moment, you are too startled to respond. Then you melt and kiss him back. Then, when your senses return, your hands brace instinctively against his chest as you pull back just enough to stare at him.

“Have you lost your mind?” you whisper, scandalized. “We cannot do such…such indecent things here!” You gesture vaguely toward the ruins around you. Of all places. “Do you not see all this around us? This has to be where the seals are, Zhongli!”

He does not release you. If anything, his hold tightens slightly, amber eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your irritation falter.

“I am aware,” he says quietly.

You sputter at how calm he seems to be. “That does not make it better!” 

But he is already kissing you again, slower this time, though no less needy. His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist as if grounding himself. The mountains around Qingce stand silent, but it feels strangely like the ancient stone is watching over the two of you.

You are weak to Zhongli, however. Not even ancient deities and the thought of awakening them to wreak havoc on your home is enough to change that. He presses you against the hard wall of stone, and you let him, angling your head so he can kiss your neck.

He hums in appreciation. “Allow me to make it better then,” he tells you. And your resolve crumbles instantly.

────────────────────────

Morax knows exactly what sleeps beneath this place. After all, he is the one who sealed the parts of Chi away all those years ago. And his memory is exceedingly good—he does not forget such things so easily. In fact, he does not forget them at all.

He also knows what is coming to Liyue.

Soon, the sea will rise, and soon, an old god will stir. Morax knows what such god lies beneath the seas, pinned by his own stone spears. Osial has never been anything short of a tyrant—he remembers those days well. How tall and unforgiving the tsunamis were, and how easily Osial tormented the mortals of this land with such harsh waves, all for the sake of his own gain. The people of Liyue will not suffer at the hands of such shameful deities. Whether it is because they have fended off this threat alone or because of Morax himself, he will have to see soon enough.

But oh, how Morax longs for the day that he will step away from this role he has carried for millennia. How he longs for a time when he is nothing more than a wandering man in the streets, living peacefully among his people in bliss. And how he longs for the simplistic joys indulged in by the lifestyle of mortals—of affection and delicate touches and fond smiles.

So he kisses you again—because in this moment, with your hands fisted in his coat and your breath catching against his lips, he needs to know that choosing this life will be enough. That stepping away from being a deity, should his people succeed, is a proper choice and not a foolish mistake. Morax is not known for being a fool. He is a wise god and a capable fighter. He has led his people to prosperity, and in return, he is worshipped sacredly by the people of Liyue.

Morax does not make mistakes. Not when his decisions involve Liyue.

But then he wonders—what god leaves his people to fend for themselves during an oncoming disaster? A disaster that they are unaware of is on the horizon, no less. What god would step in only when his people are at the brink of defeat, and not simply from the beginning to ensure they are always guarded? That is his role, is it not? And such roles surely do not expire, do they?

But erosion has chipped away at his heart of hard stone—until the unyielding bedrock of it has worn thin, leaving something far more fragile beneath.

Morax, after so, so long, yearns for a life outside of what he has always known. What he has fought and slain countless divine beings for. What he has always thought to be his fate forever. 

You break his kiss once more, breathless. And he, when you gently cup his cheeks with those tender hands, feels weak to his knees in a way he has never felt. The Geo Archon called Morax has never felt weak. (What a laughable choice in word, in fact. And yet…that is the unbearable truth. You have weakened Morax—far more than any erosion is capable of doing.)

“I still think this is a terrible place to do this,” you mutter weakly.

His quiet laugh brushes your lips. “Noted.”

And yet he does not move away. If anything, he makes sure to settle his hands more firmly at your waist, drawing you closer until there is scarcely a breath of space between you. 

“You are impossible,” you murmur, though, he notes, your protest lacks conviction now. Your fingers remain curled loosely in the front of his coat, as though you have forgotten to let go.

“Am I?” he hums.

You open your mouth to retort, but the words falter when he leans in again—not quite kissing you this time, but close enough that your breath mingles with his. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, searching your expression with intensity. He finds exactly what he is looking for—want, need, desire. Love, dare he say. 

Do you love him? Morax knows he has grown to love you. You have taught him what it means to be human, after all—or at least live like one, and he has never wanted to live like a human more than he does now in all of his long, endless life. 

“I know you are aware how dangerous this place is,” you scold him softly.

“Mm.”

“That should concern you.”

“Perhaps.”

You huff faintly, glaring. “You are not taking this very seriously.”

Something warm flickers in his eyes at that—at the way you so easily make his heart squeeze with something as simple as an expression on your face. Everything he has sought you out for has fallen into place. You are the clarity he has searched for. His people will prosper, he thinks—a new age of Liyue has grown for years now. The age of the mortals. No longer do they need him to guide their way of life, and perhaps…perhaps Morax can take his place alongside them. As an equal and not a deity. 

And perhaps he can take his place alongside you, as well. 

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you a fraction closer, until your body presses fully against his. Your breath catches.

“Zhongli—”

Your warning dissolves when his lips find the curve of your jaw instead, slower now, lingering in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. The sensation steals the rest of your protest before it can form.

“You said this was a dangerous place,” he murmurs softly against your skin.

“Yes,” you manage.

“And yet you have not left.”

Your fingers tighten slightly in his coat. Your heart pounds traitorously in your chest.

“Well,” you say, attempting dignity and failing somewhat, “that is because you have not given me the opportunity to.”

A quiet chuckle rumbles against your throat. 

“Ah,” Morax says gently. Then his hand slides higher along your back, and the rest of your protest fades into another kiss. “Alright then.”

He steps away. Your fingers tighten their clutch along his coat for a moment before letting go, and you stare at him incredulously. Like you cannot fathom that he has pulled away. 

“What—”

“Go on then,” he challenges. Rather smugly, too—Morax is a god, sure, but he is not without his own flaws. He remembers his less-than-humble days during the era when he was a much younger deity. “You may leave if you so desire. I won’t stop you.”

“You are a loathesome man, you know,” you grumble. And then you pull him back in, and he hums in satisfaction against your mouth. You kiss him—just as desperately as he does, and this is how Morax knows that his place has changed. 

His place is no longer on the throne of the divine, watching and guiding a nation that has evolved to survive without him. No, his place is here. With you. Where you will make his old, aging heart feel young and new again, learning and experiencing the joys of a life he has never thought possible for himself. 

“So you’ve said,” he murmurs in between kisses. 

His hands work at the bottom of your skirt, gently lifting it to trail his fingers at the thin hem of your panties. He slowly pulls them down along your thighs, just midway, and enough to expose your heat to allow his fingers to sink in. And sink in they do, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around his digits. 

That familiar scent of yours invades his nostrils—that scent that he finds he can no longer ignore. 

“...You are not human,” he says thoughtfully.

You freeze. For a moment, you simply stare at him, utterly incredulous, breath still uneven and labored from his fingers working your folds apart, pressing into your deepest, most sensitive parts. 

“Y-you…you cannot possibly be bringing that up right now.”

Morax’s expression remains maddeningly calm. “I felt it best to confirm.”

“Confirm?” you repeat, aghast. “You choose now to confirm?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you, clearly referencing the rather compromising position he has put you in. His thumb brushes idly along your hip as though he does not find the timing nearly as outrageous as you do. You glare at him for that, and Morax is all too pleased by your expression. 

He only smiles in amusement. 

“I have known since the beginning,” he says.

Your eyes narrow. “…You have?”

“Yes.”

“And you are only saying something now?”

“It seemed the appropriate moment.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “This is the least appropriate moment imaginable!”

You are just adorable, he thinks as a chuckle escapes him. “I happen to disagree.” 

And then, because Morax cannot help himself, and because he has decided that leaving his divine duties behind means that he can allow himself a moment or two to be utterly distasteful, he thrusts his fingers into you faster, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow circles. He watches as your mouth falls open, a soft, ragged moan tearing from your lips as you breathe his name. 

“U-unbelievable,” you stutter, “have—oh, fuck—have you no sense of shame?”

“You are half adepti,” he continues calmly, with his fingers still inside of you. “It is not difficult for one such as myself to recognize.”

“Oh, is it not?” You glare at him between your panting.

“No.”

You squint up at him. His fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot in the back of your walls, and your eyes flutter shut as you let out a long, wanton moan. Then, slowly, your eyes blink open. A faint, unimpressed smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

“Well,” you say breathlessly, “that makes two of us.” His brow lifts a fraction. “You think I h-haven't figured it out by now? You—ngh—are n-not…human either, Zhongli.”

For the first time since this conversation began, he actually pauses. The pace of his fingers in your cunt does too, and for that, you give him a hard glare as you whine in protest. But he cannot bring himself to care. 

“…Oh?”

You snort softly. “Please. Your eyes glow when you use elemental energy. Humans do not do that—I had my suspicions you were also some sort of adepti.”

A quiet laugh escapes him then—low, warm, and thoroughly entertained. “How perceptive,” he murmurs, “I did not realize you noticed me so closely.”

You huff, flustered. “And for the record,” you add dryly, “most people would have this conversation before putting their hands where yours currently are.”

Morax hums thoughtfully at that, resuming his earlier movements along your folds. “…Duly noted.”

You cum on his fingers not long after, and once you have just barely caught your breath, he pulls you into a deep kiss. 

Morax, despite all the growth and wisdom he has accumulated in his…well, thousands of years' worth of growth and wisdom to accumulate, still has his moments where he is nothing but an arrogant, cocky bastard. 

And that is exactly why he is going to fuck you here, in these ruins, where there is a god laid to rest. A god that could easily awaken if these ruins were to be tampered with too carelessly. He needs to see it for himself—as fucking pompous as it is—that he has done an undeniably good job at his duties. That he can disrespect a god by fucking the woman of his affections in their ruins, and still risk nothing. Still worry not one bit about the safety of his people. Still exist and live his life exactly as he wants it now—with you and only you, and not deal with the headache of a threat. 

“You always take me rather well,” he murmurs, groaning as he pulls his fingers from your cunt, as your pussy flutters around the digits while he unburies them from your heat. 

He means it when he says that—you always do. You take him in so easily, so effortlessly, so readily. Of course, he’d like it if he could take you properly here—and if he could have it his way, he’d strip you completely, pin you against this wall, fuck you from behind as he glares smugly right at the vault that holds Chi’s spirit, and make you cum before he fills you to the brim with his seed so you can walk out of here with the evidence of his accomplishments. 

But he doesn’t have that time nor patience, and something tells him that being that zealous would perhaps break you from your own need-filled trance and force you to draw the line. 

He doesn’t want that. 

He wants to feel you—he wants to watch you fall apart on his cock, feel himself fall apart as he kisses you senseless, and then leave knowing that he’s making the right decision for the right reasons. 

You are his reason. And you could never be a mistake. 

And now, with the fact that neither of you is a mortal acknowledged and out of the way, he can fuck you how he really wants—with both of his cocks. He pulls his own slacks down just enough to free two hard, aching cocks, giving one of them a few slow strokes and gritting his jaw as his breath grows labored, before staring down between you both as he brings the tip to your entrance. He watches as his tip sinks into you, disappearing with the slow press of his hips forward. This much, you’re familiar with, of course. 

What you’re not familiar with is the second hard, curved length that mirrors the one buried inside of you. Your eyes widen, and you stare at it in awe—maybe, dare he even say, a little bit of fear that shoots right to his crotch and makes his second length twitch. 

“Two…?” You breathe out, “what—”

“Surely this much is not hard to believe if you know I am not a mortal,” he chuckles lowly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you quiver beneath him, itching for him to move already as he stays perfectly still while buried to the hilt inside of you. 

“But…th-they won’t…they can’t both fit,” you breathe out in alarm. 

Morax laughs—low and smug and amused enough that you fix him with a sharp glare as you flush under his slightly egotistical gaze. 

“Maybe not today,” he agrees, “but I know you’re good—good for me, good at taking me. With a little patience, I think you’ll handle them just fine, don’t you think?”

You shiver, swallowing thickly as you stare at his second, well-endowed arousal before slowly nodding in a trance. Morax grins—because of course, of course, you would be so perfect for him. So pliant and easy to agree to his whims and requests, with how plainly good you are to him. And he is, as he always has been, a generous, giving deity, so he will reward you well for it, as he always does. 

For now, though, he focuses on gently grabbing your hand, bringing it to the cock that isn’t pressed deep into your dripping cunt, and watches as you instantly, obediently make a fist and wrap your hand around him, slowly stroking just the way you know he likes. You’ve done this plenty of times before, but he never gets used to how well you know him—how easy it is for you to do all the right things and touch all the right places in all of the right ways and make him feel so fucking good. 

“Fuck,” he curses, “you have always known too easily how to drive me mad, you twisted woman.”

You huff, using your free hand to tug him close by his jacket, pressing his forehead to yours, “And you have always known too easily how to do the same, you loathesome man.”

That’s all it takes for him to decide that he wants you now. Needs to feel you good and proper. Needs to watch you as he sinks in and out of you, and watch as you struggle to concentrate as you pump the cock in your hand while the one in your cunt drags along your sensitive folds and presses deep into all the right places. 

The first roll of his hips, you hiss. The second, your jaw slackens, and you whimper his name. The third, you squeeze your fist around him without realizing it, and he feels his mind fucking blank for a moment as he feels the tightness of you around him—whether that’s your hand or your cunt—not once, but twice. 

Morax groans, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he snaps his hips and fucks you, and you mewl when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles mercilessly against the delicate, swollen bundle of nerves. 

“You—your company was a dangerous agreement to make,” he breathes against your shoulder, “do you realize that? How easily you have taken over my head. Every thought I have, every agreement I make, every contract I sign—it all reminds me of you. You, your smile, your annoying chilis, your stubborn words.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you argue. 

He chuckles, disbelieving and out of breath. You drag your hand up along his cock, squeezing around the tip before quickly dragging it down and twisting at the base—he moans. Loud and uncaring, giving that damn vault (the one with Chi’s defeated spirit, he likes to haughtily remind himself) a smug look because, well fuck—he can simply just do that if he pleases. And he does. And he will continue to. 

“No,” he hums—it comes out more like a low rasp. “No, I suppose not. I suppose I only think you are stubborn because you will not leave my thoughts, and perhaps that blame is on me to bear, not you.”

He snaps his hips once, twice, a third time—by the fourth, you’re already clenching around him as you come undone, letting out a soft cry of, Zhong…li!, while he chokes on the feeling of you squeezing so tight and so fast around him like that. 

Morax wants this life. You. The easy, simple knowledge that he can step down, spend his days freely with you, beside you, (and yes, perhaps in you, too), all without breaching the contract he has with his nation, with his people. He wants to tiptoe around your chilis, and leave qingxins on your nightstand, and tell you stories of Liyue’s history, and laugh when you are flustered by that old woman whom you love so much. 

He wants this easy, simple, mortal existence after so long. The one where affection and endearment are so simply woven into his being, where power is not the reason he is here, where wisdom is not the burden he must bear. He wants you and the life you make him fantasize about. And he wants it badly. 

As badly as he wants to cum and fill you up right now—and one final thrust of his hips, sloppier in pace now that he’s so close, and he spills into you. You pull him into a kiss, and he thinks about what it would be like to kiss you like this every day, and he feels himself spill onto your hand at the thought as you continue to pump him through his high. 

“You—” he gasps, cutting himself off with a low, needy moan, “you are the one I want to keep me c-company. Always.” 

You smile against his jaw at that, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he finishes riding out the last few waves of his orgasm before murmuring into his skin, “I’ll keep you company if you keep me company, too. Deal?”

“Deal,” he breathes, cradling your cheeks like you are gold as he brings your lips to his. 

And Morax, if his people pass this final test, he decides, will have his answer for good this time. 

-- — -- 

The crisis of Osial’s summoning ends not with the drowning of Liyue, but with its salvation.

The sea recedes. The waves calm. And the people—his people—stand victorious. From afar, Morax watches the harbor where mortals and Adepti come to a truce. He watches proudly. Watches in relief. Watches with a quiet ache, despite it all, as the end of his era as the Geo Archon is finally, after so long, solidified. 

And almost immediately after he takes care of the loose ends, he leads his feet away from the harbor and up the narrow paths toward Qingce village.

Toward you.

────────────────────────

You find him near the edge of the fields just as the sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky burns amber, turning the terraces gold. Zhongli stands where the path curves, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for some time.

You slow down when you see him.

“…You’re okay,” you say gently.

Zhongli tilts his head faintly. “I was not aware my well-being had been in question.”

You cross your arms. “Oh, forgive me for worrying,” you mutter. “There was only a sea god trying to drown the entire harbor.”

At the mention of the event, his gaze shifts briefly toward the distant horizon.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “So there was.”

You study him for a moment. Something is…different. Not in his appearance. Zhongli still stands as composed and elegant as ever—still in such fine silk, even with little mora to his name. (How he has such poor finances, you will never understand.) But there is a strange ease to him tonight, as though some invisible weight has finally been set down from his chest.

“You didn’t come all this way just to stare at the sunset,” you say eventually.

“No.”

“Then?”

He is quiet for a moment. Long enough that you begin to wonder if he may not answer at all.

Then he says, “There is something I have not told you.”

You snort at that. “Well, that’s not unusual,” you reply flatly. “You are a very secretive man.”

“This matter,” he says carefully, “is somewhat…larger than most. And not one I could evade in good conscience if…I would continue to pursue you in this way.”

That gets your attention.

Pursue you. 

You have not discussed the details of this…arrangement between you and Zhongli. Not outside of when you might next see him, or if either of you will be particularly busy in the coming weeks to meet at all. Hearing him say so candidly that he considers himself to be in pursuit of you brings a delicate ache to your heart—an ache of longing. 

You want him. All of him. And you have avoided asking him all this time if that might be a possibility for fear of losing him altogether—but he has handed you your desires so easily with one sentence—confirmed he wants it just the same as you do, even. That he has been seeking you out all this time and not just the familiar convenience of your body. 

You smile at the idea and look at him with bright eyes. 

“Alright. Pursue me properly then, Mister Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.” He winces at that title a little. Your brows furrow. 

“You are aware,” Zhongli begins slowly, “that I am not human.”

You blink at him like he has grown two heads. “…Yes. We have established that, or did you forget? And neither am I, so there is no need to be concerned that I would worry over something as meaningless as that.”

“That is not the issue,” he sighs. 

“…Okay,” you say slowly, a bit more cautiously now. “Then what exactly are we talking about here?”

Zhongli exhales slowly. “I…am Rex Lapis,” he says bluntly. 

You stare at him. Blink once. Then twice. And then you break out into a fit of giggles as you look at him incredulously. 

“No, you are not. What a silly thing to say—now tell me really what this is all about.”

“I am,” he insists, almost mildly offended.

“You absolutely are not.”

“I assure you—”

“Rex Lapis is the Geo Archon,” you interrupt, pointing vaguely toward the harbor far in the distance. “The god of Liyue. The one who—”

Your voice falters as you take a look at his face.

You know that face. You have studied it over the course of weeks. How it looks when it is sleeping and peaceful, how it looks when it is tired and glum, how it looks when it is bright and joyed, how it looks when it is lax with pleasure and need, and how it looks when it is painfully serious and honest. 

You know him. You know how to read him inside and out. How to tell when he is telling the truth or evading it altogether. You know him because he is yours—he has been for quite a while. And you know that he is being truthful. 

Your stomach drops.

“…Oh. I see. You are not lying, then,” is all you say.

Zhongli inclines his head slightly. “No, I am not.”

“Fascinating.” You nod slowly. 

“You are taking this rather well.”

“Let’s not be so hasty to assume—I am still deciding if I should throw something at you.”

“That would be understandable.”

You run a hand over your face. “Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You are telling me that the man I have been—” you pause and clear your throat, “—um…spending time with is actually the god of Liyue?”

“Yes,” he says easily. His eyes flash with a momentary fit of amusement. 

“Well, disregarding the matter of why the Geo Archon would be parading around as a representative of a funeral parlor—you thought it would be appropriate to mention this only now?”

“There were…complications.”

You stare at him. “Complications,” you repeat.

“Yes.”

You let out a long breath. Then you gesture vaguely at him.

“Well, go on then, Your Divinity. Explain.”

Zhongli does not react to the sarcasm. Instead, he looks out toward the distance. “For thousands of years,” he says quietly, “I have ruled Liyue as its Archon.”

You huff, “Yes, I am aware of the history.”

“But Liyue is no longer the nation it once was. Mortals have grown. They have built their own institutions, their own systems of governance. Trade flourishes without divine intervention. Contracts are honored by people who no longer require a god to enforce them.”

Your expression softens slightly. “Your people still have reason to need you,” you say, stepping closer, “there is no need to doubt your purpose as their god—”

“It is not about what they need,” he shakes his head, staring down at the grass as he sighs. “It’s about what…what I need. What I want. I have longed for ages now to know that I have done my duty. And perhaps rest this old, eroding soul of mine. Osial’s defeat has given me the reassurance that I may step down without worry.”

“So the sea god…”

“Was a test.”

You stare at him again. “…You let a sea god attack Liyue as a test?”

“Well, I was not the one to summon it,” he defends, smiling faintly with mirth at your bewildered look, “I was simply aware it would happen. But I was prepared to intervene if necessary.”

“Well, did you intervene?” You ask.

“No. I was pleasantly impressed to see the Qixing and the adepti handled it swiftly.” 

Silence settles between you again. Then you let out a soft, delicate sigh. “Well,” you mutter, “that explains things, I suppose.”

“Does it?”

“Only a little.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Erosion is not the only reason,” Zhongli says quietly.

You look back at him. “Oh?”

His gaze returns to you. “I have carried the role of Archon for millennia,” he says. “Longer than most living beings can even comprehend. And yet, in recent years, I have begun to wonder whether there is more out there to experience than simply being a powerful deity.”

“Being a powerful deity is no simple matter,” you scoff in disbelief. 

“No, it isn’t, I suppose,” he chuckles. “But, still, there are more things to experience in life—I learned that when I met you.”

You blink. Your chest tightens slightly. “Meeting me hardly seems that relevant.”

“But it is. You…” he says quietly, “your chilis and your flowers. Your laughter. Your skin under the sun. Your voice. Your stubbornness. You have altered my perception of what it means to be alive as opposed to simply be living. Even your scolding,” he hums with a pointed look, and an endeared smile. 

You pause as it sinks in properly who he really is, and how you’ve been engaging with him—and then, your breath hitches before you gasp in horror. “Oh—I insulted the Geo Archon.”

“Yes, it would appear you have. Repeatedly.” He gives you a slightly cheeky look as he says, “Some would consider that an unforgivable sin, you know.”

You cover your face. “I am never showing my face around you again.”

“That would be unfortunate.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “…Why?”

“Because I would miss you.”

The words are spoken so simply that it takes you a moment to process them. Your hands slowly lower. “What do you wish to gain from such easy flattery?”

Zhongli—or perhaps Morax, you should call him, maybe even Rex Lapis—meets your gaze, laughing softly. “I stepped down because Liyue no longer needs its Archon,” he says. Then, more softly: “And because I wish to live as a normal man. To walk among the people I once ruled. To learn their customs not as a distant observer, but as one of them.” His voice grows quieter. “To experience the small joys of mortal life.”

“You will not be mortal,” you scoff, “even if you step down.”

“But I can live like one,” he says easily. “There are many joys to the mortal way of life.”

Your throat tightens. “Is that so?”

“Yes. And I find,” he says gently, “that many of those joys seem to involve you.”

You stare at him. “Me?”

“Yes.”

You look at him a little longer—cautious, careful. You think back on all the little moments that led you here—that first damn day he came to your quiet, small village, stepping on your sprouting chili plants as he walked confidently in the complete opposite direction of where he needed to be. That easy, effortless way he’d helped your grieving heart fill the empty place left behind by Master Lu’s passing before you’d even realized something was missing at all. The kind, thoughtful way he spoke to Madam Lu and ate her cooking, talking with her like an old friend, like someone who understood her loneliness without her ever having to say it aloud. And that soft, delicate way he slowly made you realize that your existence, outside of this small, gentle village, could belong beside other people. That you, with your half-adeptal blood and that quiet, lingering sense of abandonment you had buried down all those years ago, could still be worth something to someone beyond the only place you had ever believed you were allowed to belong.

You love him—oh, you think, how you love him so easily and desperately and hard and deep and fierce. You love him with that mixed blood in your veins and that broken part of you that has always wondered, somewhere in the back of your mind, if you truly, really belonged anywhere at all. You love him because he keeps you company, and you love him because keeping him company is the easiest thing you have ever known how to do.

You want to keep loving him. When years and years and more years pass—ten, then twenty, then fifty, then one hundred—you want to love him still. And you want him to love you, too. You want to spend your long, endless days with him and watch time pass slowly and steadily at your side. He has so much of it to spare, and so do you, and you want to spend that time believing that not one day is a waste if you spend it together.

You love him, and you want to dare to believe that he could, after all this time, grow to love you the same way.

“This sounds like a confession,” you whisper. 

He looks at you with a small glint in his eyes. “I believe you could call it that, yes.”

“You are the former god of Liyue.”

“Yes.”

“And you are confessing to me.”

“Yes.”

You let out a long breath. It’s relieved. It’s joyed. It’s fucking exasperated and annoyed. “Well,” you mutter, “be that as it may, you have deceived me, deity or not. And any man who deceives a lady must make up for such egregious wrongdoings.”

A quiet laugh escapes him. “Then I will do that. I hope it will be satisfactory. Do offer me some leniency, if you will—I have only been living as a mortal for so long.”

You study him for a long moment. Then you sigh, stepping closer. “…You are still a loathsome man.”

“I have been told.”

“But,” you add reluctantly, stepping closer, “you are the loathsome man I have grown fond of, nonetheless.” 

He steps closer, too, invading your space so freely and easily, as if he exists simply to do that. Like it is his right to do so, no questions asked. He grabs you by your wrists, pulling closer and flush against him, pressing his forehead to yours as he studies your eyes. You love him, you think, oh, you love him so much, it could kill you—it could rob you of all the endless time that you have. 

And if he knows that, then he decides to spare your poor heart and your poor life span, too, as he murmurs, “I have fallen in love with you. Won’t you let this old, eroding man settle down in your company and pass his days in peace?”

You laugh (and it’s a watery little thing) as you shake your head in disbelief. “Say that again—and then I will believe you.”

“I love you,” he chuckles, raising a brow, “must I write it in a contract before you believe me?”

“I love you too, you loathesome, bothersome man,” you sob, “I’ll keep you company too if you stop deceiving me like the shady, untrustworthy businessman you are.”

He brings you into a deep, desperate kiss, cradling your face like it is the precious remainder of his long, endless lifespan pressed into his palms. You kiss back. It’s familiar. It’s new. It’s weird and odd and frightening, all at once—and yet, somehow, it is the most effortless, and correct thing that you do. 

“It’s a deal,” he murmurs, “yes?”

“Yes.”

-- — -- 

“Does that traveler girl know that you are Morax?” you ask against his bare chest, tracing your fingers along his skin. He is still catching his breath as he pulls your naked body against his, sighing as he gives you a look. Like he already knows where this is going. 

“Yes,” he says, warily. 

“So she knew before me, then,” you narrow your eyes. 

“Technically, that is the case, yes. But that is only because—”

“Perhaps you should seek her company, then,” you say petulantly, huffing as you dramatically roll away from him. 

Zhongli—after much questioning from you over whether he should be Morax now, or perhaps Rex Lapis, he has firmly insisted that this is the name you are to call him by—sighs as he takes your wrist and tugs you back against him. He gives you an exasperated look (and yet, despite it all, there is unmistakable fondness beneath it) before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Do not sulk.”

“I am not sulking.”

“And don’t be so stubborn all the time.”

“I’m not stubborn,” you say defiantly. 

He gives you a flat look. “Seeking out your company is not for the weak, is it?”

You give him a smug, bright grin at that—and you almost think you watch him fall in love with you all over again. “Get used to it, then, old man—you have a long, long time of my company ahead. And it certainly is not for the weak, you’re right.”

He laughs—low and warm and quietly endeared, but above all, certain. “Good,” he hums. “That is fine by me. I have always been known to be rather strong, you see.”

You curl into his chest, and he holds you close, and you and Zhongli have all the time in the world.

(And no—none of it is a waste.)

“Don’t wanna,” you persist, folding your arms across your chest.

Your lover swallows thickly at your words, body resuming to driving position and looking straight at the road,  “Alright. Have it your way,” he says, rolling the windows back up.

And for a second, you feel panic rising in your stomach, knowing that you do want to get in the car and be comfortable! Not to mention that you don’t know what time the next bus will arrive as you’ve been stuck in the shed for almost thirty minutes now, so getting inside his car seemed to be the most reasonable option. But Zayne just pisses you off at the moment. 

Until you hear him adjusting the shift gear and the slamming of the car door. Your eyes followed the sound and your gaze was met with Zayne’s hunched back, his left hand doing nothing from shielding his body from the rain, walking around the vehicle. Your hands fall to your sides as he reaches you under the shed and before you can even get a word out, he already has you over his shoulders like a rag doll and within a minute, you were gently placed in the passenger seat of his car.

You couldn’t even protest when he leaned over your space, “You can roll your eyes at me later but I need you to behave now,” he explains, reaching out to the seatbelt and fastening it to your side. “Because if you think I’d let your idiocy and pride win tonight, you must have forgotten who you are dating.” 

You immediately roll your eyes at his words. In response, Zayne presses his two fingers in your forehead, gently pushing it backward, “I said, behave.” 

He didn’t even give you a chance to reply as he is already closing your door and walking to his side. You fold your arms across your chest again, huffing a breath as you look at your window, watching the raindrops patter on the glass.

Within seconds, Zayne settles beside you, his hair and clothes damp from the drizzle. You take a peek of him from your peripheral vision, watching water drip from the tips of hair to his shoulders. As he fastens his seatbelt, you reach out to the glove compartment of his car, and toss him the box of tissues he keeps religiously.

“You’ll get sick,” you mumble under your breath, avoiding his eyes, insisting on staring at the bus stop shed you were under just a couple of seconds ago. And you know for a fact that Zayne’s lips slightly twitch upward in amusement at your attempts to care for him.

“Isn’t someone so caring?” He says, humor lacing his tone as he pulls the tissues, patting himself dry.

You let out a huff, almost sounding like a scoff, “Savor this moment, I guess. It won’t happen again.”

You hear Zayne tossing the tissues at his cup holders by his door, “And someone’s being a little moody too, huh?”

You ignore his comment, continuing to stare ahead at the window with your lips pressed into a thin line. Zayne, on the other hand, could still feel your frustrations and anger directed at him. He shifts the gear of the car and proceeds to accelerate slowly, deft hands carefully pulling away from the curb and driving through the familiar roads.

Minutes of silence engulfed in the vehicle, neither wanting to break the tension bubbling, afraid that it may lead into an argument again. But despite the uncertainty of the situation, Zayne could never seem to find himself staying in this predicament with you. And so, he softly exhales, “Would you like to explain why you were shivering in the rain earlier?” He almost whispers under his breath.

You huff, “I wasn’t in the rain. I was at the bus stop,” you mumble.

Semantics, he wants to say. But he holds off his tongue. “What made you decide to be sarcastic today?” He says playfully, which warrants another roll of your eyes, refusing to even face him.

“Because someone would rather defend an intern for unabashedly flirting with him than side with his girlfriend,” you grumble under your breath, enough for him to hear.

Your lover purses his lips, knowing only himself could be to blame for even trying to make the atmosphere lighter. He dug his own grave at that moment. His fingertips drumming onto the steering wheel as he recalls how the argument came about.

Earlier, Zayne just arrived from a gruelling 12-hour shift at the hospital, ranting about how he had sudden back-to-back emergency surgeries to take care of while he was pressing a kiss to your hair and simultaneously shrugging off his coat and lab gown. You hum in acknowledgment, telling him how you had already prepared him a nice warm bath in his stead. He sighs in appreciation, sluggishly dragging himself to the bathroom to submerge himself into the water.

And as he does so, you decide to clean up after him, picking up his coat and lab gown from the rack to toss into the laundry. However, the moment you sling his clothes in your arms, you manage to whiff a feminine scent deeply ingrained in your boyfriend’s lab coat. You were absolutely certain that it’s not one of your perfumes as you have never worn anything so powerful from the one that you caught and the fragrance seemed to be quite fresh, like it was sprayed prior to his clock-out at work.

Your mind spirals with all the possibilities. You were definite that Zayne would never… entertain another woman when he is in a committed relationship with you. You knew his character inside out and if he wishes to see other people, you knew deep in your soul that he’d rather tell you straight up than beat around the bush. 

You feel your surroundings spinning and your gut twisting at the thought that somebody is doing this to your lover. You take a moment to yourself, carefully sitting down at the couch as you continue to cling onto his clothes. As the seconds ticked into minutes, you barely heard the sound of the bathroom door opening and your boyfriend’s footsteps padding through the hallway of your shared apartment. 

“Darling? Why are you still not in bed?” He calls out, ruffling his hair with his towel.

“Zayne,” you say, and he visibly flinches at the tone of your voice and your lack of endearment. You refuse to look at him, your eyes staring straight ahead.

“Is something the matter, my love?” He asks, confusion written all over his face.

You swallow thickly, glancing up at him, “I need you to be honest with me, Zayne.”

His head slightly cocks to the side, “Is there a problem?”

“Your lab coat smells like a different woman,” you say straightforwardly, staring at him with a blank look that demands an explanation and almost begging that none of this is happening. Zayne scowls at your words, “What?” He muttered, taking the coat from yours and sniffing it. Once he caught a whiff of the familiar aroma, he visibly sighs, rubbing his temples and turning his heel away, “It must be that new intern in our department. She seems too eager to be working with me,” he explains in a flat tone, which would’ve been enough for you on a normal day. But for some reason, the gears in your head just turn. “You do not need to worry yourself over this. It’s nothing,” he continued as he placed his gown in the washing machine.

“Have you done anything to call her behavior out?” You ask, trailing behind him, the frown in your face deepening. Zayne clenches his jaw, pressing into the setting of the washing machine “Is it necessary?”

Suddenly, you felt the rage of all your female ancestors rising within you. “You’re asking me if it’s necessary?” You scoff, folding your arms across your chest, “You’re a smart guy, Zayne. What do you think?” You challenge.

Zayne exhales, “Darling, can I ask you to not do this right now?”

“I just need an answer,” you demand.

His face tightens and he sighs, “I do not think it’s necessary as she is just an intern–”

“Then what about me, Zayne?” You ask, cutting him off, “Are my feelings just… unimportant to you?”

You were certain that you were being a little too much right now, especially knowing that your boyfriend has fatigue creeping up on him after his shift. But there was something in you that felt the need to claw out answers from him, even if it’s in an unhealthy way possible.

“My love, I am serious. I would want to have this conversation another time, please,” Zayne calmly says, almost pleading, the weariness in his face growing evident. And instead of letting the subject go, you huff and walk away, “Fine. Have it your way.”

And being stubborn is one thing you know how to do. Because instead of wrapping yourself under the comforts of your duvet in your shared bed, you grab your blanket and pillow while Zayne is expectantly waiting for you to embrace him for the night and lull himself to sleep with your warmth beside him.

“Darling where are you going–?”

“I am not sleeping with you tonight. I am still upset that you did nothing to call her behavior out.”

You thought Zayne would actually trail behind you and ask you to stop being difficult, using his strength to force you back to bed. But he lets you grumble on the couch, settling yourself underneath the thin blanket that does nothing to warm you up. You toss and turn on the couch, desperate to catch some sleep and a comfortable position but to no avail.

Until you hear careful footsteps padding across the living which elicits a thought from you that maybe he will finally ask you to come back to bed.

You wait for his words as your eyes are screwed shut, pretending to be asleep. Instead, you just hear the front door of your apartment opening and closing.

And in your frustration and anger, instead of following him and asking him to come back home, knowing he just went to the hospital to continue working, you returned the favor. You decided to go to the Hunters Association and finish the paperwork you have been putting off since last week.

Which led you to your predicament of being stuck on the bus stop while the rain poured heavily from the skies.

The car was filled with another minute of silence and he’s finding the right words to say to his lover. In the first place, he was never good with verbalizing his feelings, so being in this dilemma makes him feel a little queasy, especially when this seemed to be the biggest problem you two have encountered as a couple so far.

As he continues to file through his brain on what to say, he decides on a simple thing, “I’m sorry.”

You ignore his words.

“You have every right to be mad at me tonight but all I ask of you is to sleep beside me later,” he said, carefully driving through the slippery streets.

“Bold of you to demand that when you just up and left without a word,” you grumble.

“I had to take care of things,” he replies calmly. And in your head, you were already screaming several sarcastic remarks and rolling your eyes until you were sure you could see your skull. But before you could settle in on a perfect comeback, he speaks up again, “It seems I wasn’t appreciating my girlfriend’s feelings enough that I had to let her go through that emotional turmoil.”

You bite your inner cheek, listening to his words. “And I hope she listens to me tonight and comes home because I have already dealt with a rather… nuisance of a trainee at the hospital. Only to find out from my lover’s colleague that she worked overtime and is shivering in the rain,” he says. 

Finally, you turn your head to meet his gaze, which has been glued the entire time on the road. “You did?” You ask, almost in a whisper.

He merely nods, “I could never live with the fact that you feel insecure in this relationship. It is my job to have you feel assured and safe. And if it meant driving back to the hospital to speak with the intern in the midst of her night shift, I would gladly do so.”

Your bottom lip juts out instinctively as you feel your heart swell in his words, “Zayne…” 

“Besides, I could also never stand living with someone so grumpy and hard-headed to the point where she’d let me sleep alone in the bed.”

“Hey!”

Zayne’s lips slightly twitch upward as he knows you only focused on the first words. The stoplight glows yellow then transitions into a bright red, opting your lover to pause his driving and turn to you, “Is the little grouchy girl finished with her tantrums?”

“I’m not grouchy! My feelings were valid, Zayne,” you huff.

Zayne suppresses his smile as he presses a hand to your cheek, “I know, my love. Your feelings were and are valid. I apologize if it seemed like I wasn’t prioritizing you.”

You release a small sigh, your lips slightly quivering upward at the feelings of his warm hands, “Okay. I’m sorry too, Zayne. I was being a little harsh and forceful.”

“Apology slightly accepted,” he replies, removing his hand from yours, placing it back on the steering wheel.

Your eyes fly open at his words, cocking your head sideways in confusion, “Slightly?”

“Well you do have to compensate me for spending the night chasing you instead of resting, dear,” he says, pushing his glasses upward. You narrow your eyes at him in suspicion as he slowly accelerates the vehicle again, “What kind of compensation?”

Instead of replying to you, his lips break out a wide smile and his right hand taps on his cheek twice while his eyes remain on the road, and his left hand maneuvering the steering wheel effortlessly (which makes you feel things but you ignore it). 

You raise a brow at him “Just a kiss on the cheek?”

Zayne remained silent. Thinking it was nothing, you shrugged and leaned forward, ready to press a kiss to his cheek. But before you can reach the skin of his cheek, he suddenly turns his head, urging you to plant your lips with his momentarily, causing your eyes to widen. He pulls away from the peck, catching a glimpse of your surprised expression with a smug smirk threatening to pull from the corners of his mouth. 

“Zayne, that was dangerous!” You exclaim, your fingertips ghosting over your lips while heat creeps up your cheeks. Instead of replying, your lover merely hums, continuing his drive like nothing happened, eyes glued to the road as he feels you beside him still recover from the fleeting kiss.

“At least I fully accepted your apology, did I not?”

“Even if it cost us our lives?” 

“I’ve already had her four times,” Sukuna grunted, “the brats insatiable.”

Toji snorted mid sip of water, eyes leaving the couch to instead peer through the half opened doorway to the bedroom, where he managed to catch only a glimpse of your bare leg through the crack. From the looks of it you were naked - splayed over the sheets, hair probably still a little damp from the shower, skin lacquered with lotion, half washed away with sweat by now.

“What, she ovulating or something?” Toji wondered aloud, lowering the bottle to once again catch Sukuna’s gaze over the metal rim.

The other man crossed his arms unceremoniously across his chest, and Toji watched the tendons jump in the winding muscle of his forearms as he shrugged.

“That or she’s in heat, damn near milked me dry.” He grumbled, brows knitted, working a mean line between them. If you were here you’d reprimand him for such an expression, crawl over the couch and run your thumb between his salmon brows until the lines wore smooth, or until Sukuna grew bored and wrapped a hand around your wrist to flip you onto the cushions instead.

Toji laughed then, the sound rough and graveled like tattered velvet.

“Seriously?” He scoffed, lips spread into a sly grin as he licked stray droplets from them, “had to tap out did ya’ Ryomen?”

Sukuna’s scowl only deepened, soured now with genuine irritation.

“Just be grateful I wore her out for you,” he spat, “and watch your tone, or it’ll be you spread eagle and whining for more cock next, Fushiguro.”

Toji chuckled again as he screwed the lid of his bottle on tight, the motion accented with a metallic ‘squeak!’ before he tossed it toward Sukuna, hard enough that he heard the fleshy impact when the other man’s hand shot out to catch it.

“Yeah yeah,” he mused, moving past the couch to instead push through the bedroom door, which creaked beneath the effort, “drink some fuckin’ water and get outta my way.”

If he were being honest, when he’d left for the gym that morning he’d been hoping for this exact scenario. Toji knew you - or at least your cycle - well enough to know that you’d wake up needy and leaking, and he knew Sukuna well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to resist the sight of you humping his thigh like a dog in heat for very long. So he’d left without a word just as the sun kissed the horizon, and he’d been half hard in his sweats since his second rep just thinking about it.

If the living room was warm, the air within the bedroom was stifling. But it wasn’t the heat or the sticky sweet scent that knocked the air from Toji’s lungs on entry, no. It was the sight of you - limbs splayed over the mattress, hair messed and wild where your head was tucked between the pillows. Your jaw lifted back far enough to expose the long column of your throat, giving Toji a stellar view of the dark sucking marks peppered there, indents of teeth that he was sure would melt into bruises by the evening.

Toji took in the sight indulgently - paused in the doorway, a lone hand already trailing its way down the curve of his stomach, teasing until his fingers curled over the bulge forming there. He squeezed once and shivered, reveling in the immediate relief that sizzled over his body like a splash of ice water.

He could feel the weight of Sukuna’s gaze piercing into the back of his skull like the promise of a snipers sight. He didn’t indulge the urge to peer over his shoulder and meet that heated gaze, instead he let his hand drop to his side and pressed a knee into the mattress.

You didn’t move, didn’t speak or even open your eyes when he crawled over the sheets, crowding your space like a panther sliding atop its snagged prey.

His hand met the curve of your waist, skin soft and warm beneath his palm, layer of sweat sticking you lightly to him. He trailed one hand downward over the curve of your belly, the other grazed feather-soft over the slopes of your breasts, pausing to pinch gently at either nipple, perked and willing in his hands.

“You’re soaked sweetheart,” he mused when his fingers finally dipped between your thighs, which gave way to him easily, spreading to make room for his forearm to slot between. He moved slowly, palming soft and teasing over your mound and listening to you mumble mindlessly below him.

You whined something unintelligible in reply, voice nothing but a high pitched whimper, crackled like shattered glass.

With a chuckle, he leaned down and craned his head until his ear rested level with your mouth.

“What’s that sweetheart?” He questioned, head tilted to listen.

You swallowed, hard and dry, and licked your lips before you spoke again. Another croaked string of words hit his ear, a touch clearer this time. He realized then that you weren’t mumbling gibberish at all, you were begging.

“More, more, need more, please ‘kuna, please jus’ one more…”

Toji chuckled and lifted his head back to study you again - he found your eyes still closed, brows now knitted into an expression that was decidedly desperate.

“Old Ryo’ couldn’t keep up, huh?” He mused, hands lifted from your body to instead press into the mattress either side of your head, leveraging the weight of him as he slotted himself properly between your thighs.

You offered a gentle huff in reply, eyelids feeling much to heavy to bother opening. Your limbs felt numb, tingling with residual little sizzles of pleasure.

“Don’t worry doll, ‘m here now.”

Toji didn’t waste time working you open or teasing you with the brush of his lips or gentle caresses, no. He simply slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it sideways. His thumb hooked over his waistband, tugged down to let his length spring free and slap hard and raw against you.

The sensation was enough to have his lips parting around a shuddered breath. You felt like heaven - like slick molten silk kissing each bumped ridge as he rutted through your swollen folds. You jolted when he shifted, hard inches rubbing over your clit, still singing with over stimulation.

He grinned and lowered a thumb to pet at your entrance, leaking slick and dribbles of what he was sure was Sukuna’s spend. He traced your rim beneath the head of his cock slowly, smearing the milky little pearls gathered there and wondering just how many loads Sukuna had managed to stuff inside you before he’d finally tapped out. The thought made his breath catch, and sent another sizzle of heat straight to his throbbing cock.

“C’mon, look at me now,” Toji cooed, watching the way any semblance of coherency on your face melted away when he finally pressed down, sinking inside with a single dizzying press of his hips - testament to just how soaked and used you really were.

It was enough to make your eyes roll behind your lids, fluttering with the delicious sting of being stretched open again. Toji treated you with shallow little thrusts. The hair at his base tickling your clit, thick veins pulsing against your rubbed raw walls where Sukuna had pounded you until you cried, until you bruised. And yet despite the pain, the ache - that needling little bud of desire still burned just as hotly as when you’d first awoken that day, stoking the fire in your belly and dribbling lava hot between your aching thighs.

“Oh, oh…” you moaned dumbly, lashes twitching as you finally lifted them and tried to blink away the layer of hazy film that had settled there. Your mind felt fuzzy, vacant. Drunk on the sensation of being stuffed utterly full once again.

“There she is,” Toji soothed.

“‘Ji, it’s you…” came your delayed greeting, nothing more than a breathy whine, “need’t cum, need to cum again, please…”

“Again?” Toji echoed in faux surprise, hips lowing to a torturous roll, “that’s a little greedy of you, don’t you think?”

“Incredibly greedy,” a distant voice interrupted, flat and deep and utterly serious.

Toji tilted his head back just enough to catch sight of Sukuna’s broad form filling the doorway, looking more like the hired security than someone who actually lived there. Toji peered through strands of ink black hair at the big hand that was beginning to dip beneath the waistband of Sukuna’s sweats, palming lazily at the considerable bulge there. Sukuna’s gaze was equally heavy and heated, lowered past the curve of Toji’s spine to track the way your hole was stretching around his thickness.

Toji swallowed, took a final glance at the sight of Sukuna beginning to work his length free from his boxers. His eyes stuck on the exposed slip of tan skin where Sukuna had tugged his shirt upward, the spatter of hair dusted there, before he turned his attention back to you.

“Haven’t even asked how my day was yet, and here you are begging me to make this needy pussy cum,” Toji teased, “and after Ryo’ took such good care of you too.”

“Please,” you cried, shaking your head furiously against the damp pillows crumpled either side of you, “please don’t tease me.”

“Aw I’m sorry sweetheart,” Toji cooed, voice dripping thick with mock concern, “you just need it real bad, huh?”

The delicate shallow thrusts he had been nursing you with suddenly shifted, turned to long pulls smacked back inside hard enough that you felt the tip of him kiss somewhere deep and delicate. Each buck had your legs quivering, and a sharp little shock of pain and pleasure in equal measure sizzling over your skin.

You were lucid enough only to know that he was moving, slow methodical thrusts that felt achingly tender. Each twitch of his worked muscle was purposeful, each motion entirely controlled and aimed to break you apart.

“Shh, just feel it. You feel me, right baby? Nice ‘n deep.” The words were sin incarnate, purred right into your ear.

You were nodding before you could think, slurring a string of unintelligible words alongside breathy cries of his name, strung together like a prayer.

“Deep… deeper…”

The scent of him was intoxicating, dizzying. The sharp sting of fresh sweat and his own familiar woody musk was enough to have you lifting your trembling legs just to hook a heel over his hip and tug him closer.

“Finally knocked all the brains outta you, huh?” Toji teased, “That’s alright, don’t need to think. Just keep squeezin’ this pretty little pussy around me, yeah?”

One of your hands fled the sheets to instead grasp at one of Toji’s bare shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there.

“Kiss me,” you panted, blinking up at him with wide wet eyes, blown black and glossy with need, “oh, hng-… please Toji…”

Toji didn’t bother with a reply, instead he simply dipped his head and captured your lips in a kiss so sudden you barely had the wherewithal to suck in a lungful of air before he was swiping any lingering thoughts away with the hot slide of his tongue.

You melted into the touch, letting the roll of his jaw guide your movements - moaning in surprise when his teeth nipped at your cracked lower lip, your grip on his shoulder tightening when his tongue met yours.

When you finally split apart you were sufficiently softened by the blend of his sweet kisses and the steady rock of his hips, brain humming quietly like the static of a tv set to a dead channel.

“Good?” Toji questioned, head tilting.

You just nodded, struggling to keep you gaze affixed on the inky strands of hair slipping over Toji’s forehead, that was until a sudden blur of colour crept into the edge of your vision.

“Oi, what are you?-…”

You watched, motion a little delayed, as Sukuna’s hand slid across the back of Toji’s neck. Toji’s eyes widened an inch, looking genuinely shocked for just a moment before Sukuna’s grip tightened, firm hand forcing his head upward until they finally met in a rough crashing of lips.

Peering up you simply watched, entranced, at the slide of pink tongue between sticky sweet flutters of your lashes. Eyes caught on the way Toji’s brows lifted and his hips stuttered just a little when Sukuna’s hand tightened into a fist at his nape, strands of silky black hair sticking wayward through his thick fingers.

Toji grunted into the kiss, rougher now - a tumble of teeth and tongue in stark contrast to the slow rhythm of the embrace you had shared. One of Toji’s hands curled over your hip, thumb mindlessly tracing the bone there. The other found Sukuna’s chest, grasping a handful of fabric before he was shoving the other man backwards.

You watched a glittering thread of spit link them for a moment before it split, and you must have clenched at the obscene sight because Toji made a choked sound above you, falling into the sensation a little like he were suddenly made of jelly.

“Fuck sweetheart,” he panted, lips glossed as he dug a fist into the mattress beside your head, “that’s it, just like that.”

His thrusts didn’t slow or soften, but they felt sloppier somehow, and when you blinked upward you realized why. Sukuna had stepped in behind Toji, plump chest pressed to his back, massive hand still curled around his nape, thumb rubbing soothing little shapes there. His head turned inward, lips pressed to the delicate little strip behind Toji’s ear, breathing so close you could see the speckle of goosebumps begin to prickle over Toji’s skin.

“C’mon Fushiguro,” Sukuna purred, quiet enough that you could barely hear the sweet syrupy words, “don’t get soft on me now.”

Dazed, you watched Sukuna raise a spare hand to his lips, thumb pressed against tongue beneath the glint of pearly canines before he reached past Toji’s hips and tucked it between your thighs. You jerked at the sudden contact, the searing heat of his slick thumb, calloused and rough and perfect against your abused clit.

“Bastard…” Toji gritted, breaths coming ragged now, panting between barely masked grunts of pleasure as his head dipped beneath the weight of the palm at his nape. His gaze was glassy, glued to where you were clamping around him, where your slick was painting the dark curls at his belly white.

Sukuna only grinned in reply, and you could hear the lazy glee lacing his tone with his next words, thumb still rolling over your twitching nub as you writhed beneath his touch.

“Go on now,” he rumbled, low and filthy over the shell of Toji’s ear, and you swore you felt Toji twitch in response. “make the pretty girl cum.”

You could feel it, the looming buzz of your orgasm, curling like the crest of a wave, hot and tight in your belly like the slow cinching of a knot.

“Close ‘ji…’m close,” you slurred, “gonna… hn!- ‘m gonna…”

“I’m right here sweetheart,” Toji was groaning now, shivering a little as the hand at his nape tightened once more. His thrusts were wild - wide sloppy pumps driven haphazardly into the slick mess between your thighs. Sukuna’s thumb continued its assault, drawing steady heart shapes over your clit, right above where Toji was busy splitting you open.

“C’mon princess,” Toji pleaded, words accented with a kicking throb that you felt all the way in your gut, “give it to me.”

You let your eyelids fall shut, squeezed tightly against the way your vision was beginning to blur at the edges. Senses dulled, sounds and scents becoming more and more distant with each second of rising pleasure until suddenly the knot snapped, and you were unraveling along with it.

Toji cursed somewhere beyond the numbed blackness of your senses, and alongside it you felt a flood of heat and the familiar twitching pulse of him as he filled you. Firm hands gripped your waist like an anchor, holding you in place as you squirmed against his final stuttered humps, wracked with unending wave after wave of white hot pleasure.

“Shh, that’s it, that’s a good girl…” Toji was cooing into your ear, forehead pressed to the pillow, only hair tickling your cheek.

The words were a salve, a balm smoothed over your mind until all that was left was the honeyed buzz of pleasure.

You sucked in a shaky breath and realized along with it that you were crying, cheeks soaked and salted with fresh tears. You let your limbs fall, limp and exhausted against the sheets. A subtle ache was beginning to settle in your muscles, in your bones, and yet beneath it all you still felt it - that itch deep inside, like an unending, desirous pit.

“More…” you croaked, voice utterly broken despite your pleading.

Toji scoffed somewhere above you - sounding equal parts shocked and proud at your incessant appetite. You heard the distant thump of approaching footfalls, followed by the telltale creak of a knee digging into the mattress before the bed was dipping beneath a considerable weight, and you felt Toji slip out with a slick sucking sound.

“Move Fushiguro, think I just got my second wind.”

────────────────

And you’re letting out such a sweet, sweet giggle - even sweeter than the linger of cherries on his tongue - before you duck underneath the table to help him pick them up.

Choso was already on his knees crawling after those damn cherries- and all it takes is a single glance at your face oh-so-close to his, in such short proximity, for him to jolt—and bang his head against the underside of the table. So hard that the glasses clink against one another, and Wasuke groans as he misses in his valiant cherry canons.

So loud that half the parlor stares at your little table.

“Oh no.” You’re reaching out in concern as Choso rubs his achin’ head. “Honey, are you-”

“I-I’m fine—!” Choso turns his face away - and the only things you could make out were the frames of his chunky glasses…and the burning red on the tips of his ears. Blushing. Though you’re not convinced, and once you get a little closer- he’s waving you off more fervently than ever. “I promise, I promise! I can handle it…babe.”

You quirk a brow - “If you say so, sugarplum.”

He almost jolts once more- too much…?

However, before you’re thrusting yourself once more into the stratosphere of emotional fathers (at least, one of them) and glowering uncles, you inch yourself closer to the nerve-wracked man - as quick as a flash. And then you’re pressing your lips to his right cheek—just a graze, just a peck.

But it’s enough for Choso to yelp-

And bang his head against the table once again.

“Easy there, tiger.” You’re giggling at him, “I need you in one piece.”

“N-need me…” Choso whispers to himself- perhaps thinking that you won’t hear.

And it’s a small mercy that you’re handing to him - pretending that you didn’t hear that. Instead, you’re throwing yourself back into your seat, and presenting your most-practiced smile at Choso’s eavesdropping family members. 

In little-to-no time, Choso’s popping back up and plopping all those floor cherries into Sukuna’s black coffee. The older man swears. 

Jin covers the seven-year-old Yuji’s ears.

And then your boyfriend’s excusing himself hastily to the bathroom. Leaving you alone with them.

Unsure how to proceed, there’s a few minutes of silence before you’re speaking first. “Quite the lovely place, isn’t it?”

“Yes- yes.” Jin snaps out of his little reverie—he’d been watching over your interaction with such unabashed pride. Such loving nosiness. Out of all the fathers of clients that you’d happened to meet, you think he might just be your favorite…He beams. “I’m so glad you like it, dear. I mean- the first girl that Cho’s introducing us to-”

“The only one.” Sukuna coughs.

“-I just knew I had to impress. I picked this one specifically because it advertised itself as a place that’s both family-friendly and open to coup-”

“So you met the wimp…how again?” Sukuna interrupts. And he ignores the look that Jin throws at him.

“Six months ago at university.” Choso’s finally finished up at the bathroom, within earshot of the table. He takes his seat right next to you. 

“I hope you washed your hands.” You whisper to him.

“Of course, I did.”

The two of you had already repeated this tried and true story at the very start of your introductions. And it was clear that Sukuna was fishing for something…more.

You make a show of reaching for Choso’s hand on top of the table—intertwining your fingers with his. They were fingers much longer and thicker than yours- that you might not have expected. The most sensual calluses from what you assume to be turning pages of books. The softest touch nevertheless.

You squeeze his hand and shoot him a simpering smile.

Itadori Jin just about faints.

Sukuna scoffs at his overdramatic older brother, “S’that so…?” He then crosses his tattooed arms, “You don’t seem like the type to like ah- biology and hemorrhages.”

“It’s biology and hematology, uncle Ryo.” Choso answers crossly, “And no- we met in the campus library.”

Then you’re the one to pipe up. “Cho here- oh, sorry, Choso-”

“Call him whatever you like—!” Jin cries.

As his brother attempts to wrangle him back into his seat, you smile appreciatively and continue. “Cho here was the one that helped me find a textbook I’d been searching for for weeks.” Just to add a little flare to it, you’re squeezing his hand once more and staring deeply into his big, beautiful brown eyes when you speak. “He knew even better than the librarian! And he was just so nervous- stuttering and- and did I tell you that he almost tripped over himself handing me that book?”

Jin, so very interested in your story, shakes his head aggressively.

Meanwhile Sukuna merely rolls his eyes- though you note that he and Wasuke don’t interrupt you for a second.

“Yeah…that was when I knew.” You conclude. Patting lovingly at his arm, “And of course, it did take a few weeks of being friends for Cho here to finally build up the courage. But he did manage to ask me out in the end—”

Sukuna raises one mean, coral-pink brow.

And you’re elbowing your boyfriend.

“-didn’t you, honey?”

It was rather difficult to convince your boyfriend’s family of the story of you two meeting- especially when your boyfriend himself looked as though this was his first time hearing it…Choso kept an expression of sweet euphoria—something soft. Like he was watching a romantic movie play out.

One that was starring in- and you needed him to say something…

“Huh? Yes?” Choso blinks- sense coming back to him. “O-oh, yes.”

And then he straightens up.

Possessively placing his hand on top of yours, “I saw her and I just…knew she had to be mine-”

“See now, that where yer lying.” Sukuna leans over the table with a devilish smile- pointedly ignoring his brother’s swatting. “There’s no world in which Kamo Ultimate Loser Choso—had his first kiss with a biology textbook, asked out the high school lab skeleton before any real person - would be the one asking you out.”

You’re stiffening as he points at you.

“Are you just someone he’s paying to lie? Because whatever he’s paying, it surely can’t be enough-”

You’re plastering on your smile, “If by ‘pay’ you mean love and cherish me then-”

“Then I know my nephew would no sooner woo a damn lab rat than a real person.” Sukuna scoffs, crossing his arms and falling back into his seat. “Especially one so pretty.”

Jin looked tense- and he’d forgone swatting at Sukuna underneath the table to now openly pinching his bicep. Still, the pain seems to do nothing to bate his suspicion.

“More sundaes, everyone? More sundaes?” Jin asks in a strangely high tone.

The only ones unaffected at the table was Yuji currently plucking at his sundae cherries, and Wasuke who stared at them with the internal debate as to whether or not he should fling those at the neighboring table, too. You almost wanted him to—anything to distract from the terseness that had suddenly taken over.

And to your surprise - it’s Choso who’s the first one to speak. “Why, uncle Ryo…” Those doe-like eyes of his narrow into an expression you’ve never seen made by the sweet, sweet boy thus far. “-jealous?”

Sukuna startles- “The hell did you s-”

“Dagnabbit I almost had it this time-” Wasuke gives up on considering and swipes one of Yuji’s overabundance of cherries to throw into their neighboring tables glass. It’s a hole in one.

“Grandma, do that again—!” Yuji squeals and claps his hands.

“Huh, where? I’m grandpa-”

“Everybody silence!” Jin’s voice raises above than the rest - and into every corner of the ice cream parlor. Echoing. He hadn’t realized it in the heat of the moment, but he found himself standing as he stopped the chaos—and rushed to sit down after some apologetic bows at the wider population being subjected to the catastrophe that was…their family.

And his next apology is directed at you. “My dear, I cannot tell you how sorry I am-” Now instead of pinching Sukuna, he outright gives the man a brotherly smack upside the head. Unafraid of doing so; Jin makes it hard enough that even Ryomen Sukuna winces. Now you understand how he kept his title shining as older brother…“-that I am related to a bunch of buffoons, and Yuji.”

“Yuji has been quite the distinguished gentleman.” You’re nodding at Yuji and his ice-cream-covered grin. “But it’s alright, Mr. Itadori. Honestly- promise I wasn’t offended by anything said.”

Your hands have seemed to find a permanent home in Choso’s - at least for the time being - and you squeeze his. 

“I understand that you’re just ah- cautious as the first girl to meet you like this but…I get it. Really.” Jin’s expression just seems to melt as you keep speaking. “Cho really is someone special to me. And I want to protect him, too.”

Next to you, you hear Choso suck in a shaky breath.

“Really? And you truly promise that it hasn’t been too much?” He probes with shining eyes. “Ryo here can get a little too mouthy-”

“Hey!” Sukuna starts—then immediately winces as Jin’s fingers twitch towards him again.

“Please do forgive him- it’s in his nature.”

“Absolutely promise. And I don’t hold anything against Mr. Sukuna, either.” You knew to hit juuuust where it mattered - and referring to Sukuna using such a title made the man straighten in his chair a little. “Choso did warn me that his family might be a little…excited. But to be honest with you, I always have had a soft spot for big, loud families.”

“Well…” Jin blushes happily, before reaching across the table and shaking your hand. “You may call me Jin, if you’d like. And I’d like to welcome you into our big, loud family.”

“I’m so honored- thank you.”

“The honor is all ours.”

“Oh no, it’s ours.”

Sukuna glances at Choso and scoffs. Underneath his breath, “That’s as long as that wimp has paid for-”

The table rattles as Jin kicks him underneath it. “The honor is all ours. Isn’t it…younger brother?”

“Ye-yes—” Sukuna wheezes. His large hand comes slamming down- merely something to hold onto his dear life for. “Welcome to the family, girl.”

You beam like it’s the happiest day of your life.

Head rested on Choso’s shoulder, and your head nodding at the flow of conversation. “This is cooler than the Turritopsis dohrnii.” He breathes.

Save for the brief hiccup earlier- you’d consider your first meeting with Choso’s family to have gone swimmingly. And sure, perhaps Sukuna held the faintest inkling of suspicion that what the two of you had was a ruse—but he’d been shot down almost immediately by Jin.

And thank goodness for that.

“Let’s celebrate by getting the double double heart-shaped cones- oh, I wonder how they get them into that shape?” Jin hums. “And then I want chocolate chips, dipped in the bubblegum drizzle and- oh, hello.” 

He beams as their server nears the table.

“I would like-”

“Sir, we’ve been getting complaints of cherries being flung into people’s glasses and we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Oh.”

Because of course…Ryomen Sukuna had been completely correct.

As the group gets up to leave - perhaps to another diner downtown or so - you’re refusing to let Jin apologize. And you’re still holding onto Choso as though he was the dreamiest boyfriend in the whole wide world, and you were the luckiest girlfriend—as dreamy as he may be…you weren’t the girlfriend he’d been dating for the past five months.

In fact, you weren’t his girlfriend at all.

In fact, you’d only met two hours prior.

You were #1 Rental Girlfriend in all of Tokyo. And this time, you’d been hired to save face at a family get-together.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time that you’ve had to pretend your way through such a predicament - more people than one would think had less and less time for love. Especially not in this day and age. Especially not when work and responsibilities latched onto you like a starving tick, and though its blood supply might be modest at first, it only grows hungrier and hungrier—greedier, until you’re bone-dry. Bone-dry. Bone-dry. And it still feeds- what’s next? The bones and all?

And society still looks at you with the same standards—yes, the parasite’s gotten bigger, but why are you so frail?

And before you know it, you’re hiring a rental girlfriend to prove to your parents that yes- you can still be a functional and well-balanced adult still!

This was exactly why you continued being a rental girlfriend.

It’d started out as a side-job during your first year of university—your friends were all getting partners or throwing themselves into their studies. And you needed something fulfilling to pass the time.

Then, your best friend suggested getting a part-time job.

You’re sure she didn’t mean as a rental girlfriend.

But you couldn’t help it - it’d been the first advertisement for Hiring that’d popped up once you’d searched online! 

And it was meant to be for a few weeks initially- really, you hadn’t planned on continuing this career for so long. Let alone making it a sort of career. 

That morning, you’d opened up your approved application for Doki-Doki-Girlfriend and determinedly made your way to the interview section - promising yourself that you’d run at the first sign of anything off. The interview was being held at the Doki-Doki headquarters: this pretty pink-colored building in downtown Akihabara that had formerly been a host club. It’d been dimly-lit and draped in old perfume and even older sex. 

Though you’d been nervous the first time you entered, you’d been quickly taken by the Doki-Doki owner—Tsukumo Yuki.

The first thing she asked you was what your type in men was.

And when you’d answered - through your shock - that it was the shy, stuttering type- she laughed that that was about 95% of their clientele. So you’d be lucky, perhaps.

Yuki, as she insisted you call her, explained to you the ins and outs of being a rental girlfriend. To smile. To simper. To be sweet but not overly so.

To never let them pressure you into anything. They weren’t the type of rental business that offered other sorts of services. 

What people were searching for above all was a connection- for at least this brief moment in time. And the both of you would understand this transaction: it was the fantasy of a human bond that you were selling, and they were buying. It was your time. It was your emotional investment.

But later…you would come to genuinely connect with most of those you worked with.

After that interview—which you passed with flying colors, you spoke with some of the other girls working there and decided to continue with the job opportunity. Much to Yuki’s delight, who’d taken a liking to you almost immediately. After that was the training period - during which you accompanied some of the other rental girlfriends on their dates.

You were introduced to some as their friend—and as many guys as expected were actually flattered to be seen with two ‘girlfriends’ in public. 

You took notes on conversation topics. You watched their behaviours. 

You understood how they’d change their approaches according to the needs of their clients, and you absorbed it all.

After a few weeks of observation, you were finally added to the roster of rental girlfriends to go on your own dates. 

You just didn’t expect to shoot to the top of the ranks.

#1 in Tokyo.

Perhaps one of the Top 5 in the entire country—only three years after starting, in your fourth year of university. 

The clients adored you.

They draped you in gifts. They went on repeat dates - spending extra just for a minute of your time, though you often refused the additional amounts. Of course, there would be no funny business (and this was something you made quite clear within the first few minutes of meeting a new client). And excluding one or two unsavory clients that were quickly blacklisted from Doki Doki, you’d grown rather fond of your regulars.

There was the older woman who’d practice speaking to women through you- for when she planned on getting her first girlfriend. There was the excitable college student who tested out date spots with you. There was the pensioner who wished to take a monthly stroll through the park, simply talking about their day.

It was the feeling of belonging amongst strangers. Connecting with people you never could have imagined finding common ground with before.

And you believe, through this line of work, you began to understand humans better.

Humans were all just…really, really lonely.

Choso had been the same when he came to you.

It had been a working day like any other - you’d been called to the front desk of Doki Doki in order to be given a briefing of your next date. It was all standard processes, really.

Name: Kamo Choso

Age: 23

Occupation: Student

Prior appointments: None.

Prior love life: None.

Purpose: Client seeks a rental girlfriend to sit through a family dinner with his family, pretending to be his girlfriend. Prior backstory required to be able to maintain the conversation and create the illusion of a loving relationship (5 months). Flirting and mild physical affection. 

Extra notes: Client says to please be wary of his extra ‘rowdy’ family. 

And so, you’d accepted.

You met up with the aforementioned Choso—and found yourself a little taken aback at just how…cute he was.

Nerdy. Nervous.

Pushing his glasses up as he frantically introduced himself - that, too, messing his name up a few times before actually telling you.

Exactly your type. Yuki had been right.

He was your age, and went to - it turns out - the same university as you. Though the two of you hadn’t seen each other before, Choso confessed that that might be because he was cooped up in the library most of the time. 

He bowed at least a dozen times through apologies for the trouble- even though you assured him that meeting a family wasn’t anything out of your way. And then he insisted on paying extra, on coming up with a code should you want to leave, on—you shook your head and grabbed his hand. “So, how did we meet, boyfriend?”

You always did enjoy the ones where big families were involved - sure, they might be more awkward in the long run…but those types of dates always did manage to make you feel so warm inside. Big families. Big emotions.

And the biggest, perhaps, of all had been meeting the Itadori family.

They’d been unlike any other family you’ve ever met.

And that was saying a lot.

Thus, you’re letting out a prolonged sigh the moment you’re stepping outside—it was some downtown diner that the six of you had ended up at after your less-than-ceremonious exit at the ice cream parlor. Sukuna had been craving something hearty after living through that introduction on just sweets and coffee - and Jin had suggested one of their favorite ramen places.

It was only after you’d sat down with them at one of the booths - the one they called their ‘usual’ - that Jin had revealed that when they referred to it as ‘their’ ramen place—they really meant the their.

In everything but ownership.

This was the first restaurant they’d gone to celebrate Choso’s first birthday, this was the first restaurant they’d gone to after Jin’s mother had passed, this was the first restaurant they’d gone to after Yuji was born and Jin was granted full custody.

And you couldn’t help but feel a strange sinking feeling at the pit of your stomach. What was that you said about family-oriented dates being the most awkward in the long term?

At least the ramen had been the best you’d ever tasted- and the conversation flowed freely. Even Sukuna seemed to forgo his initial suspicion to make some conversation with you on Akihabara’s best spots. 

And in the end, you were walking out of that ramen restaurant with a full stomach and an even more full heart. 

Waving to the retreating backs of Jin, Sukuna, Wasuke, and a sleeping Yuji—you’re turning to Choso once they were completely out of sight. “Your family is…”

“Abhorrent?” He pushes his glasses up with a crooked smile. Choso had eased up around you significantly compared to your initial meeting outside the Doki Doki building, stammering through an adequate backstory for your faux-relationship, though he still seemed to be the nerve-wracked type.

“No…” You pretend to think.

“Overbearing?”

“No.”

“Savages?”

“Certainly not.”

“The servers at that ice cream parlor would disagree.” Choso mutters, “How about aneurysm-causing?”

“No.” You’re shaking your head once again, before turning to him with a smile. “They’re loving.”

Choso says nothing, but the tips of his ears burn.

“They care about you a lot- even your uncle was making sure I wasn’t some stranger just taking your money.” Well…

The long-haired man pushes his glasses up with a sputter of confirmation- or at least something that sounds like it. “I-I suppose ah- in their own…ways they’re rather…” Choso swallows a few times, and you’re watching his face as he does so—the Sun was dipping past the horizon now, and cracking its golden yolk over the grooves of his worried face. Handsome. Choso Kamo was just so handsome. 

With his lashes dark and draping over his cheekbones. With his lips pouty and bitten whenever he was thinking deeply about something. With his stature so tantalizingly tall—though he didn’t even seem to be aware of it, as he navigated the world like a newly-birthed fawn. 

He was the prettiest boy you’ve ever seen - glasses and all. 

“—caring.” Choso finally finishes his sentence.

You’re letting a smile stretch across your lips- and before you can think twice, you’re clasping Choso’s hand once more. You’d been doing it so often over the course of the date that it almost feels- natural now. 

“You know…you paid for five hours of my time, Choso. Do you know how much more time we have left?” 

“Two hours, fourteen minutes and—” He grows ever-redder as he stares down at you. Were you…leaning in? Pressing yourself against him? Fuck. “-f-fifteen seconds.”

“Mmmm, I do love a smart boy.” Beginning to tug him in another direction from the path to the Doki Doki building - though you leave enough leeway that he can stop should he want to. Choso follows you like a dog on a leash. “I don’t usually do this, but if you want to spend the rest of your time with me then…I know this ah- other place we can go to?”

“Like you want me to c-call my family back for another family dinner?” Choso asks, eyes bulging.

“Oh no, no.” You laugh. “This place isn’t family friendly at all.”

.

.

.

“A-a love hotel-”

“One room, please. Standard.” Interrupting Choso, you smile at the receptionist.

“Will that be for an allocated time or overnight?”

“Hmm…” You glance sidelong at the gawking Choso next to you- looking around the hotel lobby as though it was some sort of attraction. “Overnight, please.”

As the woman behind the desk continued tap-tap-tapping away at her keyboard, you take a moment to look at Choso - now adjusting his glasses to make sure that he was seeing right. That really was a bowl of condoms sitting on the front desk. As the heat rushes up the back of his neck, you’re wrapping your arms around one of his own—and pressing your body against his. “Everything alright, Cho?”

He’d been like this ever since you started heading him in the direction of the glitzy love establishment. Pink walls. Fluorescent lights. He’d agreed to going…elsewhere to continue your date- but he’d expected your apartment or something! Choso had been stunned but allowed you to lead him in front of the love hotel, and once outside you turned towards him once more. It was the first time you yourself was doing this with who was supposed to be a client. “And you’re really su-”

“Yes.”

And that was that.

The lobby was quiet…too quiet. In a way that made your spine tingle with anticipation.

“That’s a…a real bowl of condoms.” He exclaims- earning a look from the receptionist. 

“That is. Is this your way of saying that we don’t need any?” You joke…mostly. Then the key gets slid over to you - Room 143 - and you’re nodding at the receptionist. “Thank you.”

The two of you make your way down the lust-pink corridor and take the elevator up to your room - jamming in the key to open up a space that looked as if a honeymoon threw up all over it. Rose petals on the floor. Faux candles flickerin’ on the beside cabinet. Rows upon rows of even more condoms lined on the middle of the queen-sized bed. 

If you looked at it from the right angle, it formed a few hearts. 

“I didn’t mean we shouldn’t use them…” Choso’s the first one to speak- and he visibly gulps as you close the door behind you two. “It’s just…I-I’ve never done this before.”

Your eyes widen—you’d been suspecting this ever since you entered. But to have it actually confirmed…“No fooling around before finals or anything? Nothing to de-stress?”

He shakes his head n’ bites his lower lip. “Nothing. I haven’t even had my first kiss, to be honest…” Choso looks up at you with those nervous eyes. “Is that okay?”

“Okay?” You smile. Walking over to twist your hands into his lapels- and tug him to you. “It’s perfect. And since you’ve shared a secret with me, I’m gonna share one with you, okay?”

He nods. 

And so you’re leaning in so that your lips are grazing - just grazing - his pretty, blushing ears. “It turned me on more than it should’ve, seeing you on your knees in that parlor.”

Choso gasps-

And then your lips are on his. 

Then you’re tucking his cute, shivering bottom lip into your mouth—and sucking softly. Choso lets out the most guttural groan at the act- and his hands tremble in mid-air not knowing what to do. 

“Don’t be shy.” You’re cooing at him - reaching up and guiding one of his hands to be on the back of your neck—the other one on your ass. You lean into his surprisingly firm chest, “Although…I find it really cute when you’re shy.”

His involuntary whimper gets swallowed up by your own lips. 

You’re the one that’s guiding him through the sensual motions of your mouth. Kissing and kissing him till he’s senseless.

Till those thick glasses of him have been knocked ever-so-slightly askew.

Till you’ve left him weak in the knees - literally. 

Choso Kamo is melting into you—he’s letting his hands grasp your body as though a forgetting man holding onto his last memory, a drowning sailor holding onto a lifeboat. It doesn’t even feel real to him. And he can’t stop himself as his hands, his body, his knees buckle n’ he’s sliding doooooown the expanse of your body- lips breaking contact with yours with a pained grunt.

Before he knows it, his knees are hitting the floor.

And he’s peering up at you with a desperate expression; brows pinched, mouth kiss-bitten and trembling. Expression something of dazed awe. It makes your pussy clench at just how utterly pathetic he looks. “Everything alright, baby?”

“Ngh- yes.” You watch as one of his hands automatically shoots to cover his crotch - he was rock-fucking-hard already. 

“You suuuuure?” Teasing. There’s a devilish twinkle in your eyes that’s reflected through his as utter indigence. 

And without saying anything more, you step backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. Bouncing a few times. You’re sitting yourself down on the plush bedsprings, crossing your legs- and watching him through half-lidded eyes. Not a single word comes out of you.

But it doesn’t take a single word for Choso to realize what you wanted with a jolt—

He crawls to you.

He crawls to you.

Choso’s letting his features twist into something akin to embarrassment - with the tips of his ears so red that they were practically radiating heat - as he edges closer. As he shifts on his knees. As he crawls just as he had been doing in the ice cream parlor—except this time, the only cherry he was searching for was that cute lil’ wet spot between your legs.

Your dress was short and already hiked up to reveal those pale pink panties. 

Was that a little bow on top?

Though it seems like an age before he’s finally able to reach close enough to affirm that- yes, that was a little bow on top. Choso finally manages to without combusting, and looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes. 

“Please…” He begs.

You’re softly caressing his cheek- almost lovingly. And Choso’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into the touch in an almost feline manner. 

Moving to his jawline. Moving to the back of his sweaty scalp.

And then you’re shoving his pretty face between your legs—and Choso’s letting himself gladly be shoved. Manhandled. His chin sticks against the foamy mess of your panties, so wet with all your leaking juices. His nose digs between the plushest parts of your swollen pussylips. And Choso lets out a hallowed breath as he gapes his mouth ever-so-slightly wider-

“Awww, why so shy, baby?” You’re cooing down at him.

With your hand clasped onto the back of his head- you’re guiding Choso’s mouth to better plaster against your pussy. For him to find his balance.

“S-s’like a second kiss.” Choso sputters out. And you’re grinning.

“Naughty, are we?” You had a feeling that this was going to be a loooooot of fun…

Choso’s mouth was parted. And his lips were rubbin’ incessantly up and down the outline of your cunt—up and down, up and down.

That flimsy fabric of your panties was just glued to your sopping wet pussy, and he’s able to slot his lips over your folds perfectly. Managing to string down a line of hot wet kisses where you needed him the most- “Mmmm…” You’re arching your back with a deep groan as his nose fits between your pussylips—the pointed tip pressing on your clit. “Just like that, Cho. You can go deeper if you like, y’know that?”

“H-how, baby?” He rasps. Those pleading eyes of his were just so cute- and Choso can’t last too long speaking without pressing a few more open-mouthed kisses on your cunt.

“You want me to teach you?” You’re asking him, to which he nods. “Mmm, well open your mouth a little wider- just a little wider-”

And he does- his cute canines snaggin’ against the top of your pussylips.

“You can just start off by kissing lightly, baby. Remember how we did all that kissing earlier?” Nodding once more. “Yeah- just try to replicate that.”

“M’gonna do my best, baby…” He’s starting off soft at first- slow. Almost timid in his movements as he properly slots his mouth over your pussy - over your panties - and kisses n’ sucks lightly. 

“Fuck- you study biology, so you know where the good spots are, hm?”

“The glans clitoris a-and the…” Kitten kisses. “-the labia minora contain an immense number of nerve endings.” Chaste pecks—but every single droplet of your pussy’s juices splashed onto his tongue seems to leave Choso Kamo reeling. 

Eyes drawing to the back of his head. Ragged pants emanating from the back of his throat. 

And he’s pushing himself deeper, deeper, deeper - making out with your pussy so desperately, depravedly that his glasses were crushing against your pelvis—“Easy there, baby. Easy.” The only way to even get him to take a breath is to tug him back using his hair. “We have more than ‘nough time, okay?”

“Mhmmmm…” He nods through a pout- lips sucking off the juices seeped into your panties. “All night.”

“Eager boy. Next, I want you to use your tongue, okay?” His expression turns into something startled. “What? Not scared are you, Cho?”

Choso shakes his head furiously—as though he couldn’t stand the mere thought of it. “N-no.” He hisses, hot breath gluing to your leaking core - the way he was just so…greedy to lavish your pussy left you even wetter. And he was gladly allowing the excess residue to land all over his face and end up sliding off, “No no no- not at all. This pretty labia- Mmmpf—”

Whatever else was on the tip of his tongue gets muffled- 

For then Choso’s flattening his tastebuds on top of your pussy. Those swollen pussylips. Movin’ his muscle siiiiiiide to the siiiiiide and then up and down the line of your slit. 

You whine, “Oh- just fuck me with it.” Tugging on his locks, “Fuck me with your tongue- ngh, the way I know you’ve been wantin’ to since we met. Don’t think I didn’t see the way you were looking at me…”

“I was…” He pleads. He prays between your legs. Zig-zagging his tongue wildly. 

And then after he’s sucked off your panties all clean - Choso reaches one of his hands upwards to try and take off those useless undergarments-

But you’re faster than him.

And you’re stopping him with a searing pull at his scalp. The nerdy man lets out a sudden yelp and looks at you with the prettiest doe-eyes. “Ah ah—” It almost ached your heart to act so mean to him, not giving him exactly what he wanted. But more than your heart- it was your pussy that was throbbing. “Now who said you’ve earned the right to take them off, hm?”

“B-but…” Choso’s peripherals widen - they were glazed-over with lust. “How can I reach the tunica mucosa if I don’t take off—”

“You don’t have to take it off, right?” You hum. “Eat me out through my panties-”

Just the mere sound of that sentence makes Choso moan.

“-and…” And you’re cocking your head to get a better look at where his hips were starting to rut. Against the rickety frame of the love hotel’s bed, he was grindin’ and crushing what seemed to be an aching erection. “-don’t touch yourself, either.”

Choso’s free hand immediately halts in its tracks.

He’s shooting you a pained look- but more than that, it was flooded with pure, unabashed need. 

Something dark. Something primal.

Choso’s tipping his head back and letting you plough your pussy against his mouth- in rough, rapid grinds. You don’t wait a single moment for him to catch his breath—and that seems far from his main priority in the first place. He’s merely flopping his lengthy tongue out - so pinkish n’ pretty - and slithering it past your panties.

Riiiiiight underneath, after a few tries he manages to ease it past the rim of your puckered entrance.

You’re letting out a semi-shocked gasp once you feel your convulsing walls streeeeetching at the girth of him. He was thicker than you’d expected- with the ridges of his tastebuds melding to your inner channel. And without any experience, Choso doesn’t know how to ease into it - which works just as well for you as he’s expanding his thick tongue inside of you. And then thrashing n’ thrashing away. “Sh-shit, keep going, Cho.”

“What- hck! what do I have to do?” He manages to somehow ask between heavy gulps. And even that amount of time spent parted with your pussy means that he’s letting out loooong, luxurious licks inside your velvety walls to make up for it.

“H-huh?” You blink down at him through your bleary eyes. “Keep going, ngh- faster, baby.”

“No, I just meant…” Choso blinks those big, beautiful peripherals at you. He kept both hands on your thighs to press himself ever-deeper—he couldn’t get enough. “-what do I have to do t-to take off your panties? I wish to see all of you…that pretty vulva like a flower, the- ngh, prepuce…”

The mere thought has him ruttin’ away against the bed once more.

“How about you make me- haaaah, cum, baby? Hm?” You smile down at the desperate man, “And you have to do it before cumming yourself, m’kay?”

He can’t remove your panties.

He can’t touch himself.

He can’t cum before stuffin’ his face between your legs and making you cum first—

Choso was in heaven.

Even through the obscurement of his now-fogged glasses, Choso’s features twist into something primal- and he lets out a looooow whine before drag-drag-dragging his tongue into your clingy walls again. Thrusting in and out at a frenzied pace—the nerd was eating you out like a man starved.

Almost wolfish.

Choso was suckin’ and biting and snarling deep into your cunt. His glasses stick against your clit, and every single time he was forced to part with your pussy in order to breathe felt like fucking torture to him. “The clitoral nerve network consists of about 8000 to- ngh, over 10000 nerve endings-” Before you know it, he’s spitting. Letting it smear down your panties. Then dragging one of his calloused thumbs down that buttony nub. “-and baby, I need you to feel every single one.”

“Ohhhhh, fuck.” Your back arches deeper into him. Hands planting against the mattress in order to steady yourself, “A man that knows anatomy is dangerous.”

“And then the tunica mucosa…those spots there are also-” Such a priggish smile spreads across Choso’s mouth - one that you’re feeling on your cunt - as he swabs his tongue inside and stimulates some of those sweet nerve endings he was talking about. The hooked end of his muscle pushes apart your clingy walls, and somehow manages to find those sensitive areas so easily- “-effective…”

“Shut up and eat me out.” Pushing him deeper between your legs.

“A-and that’s not to mention—” But of course, you should’ve known that it isn’t easy to shut a STEM major up when it comes to their subject of interest. Choso most of all. And that nerdy man is babbling away whilst he’s slipping his tongue in and out, in and out, of you at a furious pace- until it was nothing but a pinkish blur squeezing away between your pussylips. “-the Gräfenberg spot-”

“You mean the g-spot?!” You’re wailing out.

“My favorite.” Choso nods, with your clit sucked into his mouth. Holding your panties to the side. He now alternates between rolling his tongue over your sensitive nub, and pushing it deep into your hole—stretchin’ you out juuuuust enough for his fingers to slip n’ squelch their way inside.

You’re letting out the shrillest keen as two of his fingers scissor apart your cunt’s walls, pushing up into their spongy surroundings to mold his sheer size into you. He’s softer on the tips of his digits, and rougher against the sides - “Easy there. Fuck, easy…” Choso’s sucking in a harrowed breath.

“I should be the one saying that to you.” You huff. Because Choso wasn’t dry-humping the foot of the bed whilst eating you out anymore - he was way past that.

Now solely keeping himself pushed- wedged in one place because just a little more friction and he’s bound to be cumming. “I-I’m alright, baby.” He tells you, “The Gräfenberg spot is located on the anterior wall, so right…up…” 

Just a single press up into the roof of your cunt makes you buck - not having pressed on your sweetest spot just yet but-

“And then about two- three inches deeeeeep—” The loudest, sloppiest squelch! echoes across all four corners of the love hotel room as he eases inside. Roverin’ about inside your tight, wet channel for a few strokes before an explosion of pleasure runs right through you. “-right- there-”

“Fuuuuuuuck, oh.” You simper out. “There- right there- ngh.”

And then he’s thump-thumping his perfect fingers inside your cunt- accurately pinpointing that one spot inside you with his digits like a searchlight. Again and again. And don’t think that his mouth wasn’t working overtime—Choso kept his maw permanently gaped on top of your clit and had his lips hollowed with a constant suctioning motion. 

Letting out broken moans off into your cunt all the while-

Choso manages to slip in a third finger- though those damn panties kept getting in the way. “Baby…” There’s a rasping, almost guttural tone to his words that you don’t recognize at first- you’re even raising onto your elbows to make sure that this was the same Choso Kamo.

But it sure was.

Glasses pressed up against your cunt—getting wetter by the second. “Baby, you’re experiencing vaginal contractions and tremors. Your pulse is faster. Your transudate is leaking even more- you’re getting wetter. And your clitoris is growing even, mmm-” He savors the feeling of your nub being pulled n’ dragged into his mouth. “-more swollen.”

“A-and that means…?” Though you already have an inkling of it.

“You’re going to orgasm, baby.” He never sounded more confident than when he was speaking science between your pussylips. “And I need you to cum aaaaaall over my mouth, okay?”

“Was planning to.” You whisper-

And it’s with a few more strokes, with a few more gashes of your pussy against his face, that the pressure that’d been building in your pelvic region finally explodes.

It thrums through your body faster than you can announce it—making every single vein, artery, and axiom within you vibrate until they’re sizzling at the sheer pressure. It felt as though your body was on fire. And the hottest it could get was at your sopping core- shoved against Choso’s pretty plush mouth and getting draaaagged through the violent peaks of your high.

The best you’ve ever had.

Choso manages to locate your g-spot right when the pleasure was hitting you the most - and you’re getting the faint suspicion that he was counting your throb-throb-throbs until he’d timed it just right. “One…two…” 

Thrashing his fingers deepest.

Damn-near tearing your panties.

Shoving his erection against the bed. 

And his tongue would move over your clit in an almost soothing motion- “Your vasocongestion m-means you’re sucking me up even- ngh, more. Fucking tight.” He spits. “Myotonia and contractions. Your orgasm’s strong, baby.”

“Didn’t need science to tell me that.” You comment.

Thrown through your orgasm.

It’s a crescendo then a plateau, and then when you’re finally done - Choso keeps jabbing his greedy fingers into you just for a few seconds longer. Fucking you through it. Fucking you past it.

You’re so sensitive by this point that you’re sobbing- pushing on his sweaty forehead. “Baby—oh, baby I’m done.” 

“Done…?” He rasps. Eyes bleary as he raises them up, seeing you on your elbows. “Oh.”

“And you did as I wanted.” It takes much more effort than you expected to detach him from your quivering pussy - still a little sensitive from your previous orgasm. It was incredible. A part of you almost couldn’t believe that it’d been poor, inexperienced Choso Kamo that pulled that out of you. 

He’s setting your cunt free with a whimper n’ a loooooud slurp!

Watching slack-jawed as you peel off your soaked-through panties and throw it right at him- it makes you gasp when Choso catches it with one hand…

Then brings that flimsy fabric riiiiight up to his face to sniff, to suck off the remnants of your syrupy sap. Not a speck of regret.

“Filthy.” You leer.

And then you’re tightening your hold on him—merely than sound was enough to wrench out a yearning croon from him. Preventing Choso from chasing after your cunt once more, “Now now…you don’t want to continue losing that virginity of yours, baby?”

“I-I do.” He eagerly nods.

“Good. Then get on the bed f’me.” You’re patting at the space beside you.

Soon enough, your positions are somewhat flipped - Choso finds himself lumbering onto the bed. Back against the mattress. Skin searing at the heat that your body had left behind. 

He lies where you did- and you’re making quick work of discarding his graphic t-shirt (proudly claiming ‘I found this humerus’ next to a picture of a bone) and his trousers. The tent in his boxers was jaw-dropping—Choso stood proudly erect, thick and looking heavy between his legs, his bulbous tip kept trickling out more n’ more precum the longer you stared. 

And had he just…

Taking off his boxers to make sure—you’re revealing his cock. Long and rock-hard.

It slaps against his soft core, and leaves a heart-shaped mark of sap. Just about seven or so inches in length- though the longer your gaze lingers on him…the longer he seems to look. Shit, was he about nine inches, maybe? And he wasn’t too thick - just flared enough at the tip that he’s sure to make your walls feel it. 

But Choso had an abundance of pretty, long veins decorating down the shaft—underneath the tip, creating patterns down to his base. One which had a few sparse tufts of curly brown - almost black - hair.

Yet what you’re interested in the most was how Choso was so damn hard that his blushin’ red tip looked just about ready to fall off—

“I c-couldn’t help myself, baby.” Choso admits shyly. His hands reach downwards to try and cover his mess- but you’re waving him off. “Having you cum aaaaall over my mouth made me- ngh, want to cum as well.”

“I can see that.” You smirk.

“I didn’t mean to.” He insists, voice growing urgent as the silence stretches - fearing that you’d perhaps refuse to continue as he somewhat broke his promise. “P-promise, I didn’t mean to! It’s just that your tunica mucosa was squeezing me so tight- and your vaginal lubrication just tasted so sweet-”

“Choso?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Shush.”

“I- oh.”

Because, initially, you’d planned on riding the man senseless. But now you were leering yourself closer—almost sake-like in motion.

Staring deep into Choso’s widening eyes once you’re hovering yourself over his shivering legs. His long abdomen. And pressing a cute peck right on the top of his frothing tip—the splashes of his precum were syrupy-sweet. And they were combining with Choso’s cum from earlier to add a salty tint-

“So messy.” You’re whispering as you run your tongue ‘round and ‘round the top of his shaft. Cleaning him off until he was shining. “Are you gonna make a mess like this inside me too, hm?”

“D-don’t say something like that…s’gonna make me cum again.” Choso pleads.

And he really was serious - his words were on the verge of shattering.

You’re letting out a giggle- right into his aching hot cock. The vibrations sprint through his body and make him buck up into you—body before his mind, he doesn’t even realize until he’s doing so with a startled yelp. “My apologies-”

“Mmm, keep going. Get some practice in before the real deal.” You hum once more. 

Choso seems as though he’s about to sob - this was too good for him - as he fucks his cock into your mouth a few more times. You relax your throat to take down most of him, and the parts that you can’t get milked with one hand. 

Once. Twice. Thrice and quadruple before his flared tip starts twitchin’ wildly—draaaaagging up the soft insides of your throat, he leaves a salty aftertaste behind that makes you realize…

You’re pulling off of his cock with an emanating pop! “But you’ve got to save that up for inside, got it?”

He’s nodding so hard you idly wonder whether he might get whiplash. “Yes, baby. Anything for you, baby.”

“Mmm…” Climbing up the expanse of his body, you’re kissing Choso squarely with the same lips. “Just how I like it.”

And then your knees straddle Choso’s slender hips, your thighs press against his sweltering skin - you reach behind you to grab ahold of his cock’s base—and the sudden squeeze is enough to make him jolt. Bodily. He’s letting out a visceral shiver, “B-baby…”

You guide his ruddied tip to you—and just the barest, briefest smooch of your sweet pussy makes him jolt. Just feelin’ his hardness press up against your softness.

It makes him drive his hips off the mattress suddenly. 

“Ah ah-” You warn. “Take it easy, baby. We have all night, don’t we?”

“But…” Choso’s eyes flicker between your face n’ where the two of you were about to connect. Something in him seems to almost break. So close. So close- “That’s so unfair. Your pussy feels like this and you’re expecting me to take it easy?”

A hand claws down your arched spine.

“Not even the textbooks could replicate how good it feels- m’not even inside you yet and I feel like I’m going insane.”

You swipe a thumb down his throbbing tip—catching a bead of white that was threatening to pour out. “I told you. As long as you keep it inside, Cho.”

And then you’re letting your hips lower - aiming to seat yourself down on that toned pelvis of his. “Ohhhh, fuck.” Your back bends, your head tips backwards as you’re taking in the inches of him. It’s a slow process - given that Choso was much larger than average - and you’re wrenching out primal moans as his thick length invades your core. A sweet prodding vein down the side of him was already massaging your insides—“You’re so big, baby. It’s always the quiet ones, huh?”

If he heard you, then he doesn’t make a show of it.

Choso’s handsome features scrunch up into something of pure ecstasy as he dives his cock deeper into you. Hands flying to your waist. Bottom lip stuck between his teeth. “Inside-” He whispers.

“Hmmm?”

“Inside- inside.” Choso gets out through heated pants. His mouth was moving a mile a minute- fuck, even his mind was. But he couldn’t possibly juggle any single coherent thought when his cock was sucked between your soft, soft pussylips and getting practically drained already. “A-am I really going inside? Or is this just a dream, baby?”

Without waiting around for an answer- he’s pinching his arm.

It leaves an angry red mark that proves to him that no…life really was this sweet.

“I am?” As though still in disbelief. 

As though this in and of itself would be enough to make him cum and- oh, shit. 

He really was cumming.

It seems to take the both of you by surprise, and Choso’s lunging his hips completely off the mattress - slamming his cockhead into the springy back of your cunt. 

Bouncin’ off at the sheer force for a few seconds- it isn’t long before he’s then scouring deep into your walls and letting his bawling divot run free. Cumming in less than a single stroke inside you. “Oh- oh, shit.” Choso’s mouth waters, a single line of spittle running from the corner of his lips. “I’m sorry I…”

But he doesn’t have an answer.

He really, truly doesn’t.

“Pussy got your tongue?” You giggle. 

This was his first time - and your pussy just felt that good all wrapped ‘round him and keeping him hostage.

His cum’s flooding you with a warmth, spreadin’ from the in-betweens of your legs and then right upwards. The satiny tresses of it rush uuuuup your walls n’ then right back down—those goopy layers then getting fucked back in by his desperate semi-thrusts. 

Squelch after squelch as he accumulates the cum like frosting on top of his swirling tip. Shoving. 

Choso scrunches his eyes shut and tears start to well up behind- now he was crying, too? Crying just by putting it in?! Buried like this, he feels like he’d do anything for you right now. He feels like he could lay his life on the line for you right now. He feels like—like—he could really truly ask you to become his real girlfriend now…

“Baby, I think I love you.” Choso blubbers up. “Do you want to marry me?”

“Let’s get dinner first.” You giggle, lovingly patting his cheek. 

“Oh…”

If you could feel the way his ruddied tip twitches inside you (and you could) then you’re not teasing him for it…much. Simply a smirk before you’re veering your hips down until he’s bottomed-out.

Clit massaging against the scruff of his happy trail. Pussylips struggling to squeeze around his sheer size. “Fuck.” You’re groaning, starting up a lecherous pace that keeps Choso’s toes curled - his head thrown back into the pillows, his skin blushing. He was flustered.

But more than that- he wanted more.

And sending a silent word of gratitude to the chance of the universe and science itself, Choso slithers that same right hand of his between your sultry legs. Sheened with slick. 

You were making such a mess fucking him whilst you’re still keeping his cum inside you—he scrapes his calloused thumb up, up, uuuup the few inches of his cock still left to fit inside. Collecting the slimy layers of slick up until the folds of your pussy. Reaching it up to his mouth- 

“Now, now.” You tut. “Are we just going to waste that, hm?”

“Oh…you’re right.” With a quiver of his lips, he then plunges it back inside. Then repeats the motion again and again until you’re feeling stuffed to the brim—with both his cock n’ his sappy fluid. Like you said before, it all deserved to stay inside. 

And you better keep it.

The rickety bedsprings creeeeeeak—! as he meets your pace. 

Choso continues, “Not just cum.” His curvaceous thumb swipes your inner folds again, “But that bulbourethral fluid deserves to stay inside, too. How else m’I gonna fill you up, baby?”

“Oh, of course.” You coo, something sensual. “But don’t think that that’s going to be your last time cumming tonight, Cho.”

His eyes damn-near bulge out of their skull. “E-excuse me?”

“It’s not even your last time cumming in this hour.” Oblivious - or so you pretend to be - to his growing concern n’ his gaping mouth. You’re bowing your body into his—manoeuvring your hips in somewhat of a circular motion, the slightest figure-eights and curves, that drag his tunneling cock juuuuuust right against every nook and cranny of your walls. Every hidden spot. “You’re gonna cum for me at least twice more, right?”

“I-I—I don’t know if that’s even possible!” Choso sputters, pushing his glasses up with his free hand- it was glossy with the excess of your slick from earlier.

And without warning, you’re leaning down to lightly lick off a bit of that glittering sheen.

Choso moans n’ feels his overly-stimulated length jolting away inside of you. “Baby, just consider the refractory period. Has it even been a few minutes since I last…?”

“Just about.” You’re smile. “Should be enough, no?”

“Though it varies based on age and health- when I can cum next depends on the blood redistribution, and how long prolactin and serotonin lasts in the body.” Choso admits then, albeit a bit sheepishly. “And I’m still fuh-feeling so goooood, baby- fuck I can’t—”

“But my smart boy’s gonna find a way, right?” Even if he couldn’t cum again, however - it was just too cute to watch Choso squirm like this. “When I said I wanted it inside, I wanted it stuffed inside, Cho.”

“S-stuffed…” He breathes - almost hypnotized by your pussy.

You’re grinding and swervin’ and clenching around his vein-loaded length in ways he could’ve only ever dreamed about before…“Mhm. Need it pouring out of me.” You beg, putting your best pleading expression on. “Need it up until…” 

Hands scouring up his front to press down on your stomach- almost up to your chest.

“-here.”

You pout. 

“If m’not bloated with your cum, Cho, is there even a point?”

“No there isn’t.” Choso’s jaw drops—as though the epiphany had just dropped on him. And no sooner are the words leaving his worry-bitten lips, he finds himself pumping wispy ropes of cum deep past your entrance. 

He doesn’t even know how he did it.

His body just seems to listen to you more than himself - and Choso jerks his pelvis up in synchronization with the faintish strings of cum that escape him. Thoroughly into your cunt. Thoroughly coating it on top of your womb.

You’re shivering as you feel the thin excess thwack! against your deepest innards. Such a lecherous feeling that cannot be replicated. 

Every time he strikes your spongy cervix, Choso lets out a sudden whimper. He sobs. He groooans. He’s fighting to clamor onto your body in any possible way that he could - your waist, your legs, your tits. It doesn’t matter where, Choso just needed to grab ahold of you and perhaps try to get you to fucking slow down—

“Please.” Every single letter in that word is botched with a cry, “P-please. Baby, keep riding me like this and you’re going to make me cum again-”

“Isn’t that the point? Third time’s the charm?” You ask. 

“Oh…” It’s then that he remembers that you’d said twice more- he has to cum twice more. Hiccuping, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

Cocking your head with a smile, “And would you like to stop?”

“Not at all.”

Then you’re planting one hand in the middle of his defined chest for balance. Throwing your head back and ridin’ him silly.

Choso cries beneath you. Choso babbles. Torn between the pleasure of having those sweet, sopping lips wrapped ‘round him- and the insanity of his orgasm just barely bating before you’re attempting to hurtle him into another one. This was almost too much for his just recently-lost virginity, but Choso begs for more, more, more. “Please- please- that anterior wall of yours is so clo-”

With your other set of fingers then shoved into Choso’s pretty mouth- spit splashes from the sides of his lips. But he’s taking you so happily—“No no, keep going.” You tell him once his brows raise in surprise, “I just wanna watch my poor boyfriend struggle just a bit.”

“Mmmmpf- soooo good.” He lets out an agonized moan, muffled through the intrusion of your digits. You’re swirling them ‘round his mouth and watching him lightly choke on them. “I need to c-cum just once more, huh?”

Choso’s tears were enough to wash off the fog from his glasses lens.

And he blinks those teary eyes up at you - a few times before one of his hands slithers between your legs. Almost difficult, considering how the space between your two sweaty, crashing bodies was practically non-existant—but his long fingers find a way to thumb apart your puffy pussylips. Nearly swollen shut.

He runs the doughy tips of his digits across your clit, “Around it…just light kisses.” Choso murmurs to himself. “Juuust a little- ngh.”

A single squeeze of your fluttering walls leaves him reeling. 

“And then the good spots-” Peering down at your glossy cunt through his glasses, his half-lidded eyes. “The primary erogenous zones are the clitoris and introitus. Then the periurethral surrounding the urethra is also…oh…” Alternating between bashin’ his swollen cocktip against your g-spot, and thoroughly massaging every good spot he’d memorized.

“Shit…” You suddenly clench around him. “Keep going.”

He was seeing stars at the mere action. “And then the- hngh, even the perineum…” Fingers dipping just a liiiittle downwards to roll over that spot. He was unabashed - not in the state to be as he usually would. “And then fucking- at least as much as I can…here…” Slack-jawed, gaze unfocused. “My favorite is the clitoris.” The nerd presses the crescent pad of his thumb down on that knob.

Your hips are stutterin’ at the sheer amount of pleasure overwhelming you. Choso has taken up stimulating your clit in constant circular motions now. “I th-thought you said your favorite was the g-spot?”

“Both.”

As if on cue, he’s banging his thick tip against that ooooone spot.

Choso was stimulating you almost too well. Leaving you the one speechless as he drills his hips into you at a relentless pace—almost painfully desperate. 

“Good boy.” You whisper.

“Just need to make you- mmm, cum soon.” He states. “Because if you cum…then I’m sure to cum, too.”

Shoving a third finger in his mouth, he moans as he sucks. You hum, “And you’re sure you’re a virgin?”

“S’just everything you t-taught me.” He insists, mouth full yet listening to every word you said - if you expected an answer, then he was giving you an answer. “And sometimes…I’d search up…things online…”

“Online? Poor, innocent Choso Kamo watches porn?”

“Not that, I get too shy.” Choso responds. He blushes all the way down to the roots of his hair, “But using my textbooks, I’d- hah, read through them…study them…look at all the diagrams…”

You smirk. “Ever jerked off to a textbook, Choso?”

His jaw drops. “No…” Although you remain rather suspicious of the ever-deepening blush that seems to invade his cheeks—all the way down to his collarbones. “But I did jerk off just today.”

“Today?” One of your brows raise, “Don’t tell me this was- hah, before we met or…?”

He shakes his head. “After. After.” Big, bulbous tears make their way down his cheeks - and Choso tastes the salt on them as they splosh across his lips. You do too, as you kiss him. “S-snuck right into the bathroom at that ice cream parlor and- oh—”

“And what for? Saw a pretty someone at the neighboring table?”

Shaking his head even harder- “It was…you.”

“Me?”

“You said that thing- fuck, you said you needed me.” Choso’s dark chocolate-brown eyes glaze over as if he’s reminiscing the very moment. Living in it. “Under that table. And I couldn’t run to the bathroom faster to r-relieve myself.” Ah, this was that time then…

Your faux-boyfriend’s brows are then knitting.

His cock tunnels into you at an even more accelerated pace - one that leaves your head dizzy. Flinching at every run of his thumb down your pulsing clit. 

Choso finishes, “But I only lasted two pumps- the thought of you, ngh—” Thrusting in so deep that it felt as though, if he could go past your gooey cervix, then he long since would have. Choso thumps against the back of your cervix and remains there, “-wrapped around my cock and usin’ me to make your anterior- pussy feel pleasure was just too good of a fantasy for me.”

It’s a lewd admission.

It’s almost startling to hear this from Choso above all.

And it’s exactly what’s making you cum—just in time that he is. Your orgasm is prolonged and has been building up ever since he tickled your g-spot for the first time- “C-cumming—!” Belatedly, the announcement leaves your lips.

But Choso already knows.

He can already feel the rhythmic clenches of your sopping wet walls - the soft thing he’s ever felt. They’re tightening around him and tuggin’ on his pistoning cock like you didn’t fucking want him to leave. 

Toes curling. Back arching.

The bang after bang after bang right on that target of your g-spot meant that your orgasm was being intensified. Every peak left your thighs clenching around his waist, and you bounce your hips up n’ down furiously. Up n’ down. Up n’ down. “Yes- yes, yes, yes—and you’re c-cumming too, Cho.”

“I am?” Choso blinks his teary eyes down at your lower halves. The smacking of skin-against-skin was deafening, and Choso’s pelvis was rawly red due to the sheer friction. 

But more than that…he was feeling his even redder tip twitch a few times. Once. Twice. Thrice- before the warmth of bliss takes over his body. It’s a wave of euphoria even stronger than the last few, and it makes the nerdy boy flinch his hips up into yours- agonizingly good. He was hammering into you so animalistically- jabbing short, sloppy semi-thrusts. “I am.” Choso gasps out. “I’m cumming-”

He’d predicted as much earlier, but it actually worked?!

“M’filling you up, aren’t I?” Choso blabbers, a crazed smile on his face. “This virgin…I was able to stuff this pussy full.”

Lovingly patting your cunt. 

“So much so that- hah, look she’s even struggling to- ngh, take me. That cervix uteri is all flooded, huh? All drenched in me?” Through the waves of your high, you’re feeling your orgasm fizzle and pop as he rolls his thumb doooown your clit a few more times. “And these pretty labia of yours are all swollen- bloated with my cum, hm?”

“Mhm…” Before you blink a few times. “Oh- this one was shorter than the last though, wasn’t it? Maybe we need to go again- heh.”

“S’it already done? I…but I’m still…” Choso jabs out numerous more thrusts before he’s pulling out.

And whilst you’re interested in the squelch! and the feeling of hot, wet cum splashin’ out of you and onto his toned hips—Choso himself is more interested in the way his cock twitched n’ feels like he’s cumming…but nothing is actually coming out. 

“Orgasmic anejaculation?” He states in shock. “Baby, you’ve made me cum dry—”

“Oh.” Lips parting, you look down to watch as his pretty reddened tip jolts about irritatedly as though he was in the throes of his orgasm - and he was. It’s just that nothing was coming out. 

“I-it’s likely that this is due to the lack of semen replenishment. Thus, if there’s none left to-”

“So fourth time’s the charm, right?” You cock your head down at him with a smile.

Another time?!

His half-hard length twitches in interest.

“You really are going to be the death of me.”

Choso really, really needed to ask you out after this.

.

.

.

Ryomen Sukuna knew that the two of you weren’t dating.

He knew it.

He just had no way to prove it. 

That is…until one day, just a week after that initial introduction to you, Jin had bothered Sukuna into visiting his nephew. He’d made some cookies—some of your favorites that you’d briefly mentioned at the ramen place, and Jin had immediately gotten to work scouring through his recipes. Flipping through some of grandma’s old cookbooks - he really did get his love for cooking and baking from her.

And then trialing batch after batch of cookies in order to make the perfect one.

And Sukuna hadn’t minded, of course - no one in the house had. They each got to scarf down the ones that Jin deemed as ‘failed’ and they turned out as great as ever. Sukuna honestly didn’t know what more perfection Jin was searching for—especially not for someone he knew Choso was surely paying you in some manner…

There was no conceivable world in which his nephew - as much as Sukuna respected him, for the sole reason that he was related to him (and anyone in some proximity to the great Ryomen Sukuna can’t be all that bad…) - would ever have enough courage to ask a real person out. Let alone someone as electric as you?

Let alone have you say yes?!

Something was up. And Sukuna was on the case.

At least after he finishes this mountain of cookies…

Either way, it took an entire week for Jin to perfect his cookies. And once completed, he’d thumped Sukuna over the head with a couch cushion and told him to go deliver them to Choso.

Unfortunately they hadn’t managed to catch your address or anything of the sort - and there was no telling when Choso would have enough time between his studies and library-haunting to visit. Thus, it’d be easier to just have Sukuna (who was far too busy doing a whole load of nothing) drop the cookies off at Choso’s apartment and let him give it to you.

Jin could trust Choso with handing them to you safe n’ sound.

He couldn’t trust Sukuna not to swallow them whole on the way, however…

So it was with a tonne of brotherly intimidation and threatening brandishes of that cushion that Jin waved Sukuna off—‘you better not eat those cookies, Ryo.’

But Sukuna promised. He promised.

He had other, more important, things on his mind - like cornering Choso into admitting that the two of you actually weren’t dating. Maybe if he didn’t relent so easily, he’d even look around the apartment to check for signs of you or anything you’d left behind—after five months of dating, surely, there’d be some evidence, wouldn’t there?

And then maybe he’d eat the cookies- hah!

The perfect plan.

Ryomen Sukuna what a genius you were, what a mastermind—who said that Jin was the smarter brother?! It was Sukuna that liked literature and poetry (wait, was nerdiness genetic?) No one should underestimate the sheer underappreciated brilliance of a prodigy like-

“Choso’s uncle?” He gapes as you answer the door- and you’re just as beautiful as he remembered you. And oh, alright—Sukuna admits you’re beautiful. Gorgeous, actually.

Which is also why he found it hard to believe that Choso could ever manage to bag you- sure, he wasn’t bad looking…but that’s only because Choso was related to him.

Then again, he wasn’t any Ryomen Sukuna.

A Ryomen Sukuna that was feeling rather…a lot…small as he looks at you.

Your eyes widen as you recognize who your visitor was, though your smile never falters.

“Oh, Cho should be right out. Please come in, have you eaten breakfast yet? You should join us!”

Opening the door even wider, though he stands as still as a statue. 

“Is…everything alright.”

No movement once more. No answer, either.

“Ummm, maybe it’s more comfortable there then?” You’re awkwardly smiling at his lack of a response - this certainly wasn’t the Ryomen Sukuna that you’d met at the family dinner…And perhaps at the same time, you’re realizing why.

Because you weren’t just answering Choso’s apartment door—you were doing so in nothing but sleep shorts and a humerus-related t-shirt that was most definitely not yours. And above the hem of that ratty t-shirt were a series of bite marks, nail marks down your neck…such an obscene display that makes you immediately yelp and tug your neckline upwards.

Though Sukuna remains gawking. “I uh…”

“I am so sorry.” You’re blubbering away, and when your neckline fails to cover you adequately without showing off the similar marks on your midriff- you’re reaching your hands up instead. “We’d just been making breakfast, and I’d completely forgot-”

“No, that’s fine uh…” Goodness, when has the rough n’ tough Sukuna ever floundered like this? “It’s my fault for coming unannounced um…”

“What’s this?” Another voice sounds from inside the apartment.

Soon enough, Choso’s joining the two of you at the door—he’s in JBA sweatpants and pulling on a t-shirt as he walks. With whatever mercy that the universe had granted Sukuna, Choso sneaks up behind you, so he doesn’t see whatever similar markings might have been left on him as Choso finally wears his t-shirt properly. 

There’s amusement in Choso’s tone as he adjusts his glasses and speaks, “I never thought I’d see the day that you apologize to anyone, uncle Ryo.”

Choso throws an arm over your shoulder - the intimacy was palpable. Something far more different than at the ice cream parlor, and yet…Sukuna should’ve recognized the same admiring glint in Choso’s eyes back then, too.

The apartment behind was messy in that domestic way. There were eggs frying on the stove. 

“Sh-shut it.” Sukuna spits. “This is all your…girlfriend’s fault.”

Ah, you really were his girlfriend. The great Ryomen Sukuna has been wrong. How could this be? How could he fathom such a thing?

He takes a big bite out of one of those cookies. 

A/N. Oh Kuna dw I’m here for you <33

Though the comments only stay up for a few moments before they’re scrubbed clean, with the posters receiving warnings from the faculty about spreading harmful rumors, they still send you spiraling. Not just for Caleb who still doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation despite this shitstorm, but for yourself too. People are asking questions about you, their curiosity to know more about this older sister that has fractured the image of the DAA golden boy is dangerous. If any of this leaks beyond the academy and reaches your coworkers at the Hunter’s Association, your job could be in jeopardy. The thought alone makes your blood run cold.

Caleb tries to tell you that none of it means anything and that it will all blow over soon. It fucking drives you up the wall. How can he still downplay the severity of the situation? People know now! Your lives could be ruined forever! What will it take for him to finally get it?

But to your shock and utter disbelief, he’s mostly right.

After the initial flood, the comments taper off. The deletions and warnings do their job. What remains are only occasional stray remarks here and there, quickly dealt with. Caleb has no shortage of admirers, and they quickly take over the narrative, painting him as the victim of haters who can’t compete with him, can’t have him, or are simply jealous of him.

Soon, the tide shifts back in his favor and his fans fawn over him even more for oh-so-bravely weathering this hate campaign. 

Caleb relays all of it to you in the hopes of convincing you that it’s all over now, but you know better. You know these things never truly die. You know people are still talking about you, just amongst themselves and behind his back.  But he doesn’t care. If anything it’s as if the idea of it spurs him on. He doesn’t shy away from mentioning you. He talks about you even more openly now, daring anyone to question him. Nobody does. And his college life carries on as usual. 

But you can’t do the same. 

Those comments were only a taste of what your life could become if your secret is found out. You would spend the rest of your days plagued by judgment and suspicion, even if no one ever learns the full truth—that seed of doubt is like a weed, once its roots have dug in, it’s impossible to get rid of.

If this ever breaches the confines of campus gossip and gets into the real world, would you be able to hold on to the few friends you've managed to make for the first time in your life? If Tara or Simone hear about this, what will they think of you? Will they understand why you’ve had to do it or will they absolve themselves of you? Will you be able to find a partner? How would anyone tolerate such rumors about their lover? Especially when all they need is to take one look at how Caleb behaves around you for all their suspicions to be confirmed? 

Yet despite it all, you know you can’t solely blame Caleb for this. You know this mess is as much your fault as it is his. You should have told him no that night. You should have ended the call as soon as you realized where he was and what he was doing. But you were hurt, your pride was wounded, and some ugly, starved part of you had wanted to be wanted so badly, you were blinded by it.

But it’s not just that. You shouldn’t have started any of this in the first place. The problem is, you can’t even pinpoint when it truly began. Agreeing to jerk him off that first time had pushed the floodgates wide open, but the water had been rising long before then. He had told you as much. Had it started in your teenage years? In childhood? Had the current always been there inside him, waiting to sweep you under? Or had you been the one slowly feeding it, drop by drop, until it could no longer be contained?

Your thoughts rise and churn, turning more tumultuous by the day, and yet Caleb isn’t the slightest bit phased. Once the worst of the storm had passed and he was still standing tall, he stopped trying to calm you. His tone shifted from flippant reassurance to reckless excitement, maybe even triumph.

“See, jie?” He says happily, pulling you into his arms with a bright smile. “Even if they know about us, nothing bad will happen. We can be together. No one will stop us. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your stomach drops. Nothing bad will happen? Is being ostracised as incesteous freaks nothing bad? Is the chance of losing any existing or potential meaningful relationship outside of each other nothing bad? Is spending the rest of your life whispered about, judged, and isolated nothing bad?

“I don’t want that, Caleb.” You answer in frustration. This is not what he’s supposed to learn from this. He’s meant to realise how wrong this is and snap out of it, not grow bolder in his delusions. “I don’t want to live a taboo life. I don’t want people smiling to my face and cursing me behind my back.”

“So this is what it’s really about, huh?” His tone turns accusatory. “It’s not about me or what’s best for me. You’re just ashamed of what being with me will bring.”

And so what? Are you not allowed to not want to be a pariah? Is that such a terrible thing to him? Must you throw everyone and everything else away to make him happy? You would lay your life down for him in heartbeat, but to be forced to live in ridicule and isolation… that may be too much for you to bear, even for your precious didi. 

“It’s about both of us.” You snap back defensively, “You’re fine with this now, smug even, but how long are you going to tolerate being ridiculed? Being abhorred? Having everyone look at you like you’re some disgusting freak?”

“Forever.” He says without hesitation, his gaze burning into yours. “As long as I get to have you.”

Guilt wells up in you at his simple answer. You hate yourself once for making your little brother this way, and twice for then not being strong enough, or selfless enough, to sacrifice everything for him the way he wishes you would. 

But this is for him. He may think he wants this now, but years down the line he will come to resent you. He will see everything he’s lost—all the love, relationships, and community he could have had, and he will hate you for it. And then neither of you will have anyone else to turn to. Your anger and bitterness will build and build until you—

You rub your forehead, a pounding headache throbbing behind your eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get ready for my work social.”

“Then let me come with you.” He springs up quickly. 

“No.” You hiss at him with all the ferocity of a cornered kitten. “This is my work, Caleb. I can’t let you fuck it up.”

He regards you with offense, his jaw tightening. “You think I did it on purpose? I wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t forced me to do it under the threat of leaving me!”

“Oh, cry me a river, Caleb.” You retort, your frustration and guilt making you more unkind than you’d ever wish to be to your baby brother. “You could have controlled yourself until the next day. But that’s impossible for you, isn’t it? Golden boy Caleb can’t go a single day without getting off to his big sister.”

He barks out a bitter laugh. “I controlled myself my entire life living around you while you were flaunting your tits and ass in my face.”

You flush hot, the emotions burning through you so fierce they all meld together, kicking your instincts into overdrive. Here he goes giving voice to your worst fears again—It's all your fault. You did this. You've broken him and now you can't fix him. Dammit, why won't he let you fix him?

“Well, if you were fucking normal, you wouldn’t have been looking!” You lash out at him in your frenzy. 

“Normal?” He breathes out with a strained smile. “What am I then, jiejie? A freak? A disgusting pervert? Is that how you see me?”

The fire in you wanes and almost gutters out. “No, baby, you know that’s not what I meant—”

“But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, jie.”

You flinch back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“If I’m a freak, what does that make you, jiejie?” His smile turns cruel. 

“Don't.” You warn shakily. You can't handle this right now, but Caleb doesn’t stop pushing. 

“You’re the one who raised me.” He says it like he’s delivering your sentence. 

“Stop it, Caleb.” You bite out, voice rising with panic.

“What kind of sister lets her brother sneak into her bed at night?” 

“You were having nightmares.” You justify yourself. What’s wrong with providing your baby brother comfort? Maybe it was more intimate than what most other siblings would have done but how could you have been expected to turn away his scared little face? 

“What kind of sister helps her brother shower into his teens?” He counters, and your breath hitches. Your defense sounds more tenuous this time. “You refused to clean up after basketball unless I helped you!”

He cocks his head to the side, and his teeth glint like fangs within his gleeful smile. “What kind of sister lets her baby brother suck on her tits?”

You feel yourself choke. The memories come flooding back unbidden. You had almost forgotten all about that, blocked those memories out of your psyche for the sake of your sanity, and hoped the years had stolen his away too. But the world isn't so kind, and neither is Caleb. 

You… you had both been so young. You weren’t sure what you were doing. You didn’t know the first thing about caring for yourself, let alone a baby brother. All you knew was that Caleb was prone to anxious fits. He would cry and cry sometimes over the littlest things. You knew from a young age that the only way to shut him up was to give him something to occupy his mouth. You’d witnessed it in the way he would suck at his own thumb, soothing himself despite your grandma's discouragement. He had been much too old for that even back then, but he never outgrew it, perhaps because as a baby he never got to experience the comforts that only a mother can provide, and he had to make do with what he's got—Josephine who was too old to give him what he needs and you who were too young to know what that was. 

For a long while he had contended himself with his self-soothing, but as he grew older and his world filled up with more than just you and your grandma, there were more things to stress him out—fear of failing a class, or losing a game, or someone else stealing your attention from him… 

And suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. His thumb was a poor substitute for the nurture he needed. In his frustration, he started biting down on the digit, and pulling at his nail, trying in vain to calm himself down. When you had seen that first drop of blood, you’d panicked, replacing his finger with yours, and braced for the pain. But it never came. He didn’t bite you. Instead he sucked on your finger gently, and slowly settled down. 

You should have stopped there but the way he had looked at you then, like you were the solace he had been seeking, had you doing it again and again. For a long time, it worked like a charm, though you had to do it behind your grandma’s back after she scolded you harshly the first and only time she caught you doing it.

Until you started middle school and had to leave him behind to go to a different school. He fell into one of his fits again, worse than any you’d ever seen, and neither your fingers, nor endless promises of walking him to school, picking him up, and spending every after-school hour and weekend with him could calm him down.

Caleb had cried so hard, his face had turned red and his tears had gone dry, yet he still wouldn’t stop. You held him in your arms and rocked him for what felt like hours with no relief. His tears and saliva had soaked completely through your shirt when his listless mouth found one of your nipples through the fabric and latched on. Suddenly, he had quieted down, distracted with his desperate, hungry suckling as if he’d be able to pull something out of you if he tried hard enough. You would have said something—you should have said something—but he had cried so much, he had worn both of you out and you were just happy that you’ve finally managed to make it better. So you just held him close, stroking his hair and whispering that everything would be okay until he finally went to sleep.

For some time after that, it became your well-kept secret, your last ditch solution to calm him down, the only thing that could soothe his anxious fits when all else failed—though he had tried many times to get under your shirt at the smallest inconvenience or upset. 

Deep down, you always knew it was wrong. That's why you made sure your grandma never found out about it. The shame had burned hot in your chest even then. But it worked so well! He always became so calm, sweet, and obedient in your arms whenever you allowed it to him. He listened to you. He went to school. He did his homework. He attended his practice. It was like your secret weapon, and you used it more often than you’d like to admit. 

You only stopped when one day he had sighed into your chest and said something unthinkable. 

“You knew what you were doing.” Caleb scoffs, “You made me this way… mommy.”

Your hand flies up before your mind can catch up. Your palm meets his cheek with a loud smack, his head snapping to the side from the force. For half a second, he stands there frozen, head tilted to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. Then his head whips back around and he surges forward, kissing you hungrily, almost violently, as if he’s avenging himself. 

You push at his chest, trying to shove him away, but he’s stronger than you and it takes everything in you to get him off. His knees hit the bed as you push him back, and he topples onto it. You try to step back, but before you can escape, his arms fly out and grab onto you, pulling you on top of him on the bed.

“I am exactly how you raised me, jiejie.” He tells you miserably, “Why are you running away from me?”

You slap a hand over his mouth to silence him, but he opens his mouth and kisses your palm filthily. “Stop it.” You demand, almost pleadingly, but he ignores you, grabbing your hips and pushing you down against his hard cock. 

“This is what you’ve always done, Caleb.” You hiss down at him bitterly, “You never let me say no. You keep pushing and pushing until I give you what you want.”

He moans against your palm, as if proud of his doing, and his hips roll up again, rubbing his hard cock against you shamelessly.

“Are you listening to me?” You ask desperately, begging to be heard, but he just stares up at you with heavy, needy eyes—wanting, wanting so much from you, always wanting. 

“Fucking listen to me!” You snap, anger and despair taking hold of you, awakening your darkest thoughts and giving them grotesque shape. They puppeteer your body, making you surge forward and wrap your hands around his throat. 

For one terrible second you feel relief as he finally stops, his eyes flying wide open in shock. You’ve done it. He’s finally looking at you. He’s finally listening to you. 

“Jiejie?” He chokes out, and the vibrations of his voice, of the air struggling to pass through his windpipe, shock some sense into you. You blink and the haze of fury melts away to reveal your baby brother’s face, and what you see there—shock, worry, confusion, fear—smothers every tendril of rage licking up your body, freeing you from its murderous blaze.

You fling yourself away from him and stumble to your feet with a horrified gasp, your hand burning where it had just gripped his neck.

“I need to go.” You wheeze, your entire body shaking. But Caleb stops you, his fingers locking around your wrist as he too rises, chasing after you like a moth to flame. “Take me with you.”

“I already told you no.” You tell him raggedly. Please, please, get away from me. Just this once. 

“I won’t make a scene, I promise.” He begs pitifully, still seeking comfort in you despite the unforgivable pain you've inflicted. “Please… I can’t be alone right now. Not after this…” His hand drifts up to touch the sides of his neck where your fingers had been moments ago. “I’m scared, jie.”

You heave in a choked cry and reach out to cradle his face in your hands, your knees buckling when he flinches ever so slightly. 

“I would never hurt you.” You vow, guilt strangling you the same way you'd strangled your baby brother. “You know that. You just… frustrate me so much.”

He shakes his head. “You want to kill me.” 

“No!” The word bursts out of you in scream as if it could banish the troubling thoughts away. “No, never!”

“You keep pushing me away.” He insists, tears gathering in his eyes like storm clouds breaking the skyline. “That’s killing me.”

“Baby, stop it…” You plead, drowning under his tears. 

“If you leave me, I’ll die.” He tells you, his voice surprisingly steady in its condemnation. “You know that, jie. You know I can’t live without you.”

“You’re being so unfair.” You lament. All you want is a good, well-adjusted, happy life for him—a normal life where he has a lover and a sister that aren't the same damned woman.

“I don’t care about fair. I only care about you.” He says as if you ever needed to hear that. You knew it all too well, that Caleb will continue to fight that perfect future you dream for him every step of the way. 

_______________________

To your surprise, Caleb is on his best behaviour at the gathering. His tears have dried, leaving his pretty eyes shiny and full of stars, and his broken voice has taken on that boyish, inviting lilt that disarms everyone who meets him. 

He’s dressed up in one of his nicer shirts and a pair of tailored dress pants. They’re nothing fancy but you’re not used to seeing him in something other than his sweats and tanks or cargo pants with a million pockets and three jackets on, and you don’t like the way this unfamiliar outfit shows off his physique. The shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscled arms and the fitted pants draw attention to his thick thighs and round bottom. Even his hair is slicked back neatly, revealing his forehead and thick eyebrows, and you wonder what the purpose of the new look is. 

To you, he still looks like your baby brother putting on a grownup’s skin, but to others he must look like an alluring young man they could sink their teeth into, because they gravitate towards him like flies. Most of them content themselves with stealing glances they think go unnoticed, however some braver ones—or perhaps more idiotic—gawk openly, while a brazen few come up to speak to him directly. 

Your coworkers take to him faster than they ever did to you, and you swallow back the complicated emotions that bubble in you in response, and that you refuse to name.

For most of the night, he stays close by your side, chatting up your coworkers who come up under the pretense of wanting to talk to you, only to end up directing most of their attention toward him. And when they learn he’s your brother, they coo and fawn, praising you for raising such a charming, well-mannered young man. 

Caleb keeps one arm wrapped securely around you the whole time, his smile growing wider with each compliment, and his chest puffed out as if he’d achieved some secret goal he’d set out to prove. 

“I like playing brother and sister more than boyfriend and girlfriend. But I think I’d like it more if I could kiss you right now.” He whispers in your ear the moment the two of you are left alone. “They wouldn’t mind right? Your friends all love me.”

“That’s not funny, you little shit. You promised you’d behave.” You scowl at him. So that’s why he’s dressed like this and acting this way. He thinks your friends liking him as your brother will make them accept him any more as your lover. It’s almost endearing how delusional he can be sometimes, his way of thinking so child-like it makes you wish you could protect him from his own misguided beliefs. 

“Besides,” You say with a sickening sense of deja-vu. ”They’re not my friends.” 

“Really, what about Tara? I thought she was your best friend.” He pushes back, recalling all the times you’d told him about her. “She loves me too. You saw how she invited me to come along on the camping trip next month.” 

“I’m going to text her tomorrow and tell her you can’t make it after all.” You glare at him.  Really, what was he thinking accepting her invitation? That he’ll impress them all so much, they’d overlook the fact that he’s your brother? That he’d be so amazing, they’d congratulate you for being with him? 

“But I want to come.” He whines. 

“And I said no.” 

“But jiejie—”

“I’m going to get a drink.” You snap at him, already turning away. He immediately starts to follow, but you put a hand out to stop him, pointing to the floor where he is standing. “Stay here.” 

“Jie—” He pouts but you don’t wait to listen to his whining. 

It’s probably not the smartest idea to leave him unsupervised and surrounded by a bunch of your coworkers, but you desperately need that drink if you’re going to survive the rest of the night and the whirlwind of emotions that bringing him into the your workplace have conjured up… and it’s not just because you’re afraid of what he might do and how he could cost you everything if he so wishes, but also because he’s once again invaded the one place that belonged only to you. 

Your little brother has never really been good at letting you have anything that didn’t also involve him. 

“So that’s your little brother, huh?” Simone’s voice makes you jump out of your skin as you’re pouring yourself a drink, and you almost drop the cup to the ground.

“Yeah.” You mutter, a little unfriendly, not really in the mood to discuss him when you’ve finally managed to get a couple of minutes away from him.

As if she can hear your thoughts, she laughs. “He’s… clingy, isn’t he?” 

You snort in response. “What gave it away?”

“Well, for one, he’s currently staring at you like a dog waiting for its owner outside of a shop.” 

You throw a glance back towards him, and his sad face perks up for a second as your eyes meet before you force yourself to look away. 

“He seems like a good kid.” She continues, and you feel a pang of guilt in your chest as you almost contradict her. Instead, you force out a small smile. “Yeah… he is.”

“Is everything okay?” She frowns, finally noticing your gloomy mood, and you kick yourself internally for failing to control your emotions.

“Yeah. He’s just a bit of a handful.” You wave her concern away. What can you even tell her? That he was a good kid up until he started demanding you give your body to him? That you don’t know how to control him anymore? That… your own little brother scares you a little bit?  

Instead, you plaster on a bright, fake smile. “But you’re not wrong. He’s like an overexcited puppy—very needy and high maintenance. He wouldn’t even let me come today if he didn’t tag along.” You spin it in a humorous way and she laughs again. “If he’s that needy, why don’t you get him a girlfriend so he’ll bother her instead?”

“Believe me, I’ve been trying.” You mutter, and pretend it’s the drink you’re sipping on that is the cause of your sour expression. 

“Is he into jiejies?” Her question catches you off-guard, and you choke on your drink, the alcohol burning your nose as you cough. “What?”

“Does he like older women?” She repeats with a knowing smile that almost brings you to your knees. But then she continues, “Because if so, I think Christine is trying to gobble him up.”

You snap your head to where she is looking to see your brother cornered by Christine, one of the Captains at the association, her hand gripping his bicep and her tits practically shoved against his chest. 

“Better go save him before the poor boy has a heart attack.” 

You barely hear Simone’s amused voice over the ringing in your ear. You discard your glass, uncaring that it topples over and ruins the tablecloth, and march quickly towards them. 

“Didi, there you are!” You exclaim, tiptoeing up on your already high-heeled feet to wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down in an exaggerated sisterly manner. “What are you up to, you little rascal?” 

“Jie…” He whines as you mess up his hair. “Stop.”

But he’s smiling down at you, happy to have your attention again. You stare up into his bright eyes, his height still taller than you even with the uncomfortable hunch you’ve forced him into, and suddenly you’re pushing his hair down, fixing it back into the boyish banged look he has always sported, your anxiety only settling when he’s all patched up and back to being your baby brother. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes you jump, but Caleb’s own hands around your waist stop you from pulling away from him completely. That’s fine. You’ll let him have this for now. You have more important things to focus on, like pinning the older woman down with a fake smile.  

“Oh, hey Christine. I see you’ve met my baby brother.” You tell her pointedly, hoping she'd get the hint to back off.

"Oh, he’s your brother? I didn’t know.” She lies horribly, and you fight to keep the ugly scowl off your face. Bullshit. Caleb has been proudly proclaiming to anyone and everyone who will hear him that he’s your little brother. No way she didn’t know. 

“Gosh, you’re a pair of good looking siblings, aren’t you?" She chirps, and you don’t miss the annoyance in her eyes at you interrupting them, before her gaze flits back towards Caleb, sliding up and down your brother’s figure brazenly. And god how you wish you could throw your body over him to hide him away from her lecherous eyes. "Bet you're as popular with the ladies as she is with the guys."

You feel Caleb tense against you. 

"Is that so?" He turns towards you, still smiling but you can see the start of a fire in his eyes. "Are men bothering you, jiejie?" 

And suddenly you feel like you’re the one being warned.

"She's just flattering me." You wave your hand in the air, trying to dispel the tension you feel building up. But Caleb isn't satisfied with that answer, and Christine keeps running her mouth, "Nonsense. She's such a heartbreaker, your big sister. She’s got so many admirers but they’re all too scared to approach her because they know she’d coldly brush them off.”

What the hell is she talking about? Men don't approach you because you're not the type of girl they like. You’re not fun and bubbly like Tara, and you’re not cool and charismatic like Simone. You're not sweet or nurturing either—it’s hard to be when all your supply of those goes towards caring for your full grown brother. You just go to work and focus on your job and get on with your day. The only men who ever talk to you are Xavier and Nero, and that’s probably because they have to.

“Now I know why. She is just too busy spoiling her little brother.” The woman laughs obnoxiously, and you feel queasy by how close her little joke is to the truth. “Maybe I can keep her brother busy so she can finally have time to date."

"She's not interested." Caleb says curtly, no longer smiling. "She needs to focus on her work. And I also need to focus on my studies. I'm still in college, you know."

Despite her cluelessness, whether real or feigned, Christine gets a little thrown off by the sudden change in Caleb’s demeanor—sudden for her anyway. But it seems she doesn’t know when to quit. 

"But you're an adult, right?" She asks shamelessly, "Besides, she already seems to have her eyes on someone."

"Who?" Caleb barks, all pretense gone now, and you feel a dragging sensation in the pit of your stomach that you know isn’t just your nerves. 

Christine’s smile turns anxious, and you know she must feel it too. But she has no fucking survical instincts because she keeps going. "Xavier, her mission partner. They're always together, talking secretly about god knows what. The sparks are definitely flying."

"We're just discussing mission details. It’s classified intel." You interject, but the stupid woman rolls her eyes and winks at you. "Suuuure. Missions. Is that why you were grinding against him at the club the other day? Did his—ah!”

Her eyes widen as you feel the force of Caleb’s Evol crushing down on all of you. 

“We have to go!” You squeak, grabbing his arm and frantically attempting to pull him away, every step heavy as if you’re wearing boots of lead. “Caleb, stop it!” 

But he’s not looking at you. Instead, his eyes are darting all around, searching the crowd for a face he doesn’t know. “Which one is he?” 

“Don’t.” You plead with him, gripping his arm tightly. “Caleb, this is my workplace. You’re making a scene.”

"Oh, I haven’t even started yet, jiejie." He spits out and finally looks at you, his gaze dark and spiteful. "You wanted me to date so you can be free to fuck him, huh?"

You gasp, panic flooding your veins as a few curious heads turn in your direction. You quickly press your palm to his chest, catching him off guard and forcing him to resonate with you, allowing you to finally move him. You yank him toward the nearest exit, muttering hasty excuses to your concerned friends about your brother not feeling well and you needing to take him home right away.

The second you’re out of the main hall and away from prying eyes, Caleb pushes you against the wall, his breathing comes out fast and heavy as his large frame cages you, like a rabid animal waiting to pounce. 

“Did you fuck him?” He demands, the rage in his voice making you tremble, and you shake your head vehemently. “No.”

But your denial doesn’t calm him down. 

“Let him eat your pussy?” He asks and you flush. “No!”

“Sucked his dick?”

“Caleb, no!” You whisper furiously, mortified at his wild imagination that is getting him all worked up. “I did none of that!”

“Just grinded against him in front of all your coworkers?” He spits out and you cower, suddenly not feeling so righteous anymore. 

“We were just dancing.” You insist weakly, the fear of being caught by one of your coworkers with your little brother in this compromising position, and the mortification at having been caught by Caleb for your drunken fuckup twisting together so tightly around your throat until it’s hard to breathe. “She‘s exaggerating.”

“So you were dancing with him.” He latches onto the wrong part, his eyes narrowing down at you. “Why?”

“It was a work outing, just like this one. Everyone was dancing.” You try to justify yourself but Caleb will not let this grave sin against him slide. “You could have danced with Tara or Simone. Why did it have to be him?”

“I don’t know!” You lie, all the humiliation from that night flooding back in. “I was drunk, okay?”

“You were drunk?!” Caleb barks, incredulous. “You know how useless you get when you drink. Why the hell would you do that around strange men? What if you were so out of it, you didn’t even know what he was doing to you? What if he took you home and fucked you while you were passed out?”

“Is that why you used to try so hard to get me drunk?” You bristle, refusing to let Caleb chastise you. He has done so much worse than drink and rub against a coworker. He has forced you to defile him again and again, and now he’s mad at you for the one thing you shouldn’t feel guilty for. 

“And what if I did?” He sneers, not even denying it. 

You falter, shocked at how brazen he’s being. ​​”That’s disgusting, Caleb.” 

“That’s what I am, isn’t it. Disgusting.” His lips curl around the words bitterly, “But this isn’t about me. This is about you getting wasted and rubbing your ass against some other man in front of everyone.”

“I told you I didn’t do that!” You lie through your teeth. This is about him. Everything in your life has always been about him, even your stupid decision to dance with Xavier. 

A strange expression suddenly takes over your brother’s usually sunny face, and you have nowhere to run as he leans down, trapped as you are between him and the wall, unable to escape from the darkness in his eyes and the unsettling smile on his lips. “You think he’ll still want you if he finds out what you’ve been doing to me?”

You gape at him. What is he saying? Doing to him? Everything that has happened between you was to try to contain his desires. You didn’t want any of this. He made you. But who would people believe? The precious, little brother who loves and trusts his jiejie so much or the reclusive, unfriendly older sister who never had a man in her life and barely has any friends? You had to have been the one to latch onto him, to blind him so he can only see you, to sink your claws into his heart so it bleeds for you, to break his bones so he could only crawl into your arms. 

“Are you threatening me, Caleb?” Your ask, your voice wavering. “How could you?” 

“You’ve left me no other choice.” He says it like it hurts him more than it hurts you. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You hiss at him, feeling your heart stutter at his betrayal, and you know it would rather stop all together than believe he’d ever do such a thing to you. “After everything I did for you. I let this go on for so long because I didn’t want to hurt you, and now you’re threatening me?”

“Liar.” He snarls, “You’re hurting me! You don’t give a shit about me!”

“What are you talking about? I do!” You whisper harshly, “I care about you so fucking much!”

“You left me!” He cries, “You abandoned me again and again, and every single time I was the one who had to run after you. I was the one who followed you to your college apartment, and I was the one who followed you here, even though it takes me hours to get to you and back, yet I still do it every single week just so I can see you!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” 

“I know! Because you don’t care about me!” He says, eyes wild now as if he actually believes his own words. And you don’t know if you should be hurt for him because you’ve somehow made him doubt your love towards him or hurt for yourself because he refuses to see all the things you’ve done for him. “You never even tried to contact me after our fight. Would you have never talked to me again if I didn’t reach out first or if I refused to get into the DAA?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You scoff, “You’re my brother.” 

“And you sent me away!”

“So you could pursue your dream!” 

“My dream means nothing without you.”

“Don’t say that.” You protest. It can’t all hinge on you and this forbidden love. There has to be hope still. You need to believe it, otherwise you don't know what you'd do with yourself… or him. 

“Do you love me?” He asks and your reply is instantaneous. “Of course, I do.”

“Then how could you bear to force me to be with someone else?” 

“Because ours is a different kind of love.”

“Then I don't want any other.” He says with conviction, “You can be everything for me. You are everything for me.”

You shake your head. “Caleb, please. I am your sister. I can only ever be your sister. You need to get that through your head.” 

He scoffs and looks away for a moment, the pain clear on his face even with his head turned away.

“Baby—”

His eyes snap back to yours, and you take in a shuddering breath at the vulnerability you suddenly see in them. “Do you find him attractive?”

You hesitate for half a second too long. “I—”

His face twists in anger. “Did you let him touch you?”

“I told you, I didn’t.” You lie again. 

“How can I trust that?”

“Caleb, me and Xavier aren’t even together.” You try to convince him but he snorts derisively. 

“And we’re apparently not together but you’re letting me touch you.” He mocks, and as if to make his point, a hand comes up to palm your breast as he presses his body flush against yours. “If you’re letting your own brother touch you like this, why wouldn’t you let a man you find attractive do it too?”

“That’s low, Caleb.” You growl and try to push him away but he doesn’t budge. He’s using your over-indulgence of him against you, treating you as if you’re just giving it away to anyone, and not like it’s taken everything in you to give him what you thought he needed because you love him that much. 

“Do you love him? Is that it? You found someone better and now you're throwing me away?” He interrogates you, and the fury and pain you see in his eyes almost pull you under. “What do you like about him? Is it the way he looks? The way he treats you? His voice? His profession? I can change. I can be anything you want me to be, jie.”

But you can never not be my brother. 

“I don't love him.” You insist, pained at seeing the way your little brother is so willing to mangle himself in order to try to fit into a mould he thinks you might want. “We barely even talk, Caleb.”

“That’s not what that woman said.” He mutters accusingly and you frown. “It’s what I’m telling you.” 

But like anything you’ve tried to tell him lately, it goes into one ear and out the other. 

“I won’t let you make a fool out of me, jie.” He shakes his head, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. “I only hooked up with that woman because you forced me to. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you fuck around with other men.” He spits out, his gaze hardening. “If I find out you’ve been with him, I’ll—”

You feel it before he even finishes his sentence… the harsh, oppressive weight of his Evol pressing all around you, making your spine creak, your muscle ache, and the air in your lungs feel like water.

“I haven’t! I won't!” You proclaim frantically, not trying to defend your right to a hypothetical date you know would only end in disaster.

“Prove it.”

You look up at him helplessly, and croak out, “How?”

__________________________

“Caleb, please, I promise, nothing happened.” You plead, laid back on your bed with nothing but your underwear on. The same underwear he’s now tugging down your legs. 

“I don't believe you.” He grunts, peeling them off completely. The moment they’re off, you instinctively press your legs together, a rush of embarrassment flooding through you. But Caleb’s hands grip onto your thighs and shove them apart. “Let me see, jie.” 

You bite your lip and look away, squeezing your eyes shut as your heart hammers wildly in your chest. For a long moment, he’s completely silent. All you can hear is his heavy, uneven breathing as he stares down at your exposed pussy. You can feel tears stinging your eyes, moments away from flowing freely, exposing your shame to his greedy eyes as bare as he’s exposed your body. 

He hates it. He doesn't like how you look. He’s disgusted by you. 

But then his voice comes out soft and awed. “You're so pretty, jiejie. Better than I ever imagined.” 

You gasp, daring to sneak a glance at him, fully expecting to see a mischievous smile on his face as he mocks you. But he’s not looking up at you at all. Instead, he’s staring down between your legs like a starving man. 

“Look how wet you are.” He bends down, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, sending tingles racing up your spine. “Is that because of me? Or him?” 

You bite down on your lip harder, and stay quiet. 

“Tell me, jie. He demands, and you feel his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. “Or I’ll be really mad.” 

You shiver, recalling his threat from earlier. Swallowing harshly, you taste your own blood, metallic and nauseating, just the same as your shame. “It's you, didi.” 

A pleased sigh escapes him. “I knew it. I know you want me just as much as I want you.”

You feel yourself drowning in self-loathing as his fingers trace over your slick folds, unable to deny your unforgivable desire when the evidence of it is right at his fingertips that spread you open so he can commit every debauched inch of you to memory. 

“So pretty for me, jie.”

“Just get to it.” You squirm, your cheeks burning with a flush that spreads down your neck and into your chest at how closely he’s staring at this very intimate part of you—a part of you that no one else has seen before, and yet once again you’d given it away to your little brother. 

“So demanding.” He huffs as if you’re the one who wants it. But you don’t dare contradict him. You just lay there quietly and wait to be vindicated so you can finally put this behind you. You’ll never try anything with another man again, not until Caleb has moved on and whatever this is between you is dead and buried six feet under. 

Caleb gathers your slick on his fingers, coating them generously before pushing one inside of you slowly, only managing to get to the first knuckle before it meets a tight resistance that makes him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re a virgin.” He breathes, and you can hear both the relief and arousal clearly in his voice. 

“There you go. I'm untouched.” You mutter in resignation, feeling so mortified and helpless at having had to prove it in this humiliating way. But it's your fault really. You should have never danced with Xavier. And you should have raised your brother better. 

“You should be touched. You’re perfect. Prettier than any pornstar. I knew you would be.” He sighs dreamily. 

You open your mouth to scold him but you're cut off when he lowers his head between your thighs, his mouth descending on you eagerly, his lips enveloping your slick folds and his tongue dragging along the full length of your pussy. 

You feel more than hear him groan in appreciation, his lips and tongue working to lap up every drop of your arousal as if just that could sustain him for the rest of his life. 

“Caleb!” You squeak, flustered by the sight of your little brother between your legs, kissing your pussy the same way he kisses your lips. 

He looks up at you, not shying away from staring you dead in the eyes as he pulls his face back every so slightly so you can see how his tongue sticks out to flick at your clit, the wet sounds of his saliva and your juices squelching in your ears. 

“Baby, baby, wait—” You plead out, feeling yourself hurling towards a nauseating orgasm. You cannot handle the way he looks up at you, so blissful and hungry like he’s finally where he wants to be, and you fucking hate how sinfully arousing he looks doing it. 

Will any man ever want you as much as he does? Did you do this to him because deep down you knew it would be the only way to get the love and attention you so desperately needed? Is this a trap of your own making?

“Didi, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” You cry out as you cum, soaking him in more of your sin. But Caleb is not interested in your pathetic pleas for forgiveness. He feeds on your guilt and arousal like a ravenous beast come to collect your soul. 

And he keeps feasting even as your shameful cries of pleasure turn to sobs of pain. “Please, didi, stop, it hurts.”

It all hurts so much. 

He finally pulls back with a whine, taking his mouth off your pussy so he can climb up to kiss your lips, feeding you your own sin, the taste of it sour and bitter on your tongue but Caleb moans around it as if it’s the sweetest nectar.

“Baby, it hurts.” You repeat, whimpering when you feel his finger continuing to prod at your hymen, pressing against it again and again as if to make sure it’s still there.

“Yeah? It’s because you’re so tight, jie.” He blames you once again. “So tight I don’t know how you’ll fit my cock.” 

You squirm uneasily, trying to get away from his persistent finger. “Stop it, Caleb. I don’t like it when you talk like that.” 

But he’s not listening. He pushes your hips down with his palm, keeping you still. “It’s okay. I’ll make it fit. I was made for you,” 

And then he’s reaching for his pants, fumbling with the zipper in his haste as he stares hungrily at the spot where part of his finger disappears into your heat. 

“Caleb, no!” You cry out in panic and try to snap your legs shut, but his Evol slams down on you, making you yelp in pain as your legs are suddenly forced back open, your thighs spread for his scrutiny and his cock that now rests against your pussy. 

You’ve seen it many times before. It has always been impressive in length and girth, but seeing it resting on your pussy now, the length of it reaching all the way to your belly button makes you break out in a cold sweat. 

“Baby, what are you doing? Please, don’t do this.” You tear up as he rubs his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, preparing for something terrible.  

“Caleb, stop it!” You yelp when he presses the large head right at your entrance, your pussy screaming in protest as he tries to force his way inside. 

“Shh, it's okay, jiejie.” He leans forward to kiss away the tears that escape you. “Just the tip, okay? Even your little pussy can take that.”

You shake your head harshly. “Didi, please, don’t do this. This is wrong.” You try to reason with him but your words only bring back that anger that started it all. “What's wrong is you sending me away and pushing me onto other girls so you can whore around with him.” 

“You—” You shout, but your words come out garbled as he shoves himself inside you, forcing your pussy to stretch around the flared head.  

“Stop, stop!” You hit his chest repeatedly as he continues to push, bullying more of himself inside. You feel him reach your hymen and then press further, the pain of it making your head spin. 

You stare up at your little brother, his angry face swimming in your vision, and you wonder if you’ve truly lost him. 

But true to his words, he stops. “F-Fuck, jiiieee. You—ngh—feel so good.” He moans, his head falling down to the crook of your neck as he pauses to catch his breath, his entire body shaking. 

“Why?” You croak out, the fire between your legs nothing compared to the ache in your heart. 

“I can't let anyone else—hah—have you, jiejie.” He pants, covering your neck in wet kisses. 

You shiver, and reach your arms out to wrap around him, seeking solace but knowing you can only hope to find it in the same boy, no… man, who hurt you. Your baby brother who used to cry if he even mistakenly upset you, has somehow turned into a man who takes what he wants regardless of how you feel. And he wants you intimately, profanely. “I told you I didn’t do anything with him. I proved it.”

“You only proved that he hasn’t had you yet.” He grunts, and pulls back to stare at your bodies where you're so precariously connected, his expression turning desperate as his eyes flick back to yours, and you feel queasy seeing the same look your little brother always gives you when he asks for something he knows he shouldn't, but also knows you wouldn’t deny him either. “Fuck, do I have to wait? I don’t want to wait. I want you so bad. What if I wait and you fuck him. I'd go crazy.” 

As if he’s not already there. 

“I won't, Caleb.” You promise with all the conviction in your rotten soul. You won’t. You won’t. You never want to see him like this ever again. 

“I wish I could believe you.” He murmurs sadly, his gaze locked with yours as he pulls his hips back only to thrust forward again, the tip of his cock barely slipping out before he's burying it back inside you. You don’t hold back your whimper of pain from him, and he doesn’t hold back his vengeance from you. “Holy shit…That woman said you’re with him all the time, hiding away from others. She saw you rubbing against him in front of everyone, yet you won't even let me kiss you in public.” 

“It’s not true, baby. She’s lying.” You deny, still hoping it would save you from an even worser fate. 

“Why would she lie?”

“Why would I lie?” You implore the part of him that trusts and respects his jiejie, hoping it's still alive. But the smile he gives you is not that of your doting little brother. “Because you know I'll chop his hands off and feed him his own dick if he touched you.” 

Bile rises in your throat. You can't tell if he really means it or if it's just the heat of the moment, and that fucking terrifies you. Would your brother really try to hurt Xavier if he finds out the truth? How far does his obsession really go? Is there any remaining hope at all?

“It didn't happen, okay?” You cower, unwilling to face the possibility of your precious baby brother doing something so violent, even as he unleashes some of that same violence upon you. “I promise, di.” 

“I want to believe you, jie. I really do.” He sighs, his hand gripping your chin tightly as he stares deep into your eyes, trying to seek out the truth. “I will lose it if I find out you’re lying to me.” 

You cradle his face in your hands and pull him down for a passionate kiss, coaxing him to soften for you. “I’m not, baby. I promise.” 

Let me in. Don't do this. Please, come back to me.

And he does, his face crumbling into the needy look you're so familiar with, his eyes shining wet and pitiful with yearning. “I love you, jie.”

You sigh in relief. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

“You don’t. Not as much as I do. Or you wouldn’t keep saying no to me.” He whines, and sits back on his heels, his hands gripping your hips as he resumes his thrusts, watching the head of his cock disappear in and out of your hole again and again. “I want you s-so much, jie. I wanted you before I even—hah—knew what my cock was for.” 

Because there is something seriously wrong with you, didi. 

And there is something seriously wrong with me. 

And I can’t tell which one of us had this sickness first. 

But the disgust that his confession brings up in you does nothing to dampen the pleasure you feel as your pussy slowly starts getting used to the intrusion, moulding around his cock in order to accommodate him. Every part of you will always yield to your little brother, even this. 

“You were made for me.” He moans and your pussy flutters around him in answer, producing more slick that makes the slide of his cock easier. It sucks him in hungrily, and suddenly you can feel just how empty you are inside. 

Do it. He can fill up that hole inside you. He feels it too. Just give in. Take what you both need. 

A voice calls out from deep within your mind, the sound distant and muffled as if buried under layers of rubble. Something in its enthralling tone seems so terrifyingly familiar to you, like a desire you'd long buried but has now returned from the dead to drag you to hell. 

But you resist its call. It’s not your little brother’s duty to fix what you lack. If you have influenced him to think he needs to then you must correct him before you ruin him completely. 

"Does it feel good for you too, jie? Tell me, please..." He whimpers, the anticipation and worry on his face almost have you spilling to reassure him. “It feels so good for me. This is where I belong. Fuck, do you feel it too, jie?”

His thumb brushes over your clit, the friction making your hips rock against his hand involuntarily, mindlessly chasing more of that pleasure.

“Please, say it, jie.” 

You shake your head, trying to rebuke both your brother's delusional pleas to join him in his lunacy and the incriminating demands coming from your own mind. 

This is not right. He should have never known what the inside of you felt like, let alone think he belonged there. It would have been less abominable for him to dig his hand into your chest and stifle the life out your heart that you'd already given to him so many years ago. 

Caleb sees your denial for rejection. “If you can’t feel it then maybe I’m not deep enough.” He grunts, his thumb flicking over your clit more roughly now as he pushes his cock further inside you, the head of it painfully stretching your hymen. “I need to go all the way inside you. I need to feel your blood that runs through my veins dripping down on my cock.”

You don't know if it's fear or arousal you feel at the thought of the blood that you both share staining your little brother's cock after he takes you in a way no other man has, and no brother ever should… but whatever it is, it pushes you over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as you scream, an overwhelming pleasure ripping through your body. 

“Fuck, jiejie—” He groans, his hips twitching as he tries to fuck your pussy, but it clamps down on him, mercifully preventing him from acting on his threats. “Shit—shit—you're milking my c-cock, jie. You're gonna make me cum… fuck, please, jie, please—I need—I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”

Amidst your violent orgasm and his frenzied reaction, a rational thought somehow makes it through the swill of shame and pleasure, and you yelp out. “Caleb, pull out. You need to pull out, baby. I'm not on birth control.” 

You hear nothing in return but his delirious babbles of ‘I love you. I love you. Jiejie, I love you so much.’

“Caleb, did you hear me?” Your voice rises with panic, “Pull out!”

Though his eyes are locked on you, he doesn’t acknowledge your frantic pleas. 

You feel his cock twitch.

Oh god. 

Your little brother is going to cum inside you. You're going to get knocked up with your baby brother's child. Your lives will be ruined forever.

But at the last second, he pulls out, and you feel his hot cum land on your pussy, covering you in his seed that thankfully wasn’t given the chance to take. 

“Fuck…” He groans, staring down at the mess he made of you as if mesmerized. “You… you bled a little.”

Your eyes snap down to see the ever so small streak of your blood marring his otherwise pearly white cum. 

He must have slightly torn your hymen when he tried to go all the way. Shivering, you think of how close he got… and that emptiness inside you yawns wider. 

“Shit, jie.” He sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers smearing his release over your swollen lips. “You came so hard on my cock. Did you like hearing what I want to do to you?”

"No, Caleb." You croak, voice strained as you shake your head weakly. “I didn't—I don't like it.”

“Liar.” He purrs, grabbing his still-hard cock and dragging the thick head along your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess of your blood and his cum. “I felt how tight you got around me when I said—”

“You were playing with my clit.” You snap quickly, “That’s why I came.”

Caleb shakes his head as he slides his cock lower and lines the blunt tip up with your entrance once more. “That’s not what happened. You want it, jie. You want your little brother’s cock—”

“Stop it, Caleb!” You push your legs shut and kick at his hips, trying to shove him back. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s fucking disgusting!”

He catches your legs easily, forcing them back down onto the mattress as he climbs over you again, caging you beneath his larger body.

“You can deny it all you want, jie, but I know the truth. I felt it.” He growls, and you cower into the sheets, but you have nowhere to run away from this frightful version of your little brother he blames you for. 

“Caleb, you’re hurting me.” You tell him meekly, and worry if that even means anything to him anymore.

“What about me?” Caleb counters, pressing his hips forward so the thick head of his cock stretches your sore entrance again. The burning overstimulation makes you whimper, your abused pussy clenching involuntarily around him. “You hurt me every time you deny our love.”

“Caleb, please… don’t do this.” You plead, the jagged pieces of your broken heart cutting up your throat. “Not this way.”

He glares down at you, his entire body taut as his wants and desires battle with his need for your acceptance and approval. 

“You don’t want your first time to be like this.” You press on, trying desperately to reason with him. 

“Our first time.” He hisses, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. But, finally, he pulls his cock out, making you both shudder, and you tell yourself it's from relief. “You’re mine, jie. You can’t run from it much longer. You’re my sister… my best friend… and my mother.”

You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he pushes his thumb between your lips, pressing down on your tongue to silence you.

“And one day soon, I’m going to take your pussy and make you my woman too. Then you’ll be all mine and no one will ever take you away from me. Not even you, jie.”

your dry spell came to a head in college when you were treated like a damn baby of the group because you were a virgin. you planned to change that though with the help of your trusty friend, zayne!

he'd refused at first, said kissing was merely an unnecessary exchange of bacteria that could give you cavities if the other person had them. that's a lot coming from a guy who loads his coffee with sugar and loathe the dentist's sugar-free advice.

nevertheless, he offers to help and it's awkward at first—teeth clinking, his glasses digging into your cheeks, you biting him too hard—but then he teaches you, slow and confident. now you're disappearing from the group to steal kisses during hangouts and at parties.

does anyone have a clue? not at all and it's so thrilling doing things in secret, glances across the room all knowing and sly from those hazel-green eyes, fingers brushing in ways that make your heart stutter and your stomach flip.

zayne and you are the epitome of stealth even when after one movie night—minus caleb who had basketball practice—lead to the next base. for all his nerdiness and emotional constipation, zayne fucked you so good that you could barely meet his eyes the next morning while he panicked wondering if he ruined what you had for good.

thankfully, he didn't but now you'd pounce on him whenever the opportunity arose and he couldn't deny that he relished it. sexually repressed men were a different breed even if he was the only breed you knew.

alas, secrets can only be hidden for so long especially if the bearers of it were as insatiable as you two. in this particular case, it's aired during a group camping trip with tara, gideon, simone, jenna, caleb and other friends.

taking walks through the forest, canoeing together, sitting next to each other around the bonfire and sharing drinks were common in close friendships but caleb felt differently as he saw just how cozy zayne and you were during the trip.

gideon told him that he was crazy and that you two are attached to the hip now that caleb is busier. still, that didn't sit right with the guy. so imagine his surprise when he woke up to drink so water in the middle of the night and caught zayne slipping into your tent?

triumphant and smug, he ducked inside after a few minutes, going “aha!” only for his voice to die down with shock as he walked in on you folded under the other man, a sheen of sweat covering your naked bodies as you both looked like deers in headlights.

no wonder the lights were off in here! if they were on, caleb would've seen your silhouettes melding and moving as one from outside the tent. and he thought this thing was moving with the strong wind like the rest of the tents were.

“zayne, you sneaky bastard,” he hissed, voice light and playful but there was a flash of something in his gaze as he stared at you both with those darkened sunset eyes. “corrupting our silly girl all by yourself? no wonder you've been skipping out on our hangouts.”

said man's jaw flexes as your heart drops to your fucking ass, his cock still hard and throbbing inside your fluttering cunt.

“i can assure you that no coercion or manipulation took place for this to happen. she was the one who proposed the idea,” cool and calm, zayne informed him.

“he's telling the truth, caleb,” you confirm, blood roaring in your ears. you did not want it to come out like this.

squinting in suspicion, caleb hums as his dark brows lower. “is that so? well, i guess that means i’m the first to find out.”

guilt gnaws at your gut. for some reason, zayne doesn't get off you and you don't want him to. “yeah, please don't tell anyone.”

caleb sighed, lowering his voice. “relax. i’m not going to tell anyone.”

silence stretched as relief sunk into your bones.

“but,” he added, ametrine gaze shifting between you, “I had a feeling something was going on. and I don’t exactly hate the idea.”

“i'm just hurt that no one let me in on all the fun,” he adds so casually as if he didn't just drop a bomb.

the air inside the tent felt thin.

stumped, you looked at him. then at the other man you've known your whole life.

no one laughed like it was a joke this time.

the decision wasn’t impulsive. it was cautious, wordless, built on years of trust. the man above you shifted to make space to the other who crawled over.

moments later, your childhood best friends were in a position they only dreamed of with you—you taking zayne in your mouth while caleb snapped his hips up against yours, rough and hard.

“careful, you'll bruise her,” zayne scolds, cutting the other man a glare as he holds your hair away from your face, making sure you don't choke even if his hips stutter with the urge to fuck your throat.

your glassy, red-rimmed eyes peering up at him as your lashes bat while you drooled around his cock were not fucking helping.

a crooked, sleazy grin flashes across caleb's face, unruly bangs falling over his eyes as he thrusts faster just to piss the oldest of you three off, causing you to garble a squeaky moan of surprise around zayne's leaking cock.

“oh, i think she doesn't mind a little bruising,” he purrs, legs bend as he plunges into you again and again that you can barely focus on swallowing around zayne as your pussy convulses and gurgles with filthy squelches. “don't you, baby?”

a hum in approval leaves your throat, the vibration thrumming through zayne's cock as his hips cant and his head drops forward.

moments later, you're laid back against zayne's sweat-speckled chest while caleb hovers above you, both their cocks nestled deep inside your overstuffed cunt, rubbing together as they stroke you into a fucking coma all while bickering about being quiet. grunts and groans punctuated their hushed argument.

the older of the two men scoffs when the younger lets out fucked-out little whimpers. "you sound so whiny," he mocks.

affronted, caleb freezes momentarily then gives him a shit-eating smirk. "yeah? you seem to like it with how you're throbbing against me, nerd."

zayne's taunting falters at that. "i am not."

puffing out a breath, you interject, "you kinda are, i can feel it."

wow, even at a time like this caleb and you are ganging up on him. but your words just draw their gazes to you and their verbal sparring is forgotten.

they're both enamored by your half-lidded drowsy gaze, kiss-bitten lips parted on soft pants and quiet mewls, hair fanned out messily and the way your breasts bounce with their thrusts. groping at your supple flesh, they trace all the indents of their teeth and blooming hickeys littering your skin with reverence.

“shit, isn't she pretty?” caleb breathes dreamily, violet gaze alight with awe as he regards you with admiration reserved for goddesses.

“fucking gorgeous,” zayne grits out, breath hot and condensing against the shell of your ear, sounding just as ardent as his friend.

it's dazzling and dizzying at the same time to be the woman of both their affections as you're sandwiched between them.

scrambled as your mind is from all the sensations, the stretch, the burn in your muscles and their scents engulfing you along with the toasty air that warms your damp skin, only one thought floats through your head.

you should've let caleb in on this sooner.

“crap, how are we gonna do this when we go home for the holidays?” caleb suddenly asks, seemingly full of energy like a dog with zoomies despite how many hours and orgasms have passed.

“what?” zayne and you ask at the same time.

scratching his head, caleb frowns as he thinks long and hard, hips lazily rolling against yours before his eyes brighten and he snaps his fingers.

“we can do it in the old tree house! i’ve always wanted to try—”

too exhausted, exasperated voices grumble out, “shut up, caleb,” as the man in question chuckles boyishly into the night.

The Roman Empire had taught its daughters many things: obedience, modesty, silence. None of them prepared a noblewoman to lock a gladiator in chains at his own request.

He smiles faintly and even that is laced with ill-intent. Though it could just be the nerves buzzing within you.

“Your hands shake,” he observes.

Clenching your fists, you crumple the sides of your robes. “They do not.”

There's a flash of teeth, light flickering across the shiny enamel of them. “They do.”

You hate that he can read you so easily. Perhaps it's because he's always watching. Gladiators who failed to watch everything did not live long.

That and he's shadowed you for the past few months, attending gatherings like a bodyguard more than a “pet” as people tried to address him. Entering the arena only to defend your honor and sometimes out of the primal need for violence that he learnt during his captivity. At parties, you'd stand with him and gossip about the snobby aristocrats and snicker at suitors trying to gain your favor as if you were not cut from the same cloth.

Before anything else, he was your friend. Your father would surely have a stroke if he heard that. Much less saw what you were about to do.

Still, you lift the iron shackles.

The metal closed around his wrists with a heavy clack.

He does not resist. He does not even tense. Instead he leans his weight back, sitting on his calves, the chains stretching taut between his hands, enormous shoulders rolling as though the restraint meant nothing.

Which, you suspect, it didn’t.

“See?” he rumbles, voice laced with mockery as he feigns a displeased frown. “Now the terrible barbarian cannot frighten you.”

You huff softly despite how nervous you are. “You frighten everyone.”

“That is the idea.”

“And you're not a terrible barbarian,” you add, offended on his behalf, having never liked when people called him such, earning a toothy grin from him that he dips his chin to hide.

The pink-haired man quite enjoyed you eloquently telling people off for disrespecting him while you admired how he held his head high despite his unfavorable circumstances.

He was the son of a fallen chief, taken after the war that shattered his tribe beyond the northern seas. The arena had renamed him, caged him, blooded him for sport. But sometimes when he spoke of home—of rivers that sang through mountains and women who were honored beside men—you glimpsed the fair leader he must have been.

The man before you lowers his voice.

“You said you feared my strength.”

Swallowing, you nod. “I do.”

“You said you wished to lead.” His eyes lift to yours, expectant.

Your cheeks warm as you make a noncommittal sound.

True, you had said that weeks ago, wine loosening a secret you had never spoken aloud. In this empire, wives obey. Lovers please. Women do not command.

He had laughed then—deep, warm, utterly unoffended.

“Where I come from,” he had told you, “women command kings.”

Now his gaze held yours across the lamplight.

“I leave in three nights,” he reminds you and you ignore the ache behind your ribs. “Your plan will free me.”

“Yes,” you affirm. You had bribed guards, arranged a burned corpse, forged records. Soon the city would believe its fiercest gladiator died of severe wounds.

Believable, it was. For Sukuna had made many many foes especially now that he was at your side, the daughter of a high-ranking nobleman who suddenly did not wish to entertain suitors.

Everyone suspected that you were having an illicit affair with your gladiator. They simply could not comprehend the thought of you opening your home to him and letting him stay as a guest for any other reason.

The plan had been brewing from the moment your father presented him to you among other treasures as if he were a part of the spoils of war. Guards with spears pointed at him as if he were a wild beast where he was kneeling with his hands bound behind him and a glare that promised vengeance.

Pitting animals against each other already made your stomach turn so the thought of hosting fights for him to participate in had you queasy. You accepted him as a gift simply to ensure he didn't become a weapon of destruction for someone crueler or a plaything for a noble with “exotic tastes.”

Everything had gone according to plan but the thought of him vanishing beyond the horizon left an hollowness you had not expected.

His chains shift as he leans forward slightly, wrists shackled in front of him as his gaze bores into yours, carmine darkening with conviction that has your heart in your throat.

“I have fought lions,” he tells you as he had once before under the moonlight on the balcony when you couldn't sleep and he was there sharpening his sword. The man is wise and you adored gaining knowledge from all that he had seen and heard. He was fluent in many tongues as well. “Men twice my size. The arena roars my name because they think nothing can master me.”

The iron rattles as he tugs deliberately against it to draw your eyes down to it.

“Tonight,” he murmurs as if it were a solemn vow, “you can.”

Your stomach flips.

“You trust me that much?”

“I trust you more than anyone in this cursed city.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with the heat of the oil lamp.

“You could break those chains,” you whisper, understanding dawning on you.

“Yes.”

“And yet you—”

“I offered.” His smirk was slow, almost wolfish. “You wished to lead, my lady. I wished to honor you.”

He tilts his head, coral hair brushing the back of his neck, having grown out a bit under your care. He was due for a trim before he left. Everything about him looks healthier, his muscles had a layer of fat over them rather than being painfully saturated from the lack of nutritious food, clean water and a sanitary home.

“In my homeland, the gods favor bold women.”

His voice drops lower.

“Show me you are one.”

You stare at the enormous warrior shackled before you—this terror of the arena with a frightening wingspan and who's usually bathed in blood has willingly given you the power Rome would never allow you.

And slowly, very slowly, you step closer.

“Sukuna,” you began, not knowing where to start or if you truly wanted to do this. For all you knew, it could have just been a mere fantasy, a distant daydream of something unattainable that only appealed to you since it was out of reach.

“Ryomen,” he corrects.

The name weighs heavy on your tongue like it did the day he shared it with you. His real name, not the titles bestowed upon him by entitled men who'd be running for the hills if he wasn't on the low end of the food chain. The significance of it was not lost on you.

Your inner thighs are still sticky from your fingers earlier, when you were writhing in your bed, strumming your clit as his name fell from your lips like a prayer. Honestly, you wish you could lie and say you don't know what came over you.

However, it all stemmed from a few nights ago when you'd passed by his quarters and heard a grunt. Peering inside, you almost knocked, assuming he had gotten injured again and were ready to scold him about unnecessary brawls when you caught a glimpse of something that dried up your throat.

A glimmering sheen of sweat coated his inked body in all its naked glory as he'd slumped on his bed, head tipped with his thick cock fisted in his big hand, angry red tip leaking with pearls of precum. His pink tresses fell into his eyes, brows pinched as he sucked air in through his teeth. Muscles on his abdomen danced, dark markings creasing, as he stroked his cock, squeezing just right, pulling a deep groan from his throat.

Face flushing, you should have left then and there, thighs clenching and pussy pounding in shame, but then he murmured your name, startling you. You'd almost thought you were caught in your perverted peeping but he was in the throes of his pleasure, blushing a rosy pink across his cheeks as he called out for you.

Hot all over, you had scurried away, aroused and embarrassed that you witnessed such a vulnerable moment of his, guilt gnawing at your gut.

Yet tonight, when he entered your room and saw you like that, it felt like deja vu but the roles were evidently swapped. Then he proposed this idea and well, here you are.

A bottle of wine on your table is the savior for your awkward, antsy hands that aren't quite ready to reach for him yet. Sukuna is the picture of patience as he watches you, dry amusement twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“Thirsty?” he asks as if he's truly concerned for your hydration.

“Mhm,” you hum, popping the cork off and drinking straight from the bottle while he chuckles at the glug, glug, glug of flowing liquor.

His eyes on you are like a physical touch, tracking the bottle pressed to your lips and down the line of your throat as you gulp the liquid courage down. Tongue pressing to the back of his teeth, he's suddenly parched too. It helps that you're drinking one of his favorite ones.

“Quite a good selection you have there,” Sukuna chimes, his interest obvious.

Gaze sliding over to him, you arch a brow as you hold the bottle out to him, a taunt you don't realise is one until you remember he's restrained. “Would you like a sip?”

“I would, yes. Could you pour it into my mouth?” he requests politely, something you've never heard him do with anyone else and it makes you preen.

Stepping forward, you're about to take the bottle over to him when a wicked thought passes through your mind. There's a hulking, handsome monument of a man kneeling for you and you would be a fool not to make the most of it.

Emboldened by the sloshing wine in your belly, you take another mouthful of it, holding it there. Sauntering over, Sukuna watches as your hips sway hypnotically, lamplight caressing your skin like he wants to, plush thighs rubbing each other when he wants nothing more than to be smothered between them.

Coming to stand before him, you're towering over the man for once, shadow casting over him as he looks up at you through low-lidded eyes, anticipation building in the air between you, as sweet as the essential oils from your bath and spicy as the scent that clings to him as if it's his natural musk.

Gripping the chain of his collar, you tug and the muscle in his jaw flexes. A knowing glint passes through his crimson irises and his mouth opens. Then you're bending, the mint on his breath wafting over you as your lips part, blood red liquor pouring from your mouth into his.

He drinks it down like it's his only sustenance, Adam's apple bobbing as he tastes the candied citrusy undertones of the warm liquid that came from being in your mouth. The moment he swallows, his resounding hum is muffled by your lips, tongue swiping across his as you lick up the traces of wine and dizzy him with your greedy mouth, barely letting him breathe. A harsh exhale hits your nose as he tries to get a gulp of air in.

Breaking away with a pant, your swollen mouth kicks up into a satisfied smile that Sukuna wants to see for the rest of his days. The robe you're in is thin and white, leaving nothing to the imagination as the gold bands around your biceps glint. Not that he hadn't seen it all when he came in earlier to find an angel sprawled on the bed, hair fanned out like a mural.

Still, the plump swell of your breasts and the valley between them teases him as the fabric falls open, just shy of dropping down your shoulders and tantalizing him with more of your skin glistening from your oils and lotions.

A thrum of heat trickles down his spine, molten hot as it dips in his stomach and fuels the fire stirring behind his leather loin cloth. The only article of clothing he has on this late at night other than his strappy brown sandals that weave around his bulging calves. And yet, it feels like too much as if he's wearing layers in the height of a scorching summer.

Watching you ease into this fantasy of yours has his chest bubbling with pride that he's the one coaxing it out of you. He'll play along for as long as you wish—or as long as his patience lasts, whichever comes first.

For the first time, there's a gleam of condescension in your eyes, something he detests from others but he knows yours is fuelled by budding sexual prowess and not a place of superiority—he'd let you walk all over him regardless if it meant your skin touched his. It has his cock kicking beneath his loincloth, throbbing as he stares up at you from the floor while you loom over him like a deity of depravity.

“Would you like some more?” Your voice is a smooth rasp that brushes over his skin, goosebumps raising off his flesh as a breath passes his lips, an exhale that makes his chest quake.

“Yes, my lady. If you would be so kind,” he confirms, gaze flickering between your face and the bottle in his hand.

Spurred on by his compliance, you down the rest of the wine in a couple of long draughts, your swallows loud. Popping your lips off the rim, a drip of dark red dribbles down your chin but you pay it no mind, having too much fun messing with him.

“How unfortunate,” you muse as you shake the bottle, emphasizing its emptiness. “I'm afraid there is no more.”

Some of Sukuna's amusement dampens at that, eyes narrowing slightly as you were certainly not remorseful at all. Lips thinning, his jaw tightens. “Indeed, very unfortunate.”

You put the bottle aside and clap as if you just got the brightest idea, beaming at him. There's a mischievous mirth in your twinkling eyes.

“Fear not, I have come up with a solution,” you announce cheekily.

Rolling his head to the side, he sighs. “Ever the problem solver, my lady.”

A huff of laughter leaves you as you approach him again, you place a hand on his jaw and turn his face to yours once more. “Open up, Ryo,” you coo, the nickname tickling him.

Obeying, his lips part, curious as his eyes trace your pretty features. A glob of spit lands on his tongue, warm and fruity from the wine. He swallows it like he would the juice of the sweetest grape then opens his mouth to show you that he did.

You weren't expecting proof so it throws you off slightly but the heat pooling in your stomach sizzles from the gesture. “Was that better?”

“Absolutely delectable, my lady,” he purrs, the rumble of the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

Despite being confined and groveling, it still feels like the man has power over you. There's just this authority about him that cannot be contained even in such a docile position.

Hence, you decide to act like an audacious man. Just a man would suffice since they seemed to have entitlement written in their genetic code.

Shoving your fingers into his mouth, you watch as grunts and wraps his lips around them, cheeks hollowing as he tastes the remnants of your slick on them, humming in approval as your stomach swoops.

Lowering your head, your smile is lascivious. “Is it sweet?”

“Mouthwateringly so,” he puffs against your digits, tongue prodding between them to spread them before he cranes his neck and licks the sticky wine from your chin clean off.

From his spot, he's at eye level with the apex of your legs so you use that to your advantage. Sweeping the front of your robes behind you, you bare yourself to him, resisting the urge to shudder when his breath hits your mound, cooling the slick that's coating your thighs.

Spreading your legs, you set one on the footstool beside him, parting your thighs so that your glistening pussy is revealed to him. His attention immediately drops to it, gaze attention and ardent.

The gladiator thinks that the shade of your folds is prettier than the loveliest flower petals he's seen. And he has seen many as he comes from a nomadic tribe. Shimmering webs of arousal cling to your slit, the hood of your clit and more drips out of your fluttering hole.

“It's like a seashell with a pretty pearl tucked within,” Sukuna murmurs, reverent in a way that has you ready to squirm. “This must be where the heavens part,” he whispers as if he were a traveler that finally came upon the mythical place he had searched for.

Brave-faced, you reach down, slipping your fingers between your folds to spread them while pulling the hood of your bud back with your middle finger to reveal your pearly bud to him. “Give me your mouth, Ryomen. I want to fuck it.”

The vulgarity of your command has him tearing his gaze away from your cunt with a start, brows furrowing as he peers up at you. He never quite liked it when you cussed and you don't do so often but his cock still jumps at the instruction.

Eyes locked on yours, he leans in, mouth agape as presses to your sex, hot, wet and soft. Your eyelashes flutter, hand going to his hair for a semblance of control as he kisses you between your thighs.

Flat and wide, his tongue lashes against your folds, stealing a gasp from you as he groans at your tarty sweetness coating his taste buds. He cares naught about your essence smearing all over his face as he suckles at your clit hard enough that you're keeling over. Straightening up once more, you use his salmon strands like they're reins, hips rolling against his laving pink muscle as he nods his head, strong nose nudging your clit as you instinctively buck into it.

Nipples prickling with an ache, you feel your breasts tighten as your breaths grow choppy, dreamy sighs and hitching gasps filling the quiet of your room as he hums and groans into your pussy, slick and saliva wetting your skin and his face. It's messy, sloppy and downright filthy as he delves his tongue into you with a squelch that seems deafening.

“Ryo,” you murmur through a long, drawn-out moan, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging harder.

His eyes flick up to yours, glazed with desirous heat that seems to brighten them, eyelids heavy. “My lady,” his words came out mumbled.

Kissing your teeth, you scoff a shaky sound. “It's impolite to talk with your mouth full.”

Something sharpens in his gaze and before you can question it, there's a sharp sting as his teeth sink into your clit lightly. Jolting, you try to lean away from the assault but he chases, licking over it as it pulsed from the pain.

“Fuck, you're cruel,” you hiss, pulling at his hair.

The prickle of pain on its scalp has him grunting into your pussy, goading him to suck, lick and lap you up, slurping loudly and nuzzling his face deeper like he wanted to burrow into the intoxicating syrupy musk of your sex and never come out.

The heat in your belly rose like an overflowing pool, getting higher and higher until the knot of the barrier keeping it contained snapped and it all dropped abruptly, rolling down your spine in a crashing wave that had your back arching and your frantic hips stuttering as you came in his mouth.

Sukuna wasn't done with you, drinking down all your cum until he was certain that all that was left of your thighs was his slobbery saliva. Catching your breath, your bleary gaze observed him incredulously. His face glistened with the sweat, fat glow of a self-satisfied man.

There's a radiance to you in this moment that Sukuna cannot look away from. Soft curves, lax posture, luscious hair cascading down your shoulders in wispy waves. Your expression aglow with pleasure and warmth, eyes half-closed and lips painted with a gentle smile. Light traces your silhouette, making your presence feel powerful, intimate, and mesmerizing.

“What would you like next, my lady?” he asks as if you're not still reeling from his gluttonous maw.

Scowling at him, skin flushing with hot embarrassment and irritation, you set your foot down from the footstool, legs a little wobbly as you nod towards your bed.

“Get on the bed. I wish to mount you.”

Cocking a rosy brow, he rises to his feet, towering over you again like a pillar in the colosseum as he walks backwards to the bed. Following, you're a bit aggressive as you rip off his loincloth, the roughness making his cock bob.

Gulping, you take in the monstrosity. You should have expected it to be proportionate to his bulky form but it was bigger than you imagined. Veins and ridges branched out along the shaft, skin taut and smooth as it wraps around the length of him. The blushing tip is shiny and glossy from the precum trickling out of his slit.

“Do not doubt your capabilities, my lady,” Sukuna brings you out of your thoughts as if he could see them spiraling as he loops his shackled hands over your head so they band around your torso. “You do not have to do anything you're unwilling to.”

Affronted, you straddle his lap, an electric sparks zapping through you as your pebbled nipples brush his sculpted chest, feeling his heart thundering just behind his pecs. It was dizzying. Exhilarating.

Chin raised, you fix him with a defiant glower. “I said that I wish to mount you and that is exactly what I shall do.”

His responding scoff is cut off by a his as your pussy pillow his cock, nestling it between your puffy, slippery folds. Rocking up and down, you slather him in your juices as he bites back a cuss, both of your groans whenever your clit nudges his tip.

Sukuna's fingers flex, the shackles seemingly tightening now, finally feeling like actual confinement as he wants nothing more than to touch you now. Slipping a hand between you, you grip his cock as he gasps, your knees pressing into the bedding as you lift up to hover over it, aligning it with your entrance.

“Fuck,” he grounds out as his tip dips into you, pain spreading from the intrusion to your stomach the deeper you take him. “Gods, I have wanted to stuff your cunt with my cock since the very first time you smiled at me.”

The confession has blood roaring in your ears, emotions that certainly did not belong in this lustful fog cloaking you both making you giddy but the sting of his snug fit distracts you.

Sukuna's darkened gaze flies up to your face and his hard features soften, sharpened edges dulling at the sight of your features twisted in pain. He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek that has your heart somersaulting.

“It's okay, love. Take it easy,” he assures you, the soothing tone of his voice relaxing the muscles you didn't even realise were tense. Again, his shackles rattle and he growls a low sound of frustration.

“Since I'm compromised, could you rub your clit for me?” Nodding, mind hazy, you bring a hand between your legs and circle your bundle of nerves, your clamped up walls slowly and steadily going lax. “That's it,” he encourages with kisses to your shoulder and the side of your face, lips to your ear. “Let me in.”

Twitching around him, you sink all the way down until your clit kisses his pelvis. Slick, sensitive and searching for more friction. A little whimper leaves you as you bury your face in his neck, his smoky burn paper and sandalwood scent concentrated here. There's still a slight ache but it's more uncomfortable than anything.

When it wears off, you circle your hips, spearing your gooey, clinging walls with his shaft to get used to it, sucking in a breath when he rubs against all your sweet spots. He rewards you by ducking his head and taking one of your neglected nipples into his mouth, your cunt fluttering and quivering from the sensation.

“You must move, my lady,” Sukuna sounds pained as he says that into your plush chest. Threading your fingers through the back of his hair, you keep his face smushed to your breasts as you lift yourself and drop down on his cock, finding a pace that has you both sighing and moaning. “Please.”

Adapting to your rhythm, Sukuna slams his hips against yours, bouncing your body like a rag doll as he starts fucking up into you. You thought he couldn't stretch you further but he does and you gasp out a cry, the pain fizzling into a delicious friction and balmy heat that sets all your nerve endings alight.

The expression on his face is devastatingly raw—ink bunching, brows knotted, jaw slackening, lips reddened and kiss bitten. Sometimes he'd bite the inside of his cheek or roll his tongue against it like his mouth had to be occupied in one way or another.

The noises his panting into your ear grow feral, grunting and growls that he cannot hold back hot against your damp skin as he nips at your earlobe. You try to keep up but you can't. Orgasms are ripped out of you like you've watched him tear men apart and steer stubborn beasts to their pens.

Stars burst behind your eyelids, white hot flashes as another release is yanked out of you, skin slick with sweat and overheated against his, the plap, plap, plap of your colliding bodies nearly violent as your moans shake with the brute force of his thrusts. His harsh grunts mingle with your soft, high-pitched moans, bed rocking beneath you.

Just when you think you're both spent after who knows how long, a dark, menacing chuckle rumbles out of him and cools your skin in an icy dread.

“I hope you don't mind us playing fair, my lady, as I believe it's my turn,” he tells you as the taut hold on your waist falls away.

Bleary eyed, head swimming, you look behind you to see that he broke the cuffs right down the middle. Your mind screams at you to run but you know he won't hurt you. Still, the suspense has your stomach churning as you look back at the maniacal smile on his face.

Moments later, your back is plastered to his chest, crushing the air between your bodies. The cold of the metal cuffs kiss your skin where one of his big hands holds your wrist captive while the other is cupping the back of your thigh, ensuring your body stays open for him as he plants his feet on the floor and plunges into your feverishly. Your free hand his crawling at his neck, leaving streaks of red in the wake of your manicured nails.

Sukuna takes it all with a malicious grin on his face, licking at his canines as his cock drills into you over and over again, your breasts jiggling as he stares down the line of your soft body to where he can watch himself pump in and out of you.

“You're perfect, my lady. I have half the mind to fill you with my barbaric seed and take you home with me,” he voices his thoughts against your ear, the bulge in your tummy showing you exactly where his baby would grow if he did.

The idea is absurd, entirely absurd. You'd certainly get outcast if your father found out that your “dead” gladiator happens to be the father of the child you're suddenly carrying. It was a disaster waiting to happen but at this moment, with your thoughts turned to mush and your body boneless, it doesn't sound so bad.

“Only if you ask nicely, Ryo,” you find yourself saying, voice breathy and salacious.

The man's brain stutters along with his hips at your response that was far from reluctant. Thoughts of whisking you away with him, showing you his people, teaching you their ways and traditions had his cock pulsing with another swell of cum ready to spill inside you.

“Please,” he grits out, having never begged even when the consequences were lashing or beatings. “Please let me fill you up, my love.”

The endearment doesn't register as you nod dumbly, brain scrambled and rationality racing from you like the lamps going out from the sudden gust of wind that seeps in through your windows.

“Thank you,” he breathes as if he's relieved. “Thank you for this honor, my lady.”

Vision dimming, Sukuna gripped your hips bruisingly, dull nails digging into your supple flesh as he rammed into you, cockhead punching into your cervix and your lungs from what it felt like as your gasping moans devolved into breathless cries, back bowing as your limbs locked with another shattering release.

His muscles clenched, chest ceasing as his stomach caves and then he was coming inside you, pinning your squirming body to his lap when it became too much, ensuring you milked him for all he had.

“Very well. It's settled then. You will come home with me and become my bride,” he decides while you're half-asleep on his sticky chest while he pets your damp hair but your eyes shoot open at that.

“I beg your pardon?”

Chuckling, the sound vibrates through you as if you were the one laughing. “It was inevitable, my lady. Your contraceptive tea will not work this time. The seed of my people is extremely fertile,” he boasts as he splays a palm on your bloated belly. “It will certainly take.”

Then when you grew older and your interests changed, you found people to be far more interesting than you used to.

Desire came quickly and unwelcomed. You preserved your chastity like a prized heirloom, yet you were not saintly. How else were you meant to maintain your chastity? How else was a young, impressionable lady supposed to resist the eunuchs with the endearing smiles? The soldiers who steadied you with a hand on the small of your back when you nearly tripped up in your skirts? This was the only way and your ladies were most honored to be of service to stave off your lust with their hands, mouths and cunts.

You had your ladies-in-waiting entertain you—hands in your hair, lips at your throat, mouths under your robes, silhouettes pressed close beneath gauze curtains. You pretended at lovers in the dark, soft and sighing as bodies that were said to be mismatched glided like honey against one another in the most delicious ways, because you refused to be ignorant when your body demanded answers.

If you were to be caged, you would at least know the shape of the bars.

Whenever you gathered the lowest-ranked consorts and ladies-in-waiting for illicit tea parties—smoke curling from the bitter root reserved strictly for men, cups clinking while you draped yourself among them like a mischievous prince—Sukuna appeared as if summoned by scandal itself. You swore he was like a hound sniffing out a scent when it came to you.

Once he slid open the door only to find you lounging amid flushed faces, spools of unpinned hair, and loosened robes, head popping up from between a pair of milk soft legs and laughing as you kissed the startled lady’s cheek and pulled another close in playful affection that lingered a little too long, tongue swiping across her to let her taste the other.

“Shameless,” he spat, lip curled as he took in the scene with those accusing, crimson eyes, painted by the lanterns.

You extended the pipe toward him as smoke curled from your mouth, the tug at them lazy with content. “Would you like to join?”

His jaw tightened. “I would sooner drink poison.”

“Suit yourself.”

Bristling, his eyes narrowed and the women covered themselves, ready to be scolded and sent to their chambers while you were unfazed, watching him with intent amusement.

“Bedding His Majesty's ladies is strictly forbidden. You ought to be beheaded for this,” he reminded you as the ladies gasped.

Lifting a shoulder, you gave half a shrug in response. “I'm merely getting them wet for His Majesty's convenience. It is the least I can do since I'm quite useless to him.”

Jaw tight, the coral haired man's brows lowered. He glowered at you for long enough that the room grew hotter and your companions began to sweat while you held his stare like you were a block of ice, unmoved. You even slipped your slick fingers into a gaping lady's mouth which she sucked on instinctively, earning a lascivious grin from you. Then he whirled around, robes swishing and slammed the doors shut, retreating.

Your palace became a sanctuary of forbidden things. Laughter thick in the air. Music winding through lantern smoke. Your ladies-in-waiting and other concubines sprawled around you like adoring courtiers while you played the flute poorly but enthusiastically.

The crowned prince's scandalized report traveled swiftly to the emperor. His father, the emperor, merely chuckled, waved a wrinkled hand, and told his son the palace could use laughter and the bored women would prove dangerous if they set their sights on other men so this was no problem.

After all, was it not the men who decided a woman would only stop being a virgin if she was split open on a man's cock? Then it could be deduced that you were still a precious white lily despite your salacious rendezvous.

Sukuna grit his teeth so hard that they might shatter. His father had always been fond of you. Dismissed his disdain for you as childhood disputes.

Your rebellions grew more inventive with the years. You once entered an archery tournament disguised in a man’s robes, your aim steady and fearless. When Sukuna marched into the changing rooms to congratulate the mysterious victor, he instead found you calmly unwinding your bindings, dark hair spilling free as if the entire charade were the most natural thing in the world.

Another evening you appeared at the guards’ barracks soaked through from the pelting rain, white robes clinging scandalously to your bare body beneath as you claimed to have “lost your way in the downpour.” The soldiers, red-faced but disciplined, escorted you respectfully back to your wing—much to the prince’s annoyance when he heard the tale.

You delighted equally in tormenting the eunuchs, sending them fragrant letters sealed with kiss marks, praising their loyalty and teasing that the absence of certain anatomy hardly diminished their talents—their deft fingers that wrote scripts and pretty mouths that recited poetry would work just as well. The prince once intercepted such a letter and waited in the storage room where you had summoned the unfortunate recipient; when you arrived you merely tilted your head, unconcerned, and asked if he planned to scold you or join the conversation.

“You mistake castrated men for safe toys?” he asked coolly.

“I'm simply ensuring that no one is neglected,” I replied, snatching the letter he'd dangled above you like it was some grand revelation. “They work so hard. Rewards are deserved. Do tell daddy dearest.”

His outrage only deepened when he discovered you had begun teaching the neglected consorts ways to entice the emperor—producing illustrated, detailed manuals from who-knew-where and demonstrating positions with a scholar’s enthusiasm. Yet when the prince reported it, the emperor laughed outright and declared you were merely helping.

“She instructs the women on marital duties?” he repeated. “Good! Increase my lineage in spirit if not in flesh.”

When the emperor died and the prince finally ascended the throne, he imagined peace would follow. Instead the troublesome concubine matured into something even more dangerous—a clever woman who knew everyone’s secrets. You wandered through the women’s quarters like a gossiping breeze, whispering which colors caught the emperor’s eye or which features he seemed to favor, guiding nervous newcomers with a conspiratorial smile. Naturally, this incited disputes that you watched from afar, giggling behind your fan.

Suitors from noble houses occasionally requested permission to marry you and remove the disturbance from court, but the emperor refused each petition with curt finality. Officially it was punishment for your endless mischief—especially the rumors that you still stole moments with his own concubines, leaving them giggling and flustered long after you departed. Guards blushed when you leaned over the railings to chat. Ladies of the court lingered too long at your doors. Once, scandalously, you were found sharing wine and laughter in his most favored concubine’s chambers well past midnight.

Unofficially, though he would never admit it even to himself, he had grown used to the chaos you carried like perfume. The palace without you would be orderly, respectable, and unbearably quiet. And so the concubine who had never once shared the late emperor’s bed continued to rule your small empire of scandal beneath the new emperor’s watchful eye, smiling every time he pretended he wished you gone.

Sukuna who used to leave the palace for campaigns, the imperial army and councils returned a man in his mid-twenties, carved sharper by responsibility as he ascended the throne. You were no longer the child concubine forgotten in a side wing. You were a woman in your prime, reputation trailing behind you like cherry blossom petals.

Alas, with him around once more misfortune became the mistress of your life.

Bad luck and jinxes slink into the shadows behind you as you walk like the self-proclaimed cat of the palace, Yaku, content, smug and entitled as he prances around the extravagant courtyards and lush gardens of the inner palace as if he were the emperor himself. Tail curling, high and lazy, he preens beneath the attention he receives, the pristine obsidian coat of his appraised rather than feared by skeptics.

Hatred between you and the new emperor had not faded. It had matured.

To complicate matters (for him, not you), you found yourself intrigued by his advisor, Uraume—clever, composed, devastatingly polite. You intended to slip into Uraume’s chambers one night, heart racing for once with something softer than rebellion.

Unfortunately, palace corridors are treacherous at night. Therefore, you took a wrong turn while ducking from the patrolling guards.

The doors you slid open did not reveal the advisor’s austere room. They revealed the new emperor’s.

He looked up from a scroll, disbelief sharpening into something darker.

“Have you finally come to feed?” he asked dryly.

“You would press your lips to your mirror to try and devour your reflection if you could,” you drawled, calling him conceited for thinking you intended to see him, but you were mortified. “I was not looking for you.”

“Of course not.”

Sukuna dropped the scroll onto a table scattered with maps and rose, the lanterns in his room flickering from the gesture.

“You still wander where you shouldn’t.”

“You still assume the world belongs to you.”

Silence thickened.

“You haven’t changed,” he said.

“Neither have you.”

“You’re still reckless.”

“You’re still nosey.”

He stepped closer, the scent of burnt paper and smoky, cherry wine washing over you, pink hair licked by the yellow light, melting into a warm orange at the edges.

“For years you've had your way within these walls,” he began, glaring at you down the line of his strong nose. “Doing what you please, flirting with everyone, putting your mouth on women who do not belong to you, fucking them, teaching them unseemly thing—”

“That is quite the mouthful of words for someone trying to say he is jealous he's never been my conquest—”

His eyes narrow into slits, kind of like the cat that resides in the courtyard. “And now, you pursue my chief advisor?”

Your lips purse. “Uraume is quite the handsome, skilled person. I simply think that their calm, precise and thoughtful exterior would be a marvel to unravel and watch those eyes like still water well with tears of satisfaction—”

“Silence!” He barked, looking over you, expression severe while you tucked your lips into your mouth to bite back your amusement. “You may have had your fun all these years under my father's rule, ridden his guards and put them away wet but he is no more and I am in charge now.”

You're about to argue when the grin on his face grows toothy, sharp canines catching the firelight as he flashes his teeth at you like a tiger baring its fangs, poised to attack.

“From tomorrow night, you will sleep here in my chamber where I can keep an eye on you, sly fox,” he declares and your lips part, “lest I wake up to find you’ve bedded half my court.”

“I beg your pardon?”

With a flick of his inked wrist, he dismisses you, walking back to his table with a smug saunter. “You are pardoned. I advise you to enjoy your last night of freedom. Do use it wisely.”

Time does fly when one is having fun as the sun greets you, beaming brightly the next morning only to set, dipping like a biscuit in tea, that evening far sooner than you'd like.

By this morning, the entire palace knew the decree: the troublesome concubine would henceforth sleep in the emperor’s chambers. His explanation was simple—he intended to keep an eye on the pest who treated the palace like a playground, like you were a fox in a hen house.

Now, you sat cross-legged on a cushion that evening while servants withdrew, staring mournfully at the moon through the open screens.

“This is cruelty,” you declared to the quiet room. “You understand this, don’t you? My entire social standing has been ruined.”

Sukuna was reviewing petitions at his desk, though the brush in his hand paused as you continued your lament with theatrical despair.

“Every night I visit the ladies’ wing. We drink tea, we gossip, sometimes we… explore the mysteries of affection.”

You sighed dramatically, flopping onto the bedding as if stricken. “Now I must stay here like a trapped bird. And for what? I will die untouched by a man. According to court standards I am still a virgin, Your Majesty. A tragic relic. You’ve doomed me.”

The emperor’s brush resumed moving across the paper. “If you are so distressed,” he said dryly, “perhaps you should have thought twice before sneaking through restricted corridors at midnight.”

You lifted your head, hair cascading down your shoulder like water. “I was not sneaking into your rooms.”

“No,” he replied, glancing up at last, “which is precisely the problem.”

Your expression shifted between indignation and boredom. You rolled onto your side and propped your chin in your hand, watching him.

The lamplight threw long shadows across his inked face, emphasizing the asymmetry that had once frightened courtiers and envoys alike. Time had sharpened those features rather than softening them, and he had learned to wield that intimidating presence like a blade. Enemies trembled under that gaze. Ministers lowered their voices. Yet you had never reacted the same way.

“You know,” you said suddenly, “when we first met you were even more unpleasant.”

The emperor leaned back slightly, remembering despite himself. You had been eight years old then, newly delivered to the palace with a procession of servants and silks far too large for your tiny frame. He had been ten—already the Crown Prince, already accustomed to whispers about his strange appearance and the cold way adults studied his peculiarities. When he first saw the new girl in the courtyard he had sneered, repeating something he’d heard an older noble say.

“You,” he said, as if the word tasted foul. “You warm my father’s bed.” He was as disgusted by his father as he was by you if not more. You were just a child, no one would be able to differentiate you from a boy at this stage if not for your clothes.

You were in the lotus courtyard, barefoot, sleeves rolled, trying to spear carp with a hairpin.

“I would sooner warm a serpent's nest.” Turning your head, you blinked at him, eyes clear and bright with defiance. “And you warm his temper. How diligent.”

His gaze sharpened. “Parasite.”

“At least I don’t tattle like a court scribe with a broken spine,” I shot back. “Go report me for breathing too loudly.”

He stared.

Then he laughed — but it wasn’t kind. It was the sort of laugh that meant he would remember this forever.

From that day, you hated each other with the bright, feverish intensity only children can manage.

Most children shrank from him. You had marched straight up to him when he riled you up too far, fists on your hips.

“There’s nothing wrong with how you look,” you had told him bluntly, something the court would walk on eggshells around. “Your personality is what I find hideous. You throw your weight around because you’re in a position of power.”

The surrounding attendants had gasped. He had stood there, stunned that anyone—least of all a tiny concubine child—would speak to him that way.

“You’re bold for something kept,” he said once he gained his resolve. “Like a jeweled parasite.”

“And you’re loud for something heir-shaped,” you shot back. “Try earning your crown instead of announcing it.”

Behind you, the Emperor who was watching from the balcony above only laughed.

“They quarrel like betrothed,” he mused to a minister.

You both recoiled at the suggestion. It was not a crush. It was a war.

Now, years later, you stretched lazily across the emperor’s bedding with the same fearless irreverence.

“You’ve improved slightly,” you added as your eyes roved over him, no longer lanky with knobby knees and too tall for his baby face but now filling out his frame with bulky muscle and sculpted features. “Your personality is still questionable.”

The emperor set down his brush and regarded the woman who had plagued him since childhood. It hurt to look at you sometimes because you were infuriatingly beautiful. If only you were as ugly as he found your personality.

He had ordered you into his chambers to keep watch over your mischief, yet the truth was less tidy. Chaos followed you like your shampoo, and somehow the palace—and perhaps even Sukuna himself—had grown accustomed to its scent.

“Sleep,” he said at last, nodding towards the futon for you to lay down. “Tomorrow you may resume irritating the court. But tonight, you remain where I can see you.” You sighed again, dramatic to the end, though the corner of your mouth twitched with unmistakable amusement.

Unfortunately, “under his thumb” had become quite literal. You sprawled across him each night like a satisfied cat, one arm flung across his chest, your cheek resting against the steady rise of his breathing as if you weren't pinned between his four massive arms like a captured bird. At first you wriggled constantly, shifting for comfort until his patience snapped.

“Stop moving,” he would mutter sharply in the dark.

“You were the one complaining about ruined sleep,” you would mumble back, already half-dreaming.

This was an arrangement meant to demean you, yet as the weeks bled together, the King of Curses found his legendary composure fraying.

You were small, a fraction of his weight, but your warmth was a constant, irritating brand against his chest. Even worse was your restlessness. You shifted, your knees digging into his thighs as you sought a soft spot amidst his iron-hard physique.

"Be still, nuisance," Sukuna growled, his voice a low vibration that rattled your bones. "One more movement and I’ll throw you from the balcony."

You would freeze for a moment, roll your eyes, mumbling a soft apology into the crook of his neck before drifting back into a deep, stubborn slumber.

But lately, your sleep has changed. It was no longer the quiet stillness of exhaustion; it was something far more provocative.

Sometimes you sighed softly and pressed closer, humming faintly as if chasing some pleasant thought through sleep. Your brows would pinch together in concentration, and then—without waking—you would shift your hips in a slow, absent motion that sent a jolt of unwanted awareness through him. The pink-haired man would lie rigid, jaw clenched, trying very hard to think about tax records, border disputes, anything but the warm, restless woman draped over him.

“Now what are you dreaming about to utter such sounds and smell this sweet?” he mused to himself, carmine eyes tracking your movement. Then, angering himself, he imagined that you were dreaming of sleeping with his women and grumbled.

Cupping the back of your head, he shifted it just so when he felt some wetness on his chest. A huff of exasperated amusement left him as he found a little puddle of drool on his skin. “Slobbering wretch.”

His fingers caressed the side of your neck incidentally and you craned it, leaning into his touch as if he welcomed you. Sneering, he was about to rudely drop your head but then your hips canted again, more intentional like you wanted to get closer.

You began to hum, a soft, melodic sound that signaled the onset of a dream. Your brow pinched, delicate hands clutching at the silk of his robes as you began to rub against him. At first, it was a slow, languid slide of your hips, but it quickly grew more insistent. You sighed into his skin, your breath hot and smelling of sweet tea, as you pressed yourself flush against his growing heat.

Sukuna’s lower eyes snapped open wider in the dark. He felt the familiar, treacherous surge of blood to his loins. He was the emperor, a god among men, yet he was being reduced to a state of agonizing tension by a dreaming woman he wouldn't dare bedding.

Then, you moved with purpose. You hiked your silks up, straddling his thigh and beginning to grind your clit against him for desperate friction, treating his massive frame like nothing more than a plush pillow. A quiet, broken moan escaped your lips—a sound of pure, unadulterated want that was muffled from your cheek squished to his rapidly rising and falling chest.

Cocks throbbing, Sukuna, for the first time in ages, felt a surge of panic. Patting the top of your head, your skull engulfed by his big hand, he tried to wake you gently, something that pissed him off because why was he being considerate?

Scrunching up your face, your lips thinned at the disturbance before you turned your head, rolling your hips once more as you turned away.

“It's too early for this, Aya” you mumbled groggily and his masked eyes twitched at the mention of one of his frequently visited concubines.

That mean that you weren't just rolling in the sheets with his consorts—you were spending the night in their beds and taking them again in the morning!

Soft pants and quiet moans fell from you, a little louder now that you were somewhat conscious.

Sighing in exasperation, he gripped your hair lightly, noting how it would wrap around his fist a few times if he tried, and lifted your head. Wispy lashes fluttering, your dazed, glassy gaze met his for a heartstopping moment before your eyes rolled back and slid shut again.

“Enough!” Sukuna roared, face aflame now, his four hands seizing your waist and hoisting you into the air.

You startled awake, your eyes bleary and wide with confusion like a newborn kitten. You dangled above him, your hair a wild curtain, your face flushed with a deep, guilty warmth.

“You are an insatiable harlot,” he hissed, his primary eyes burning with a mixture of rage and stifled desire. “To satisfy your filth against your Emperor while he sleeps? Have you no shame?”

“I... My Lord…” you stammered, and he would have reveled in your rare loss for words if not for the situation, still half-lost in the haze of the dream. Your voice was thick with sleep, your body still trembling from the phantom pleasure of your subconscious. “I am sorry. I didn't mean... the dream felt so real…”

The abomination of a man grunted, a sound of pure frustration, and slammed you back down onto the futon beside him—not on top, but a safe distance away. He turned his back to you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. You're not the only one who's experiencing a dry spell.”

He knew it was his own fault. That night of forced observation, of making you watch his own depravity, had planted a seed of hunger in you that was now blooming into a midnight obsession. He had intended to punish you, but as he lay there in the dark, aching and furious, he realized he had only succeeded in creating a tormentor who could bypass his defenses without even opening your eyes.

Beside him, you sulked, missing the mountain of muscle and heat that you had grown accustomed to sleeping on. The dream was vivid and you were rather disappointed when you woke up and realized it was just a memory of the punishment he had given you for batting your lashes at Uraume, touching their arm and having tea with them. What had irked the emperor more was that his advisor who was aloof and uninterested in forming alliances much less making acquaintances had smiled at you and even graced you with a laugh.

You recall the events that had followed that afternoon tea like it happened yesterday. It was engraved in your memory like the flowers carved into your favorite tea bowl.

The scent of sandalwood and old blood permeated the emperor's private chambers, a heavy, stifling luxury. Ryomen Sukuna sat perched upon the edge of his sprawling futon, his headdress discarded, four eyes tracking the woman kneeling before him.

You were a relic of his father’s neglect—a concubine meant for a ghost, now a thorn in the new Emperor’s side. Your crimes were many—you haunted the corridors like a fox-spirit, tasting the lips of his consorts, whispering filth to the eunuchs, and reducing disciplined guards to stammering fools with a flash of your ankle.

But Sukuna was not his father. He was not lenient and has sliced powerful men in half for simply looking at him wrong. He did not ignore, he conquered.

He didn't call for the executioner. Instead, he signaled for you to retire earlier with him tonight and stay, his upper hands loosely gripping the edges of his dark, heavy robes.

“You treat my household as your own personal harem,” Sukuna rumbled, voice rattling the paper shoji screens. His lower hands rested on his knees, while his upper pair slowly untied the heavy silk of his sash. "If you are so starved for entertainment, you shall find it here. But you will not move. You will not speak. You will only observe."

The silks fell away, revealing the marble-like perfection of his form. You didn't look away. Instead, your breath hitched, a soft, sharp sound in the quiet room. You had spent your life in the company of women, finding solace in soft curves and delicate touches.

You had never seen a man outside of books—not truly—and certainly not a tyrant like the man before you.

While women were blessed with pretty little flowers tucked between their legs for one lucky lover to spread and indulge in their sweet nectar, men had jutting shoots that threatened to spear one's insides.

However, you never expected one—two—to look like this.

Angry red tips with slits beading pearls of precum, the skin of his shaft resembling the gradient of a peach as it started off red then pink then lightened into the hue of his tawny complexion towards the base. It was thick from root to tip, green veins branching out along the length of him and ridges that you could already feel.

“It’s time you learned the price of such appetite.” Sukuna’s smirk widened, his stomach-mouth splitting open to reveal a long, prehensile tongue.

He didn't use his hands. As you watched, paralyzed by a mixture of terror and an unwelcome, blooming heat, the tongue from his second maw lashed out. It began to slide over his dual cocks, slicking the dark, heavy weight of him with expert precision like it had done many times before.

The sight was hypnotic. The way the slick, pink muscle coiled, the friction of it against his skin, and the low, guttural groan that escaped both his mouths. He was immense, a double-pronged testament to his own excess.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" Sukuna taunted, his four eyes gleaming.

“Gods, I cannot take both,” you blurted dumbly.

A cruel chuckle fell from him, ink near his eyes crinkling. You sounded like a minister who was presented with a hearty feast. “I could tell.”

Expression flat, you lifted your hooded eyes to his. “It's not a matter of me not being capable but rather it would be a nuisance later if my handmaiden could not finger me properly after.”

His amusement died a quick death. “Insolent wench, you will not be granted the privilege either way.”

Then that long, wicked, dribbling tongue curled around both his cocks in a way yours, you enviously thought, would never be able to. Constricting them, the tight, wet ring of muscle worked up and down, drawing gravely, drawn-out moans from the man. It was torturous watching the pearlescent liquid drip down and be slurped up and tasted by a mouth that wasn't yours.

You reached out, your palm itching to feel the heat you could see radiating from him, but his lower hand caught your wrist in a crushing grip, pinning it to the floor.

"Look, but do not touch," he commanded, letting go of your wrist that now burned with a feverish heat. "You have played with dolls for too long. Now, you witness a man."

Much to his dismay, stubbornness was in the very marrow of your bones.

You felt a desperate, localized throb behind your navel. Your hand, acting of its own volition, slipped beneath the layers of your robes. You wanted to feel the heat you saw, you wanted to know if anything could truly be that firm, that demanding.

Your fingers sought your own wetness, spreading yourself wide as you tried to mimic the rhythm of his stomach-tongue. You used two fingers, then three, stretching yourself in a poor imitation of the girth he presented, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

The front of your robe gaped, teasing him with the full, heavy curve of your breasts. One was just short of flashing him and he prayed to the gods that long forgot him that it would. Your other hand pushed beneath it, cupping the plush mound, your fingers pressing against the fabric so he could tell when you pinched at your nipple. That is if your gasp didn't give that away already.

As you groped your bosom, your moans grew louder with each harder squeeze at your breast like you were trying to imitate how you imagined he would do it. At the same time, the pads of your fingers circled your aching clit. Licking your lips as if parched, you peer up at him, gaze clouded with desirous heat.

Fuck, you must be so snug and warm in there. Sukuna thought he'd go to war to get a feel of you.

Bending your knees, you part your legs further as you grind your palm against your cunt. Airy gasps and high-pitched sighs poured from your plump lips. “Ryo, I can't take it anymore.”

His pulsing cocks kicked in the grasp of his stomach tongue, half-lidded eyes nearly bulging when you moaned his given name, or half of it, in that whiny voice. He was ready to abandon this torture and crawl over to sink into you but his sense—whatever was left of it, at least—stopped him.

Instead, he squeezed his cocks tighter, a groan punched out of his shuddering chest, as he worked himself to his release faster, wanting to get this over and done with. His stomach flipped when he watched the pump of your fingers pick up in tandem.

"Let me lick it," you whispered, your hips hitching unconsciously toward him, tousled hair framing your salacious, needy face. You wanted to taste the salt of him that he could on his tongue, to feel that monstrous weight replace your trembling fingers as they struggled to wrap around his cock instead.

"No," Sukuna gritted out, the word a physical blow. He leaned back, his lower tongue working faster now, the wet sounds filling the space between you. "You may watch. You may even ruin yourself for me. But you will not touch what you are not worthy to hold."

You let out a frustrated sob, your fingers working frantically against your own slick skin, a squelch sounding out, your gaze locked on the sight of him—beautiful, cruel, and utterly out of reach.

The corners of his vision darkened as a zap of electricity sparked down his back and struck his groin. Shutting his eyes, he threw his head back with an unbidden groan, inked body rippling as he spilled on his wide, flat giant tongue that licked him clean into overstimulation.

“Oh, fuck,” he had made the lust-drunken mistake of calling out your name while he came.

He doubted you heard it over your own moan that you hiccupped out, a shudder running through you as the air thickened with the sweet, tangy scent of your orgasm.

When he recovered, he stormed out of the bedchamber and went to wash off whatever the fuck that was in the springs, far away from you.

Keep friends close and your enemies closer, the adage went. But tonight, the King of Curses’ enemies felt entirely too soft, too warm.

The moonlight filtered through the shoji screens, casting long, distorted shadows of his massive frame. Sukuna lay on the futon, his sheer size dwarfing the woman tucked against his chest.

He was spooning you—an act of containment, he told himself. But the reality was more visceral. Your back was pressed against his abdomen, his lower set of arms was tucked away, while his upper left arm draped over your waist.

The proximity was a curse. He could feel the heat radiating from your skin, the scent of jasmine and something sharper, more intoxicating, clinging to your hair. His pulse hammered in his throat. His arousal was a heavy, bothersome weight in his gut, an itch he refused to scratch for the sake of his pride.

In hindsight, that was certainly the reason why he stroked himself in front of you that day—he'd been denying himself from visiting his consorts so he could keep you under surveillance.

Eventually, the steady rhythm of your breathing lulled his irritation into a restless sleep, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

The shift happened in the dead of night.

Sukuna woke not to a sound, but to a sensation. He felt a dipping, desperate weight against his lower right forearm. In his sleep, that arm had instinctively sought warmth, sliding down past your hip and nestling firmly between your thighs.

He stayed still for a heartbeat, his crimson eyes narrowing in the dark. You were moving. Your hips were rolling in a slow, agonizing grind against his large, calloused palm and the thick muscle of his forearm. A soft, broken whimper escaped you, muffled by the silk pillow.

The sheer audacity of it—using the King of Curses as a common bed-toy—sent a jolt of heat straight to his gut.

If that wasn't bad enough, there was a new meaning to being one's own worst enemy as he could taste your tarty, saturated arousal on his mouth which was strange because he—

With a wet, sloppy squelch that made him freeze, he glanced down to watch his stomach mouth withdrawing its glistening tongue from between your thighs, the maw sporting an unapologetic smile as it sealed shut.

How dare that fucking thing?

"Release my hand at once," Sukuna’s voice rasped, vibrating through your spine. He called out your name after only for you to mewl in response as he felt your clit against the pad of his thumb, pressed between your folds.

He tried to pull his arm back, but you reacted instantly. Your thighs clamped shut like a vice, trapping his hand against your slick heat. Your small hands reached back, fingers digging into his wrist with a strength born of desperation.

"No," you gasped, your voice thick with a haze of pleasure. "Don't... It feels so good. It’s so big... just a little more, Ryo."

Sukuna stiffened. He should have struck you. He should have peeled you off him and thrown you into the koi pond. Instead, he watched the way your head lolled back against his shoulder, your eyes blown wide and glassy. The sight of you undone by him, even if it was unintentional, fed his ego in a way blood never could.

He went still, allowing you to use him.

“It feels good?” The words rumble out of him, incensed despite how he rubs your swollen, flickering clit and relishes the cry you pant out.

Humming low in his throat in response, he licks up the side of your throat, tasting the saltiness there all the way to your ear where he bites down.

He felt every shudder, every frantic tilt of your pelvis until you finally buckled, your body trembling as you found a messy, gasping release against his knuckles.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by your labored breathing. Sukuna finally wrenched his hand free, the skin wet and cooling in the night air.

"You are a deviant," he sneered, though his voice was dangerously low, licking the essence off his skin. "How long have you been doing that? Using your Emperor's hand to fuck yourself?"

You didn't answer, only shivered. Your silence was the final straw for his patience. Fine, if you were going to pretend to be all meek and shy now, then he would play along.

If you wanted his hands, you would have them properly.

Slipping his hand back between your legs, he cups your pussy and squeezes a gasp out of you, feeling your slick ooze out, slippery and wet while another hand grabs a handful of your aching breast which you arch into. His lower arms knead at your plush hips.

Coating his fingers in your arousal by rubbing up and down your folds, he shoves one inside your drooling hole, a dark satisfaction pooling in his chest when your cunt struggles to take him as you choke out. Hips bucking, you press down on his digit as he familiarises himself with your soft, squishy insides.

“You're dripping this much from fucking my arm?” He clicks his tongue, probing at your gummy walls with his finger, slipping it in and out easily. He didn't have to do much before dipping another finger in, cock throbbing as you sucked in a surprised breath at the stretch. "Or was it my blasted tongue?"

“Ah, Ryo,” you breathed, hand moving down to his to keep him there, grinding yourself against the palm of his hand.

“Who said you could address me so fondly?” he grumbled against your neck, hating how his treacherous heart fluttered against your back. He had half the mind to rip it out and have Uraume prepare it for him to eat. Might throw your heart while he's at it.

Batting those thoughts away, he distracted himself by rubbing his clothed cocks against your rear, finding it to be round and plump, the perfect cushion for his humps. You welcomed it, pressing back against them and letting them slot, barely, between your cheeks.

Pinching your nipple, he smiled into your hair as your breath hitched, rolling the hard bud between his thumb and index finger while his fingers strummed you like a harp. Your nails dug into his wrist as your back bowed, cunt clamping down his thick digits as choppy, sighing moans fell from you.

“Ryo, don't be mean. You're such a tease,” you whined in complaint, petulant almost.

“You're awfully needy for someone who should feel guilty.” As if responding, you grab his wrist to get his fingers deeper and rub your clit faster on his palm.

A soft growl came from your throat, it was cute if not demanding. “If you're going to do something, do it right.”

He pinched your clit, chuckling at your pained gasp as he rolled it side to side, doing the same to your nipples with his other hands while his cocks ground against your ass.

"You want my touch?" he hissed into your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Then take it all. You're nothing but a hole for me to fill, aren't you? A bored little fox looking for a master."

Spurred on, he drove his fingers deeper inside you, curling them and scissoring you open while you spread your legs further, inviting the intrusion. You cried out, writhing as he began to pump them with a brutal, rhythmic efficiency. Faster and forceful as he pulled your orgasm out of you, an arm banding around your waist so you don't curl into yourself as you came with a pretty, wet sob while your cunt twitched and spasmed.

Rustling sounded behind you, hasty and rough, as his fingers slipped out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing. Before you could miss his warmth, he pulled you back against his now bared body, heat radiating off his skin.

“Now,” he muttered, his voice a command. “Return the favor,” he emphasized his words by thrusting his cocks forward and nestling them between the lips of your pussy, shuddering from how your folds cushioned him.

You turned your head slightly, eyes fluttering open and narrowing at him. To his absolute shock, you let out a weak, shaky breath and shook your head. “No, Ryo. We can't have sex.”

The rejection hit him like a physical blow. The fearsome tyrant, the great emperor, the calamity, told no? A flash of genuine anger sparked in his chest—a sting of wounded pride that he masked with a terrifying grin.

“I don't want to fuck you, woman,” he denied as if he wasn't about to spear you open on one of his thick, throbbing cocks. “Your thighs will do just as well as your cunt. You owe me as much after disturbing my slumber and having me make you come twice. If you would please be so kind.”

Flushing in embarrassment, clearly assuming you misread his intentions, your bitten lips part then press together as you nod. He felt relief loosen the knot in his chest. If you refused him again, he would have been livid but he would have accepted it. He may be known for desecrating empires, his cannibalism and his ruthlessness but he wasn't a monster. Consent was important.

He didn't force your legs open. Instead, he grabbed you by the hips and pulled you flush against his groin. He began to pump his cocks between your closed thighs, fucking the tight space you provided from behind. The friction was intense, but it wasn't enough.

With a growl of frustration, he flipped you onto your back, watching your hair spill on the bedding in an inky halo as your drunken gaze met his. He ignored your startled protest, grabbing your ankles and hauling your legs up. He bent them at the knees, squishing your thighs together and pressing them down against your own chest. It created a makeshift, incredibly tight squeeze of flesh.

“Look at you,” he hissed, his voice a gravely snarl as he began to thrust into the improvised vise of your legs. “The Great Emperor Wasuke's widow, reduced to a footstool for his son's pleasure. You look pathetic like this—folded up and about to be used.”

From below, Sukuna was an eclipse of muscle and malice. The flickering, weak candlelight catches the obsidian of his body markings, which seem to writhe like living snakes across his broad chest, alluring and ancient. His upper arms were braced beside your head, corded with tension, while his lower pair hugged your thighs with bruising force, anchoring you to the futon. Looking up, you saw a god of war unraveled; his jaw was set in a jagged snarl, and all four eyes were blown wide, shimmering with a primal, predatory hunger that reduced you to mere prey.

Under his immense weight, the sly fox was a beauty in strewn, crumpled silks. Your hair was a dark, winding river against the valley of damp pillows, tangled and sweat-slicked. Your skin, flushed from the friction of his coarse strength, looked fragile against his hulking frame. You're folded, your breath coming in rapid hitches as his sheer strength overwhelmed you. Your eyes were glassy, rolling back as his degrading whispers filled your ears, your body vibrating with the terrifying, ecstatic rhythm of an emperor who takes what is his without mercy.

A mewl came from you as you bit down on your bottom lip when the ridges of his cock rubbed against your clit. Brows furrowing, your gaze dipped to what was happening between your thighs and you reached out to touch his cocks.

Teasing the heads of his cocks, Sukuna felt a heady drip of arousal pool in his groin when your curious fingers swiped at his leaking tips and you retracted them, tongue poking out to lick at them tentatively. Then your eyes brightened like you liked what you tasted.

“Fucking hell, you're filthy,” he ground out as if the giant maw on his stomach didn't part to drool between your thighs so the glides became wetter and wetter.

Each thrust was punctuated by a cruel remark. He called you a parasite, a glutton for pleasure, a creature who didn't deserve the silk you slept on. The verbal vitriol seemed to fuel him, his movements becoming more frantic and powerful.

Harsh grunts and guttural growls meld with your soft, breathless moans, staccatoed by the sloppy, erotic slapping of his hips against yours. One of his arms braced a hand on the bedding beside your head so that he was looming over you, two of them still holding your thighs together.

Body bouncing with the force of his thrusts, you helplessly grasped and clawed at his abdomen and forearms, pussy fluttering when his stomach tongue licked at your palms as you blushed.

Your breasts were tight, nipples aching and thankfully pet by his spare hand. You squeezed your thighs around his cock tighter in appreciation. Each time the ridges of his cock nudged your clit, you felt the rolling wave of your orgasm creep closer. Admittedly, you were beginning to regret rejecting him but you knew you wouldn't be able to take him tonight, not having the courage for it and you doubted this brute could be gentle. If he could, he wouldn't extend that graciousness towards you of all people.

But this felt so good, almost as good as when you were ravishing his consorts, smug knowing that he'd taste you in their mouths or cunts later. The sloshing, slick sound of his cock rubbing between your sopping folds was mind-numbing. You wanted to sink into the sheets beneath you and melt into a heap of bliss. His precum, saliva and your arousal was smeared all over your thighs and his. Your soft body jostled from his thrusts, breasts jiggling in circles against your chest.

The snap of his hips was unrelenting, fast and hard. He felt the build-up, the inevitable snap of his control. And when you caressed the gnarled, masked part of his face with your feathery finger tips, he snarled with one final, deep groan as he spilled himself against your stomach and thighs, his body heavy and steaming in the cool air.

Fingers digging into his wrist, your eyes rolled back as from the intensity of it all, body locking up so tight that you cramped as your back arched off the bedding. You tried to shove him away to escape it as your cunt clenched around nothing and more slick seeped out.

Sukuna wouldn't let you slip away now, not a chance. He clutched your hips and dragged you back down to him, pulling the sheets with you as he continued to roll his hips against yours, cocks spurting sporadically.

“Trying to run away so I don't see how you're about to pathetically come from me fucking your thighs?” He kissed his teeth. “Come here and take it like the naughty little nymph you are.”

And you did, a tingling brewing deep inside your pussy threatening to spill out and flood your entire body. Tossing your head back, your pretty cry was nearly a scream as your orgasm lashed through you like a whip.

Sukuna didn't stop, drawing out soft, wrecked whimpers from you as he rode you through the delirium until the violence of it all dulls and your ears are clogged with cotton. Once the throbbing between your thighs softens into a subtle ache, you slump against the futon with the occasional twitch of your muscles.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The room felt smaller, the air thick with the scent of sex and unspoken tension. Sukuna finally rolled off you, cleaning himself (and you, begrudgingly) with a wet cloth with practiced indifference. He didn't look at you as he stood up and donned his robes.

“I'm going for a stroll,” he sighed in irritation as if what you just did had no relaxing effect on him whatsoever. You wouldn't put that past him.

“That should not have happened. I forbid you from mentioning this,” he said, his voice returning to its usual cold, imperial clip. “To anyone. It was a lapse in judgment. A heat of the moment thing brought on by your incessant squirming.”

And then, like a shadow of the night, he's gone, quietly despite his size, leaving you there. Huffing in disbelief at how he went from hot to cold in the blink of an eye, you laid there, staring up at the ceiling.

Then a coy, scheming feline curve tilted the corner of your mouth. So the mighty King of Curses wasn't immune to your charms after all.

note: another fic to strike off my list mwahahaha