集集

"Why do you like me?" You ask L bluntly, the previous silence being disturbed by your abrupt question. Your eyes flick between L and the coffee table, which had recent crime scene photos resting on it, like you couldn't decide what sight to let your eyes settle on. You were nervous, and maybe L could see that through your fiddling hands and body posture which has you curled into the sofa you sat on, like it could personally hide you from his deductive abilities. You knew better though.

L gives it a bit of thought, hands pausing over a photo at your words, before they continue their descent, fingers brushing the paper. You wonder what he thinks sometimes, how he can find a suspect by their body language and speech pattern alone, what clues he sees as relevant and what ones aren't worth looking at twice. He's so smart it makes you wonder why he would choose you in the first place. You're not particularly smart, you didn't do things he couldn't predict, if anything he sees what you're going to do before you even do it, so why you?

"You're simple and nice to look at." L states bluntly, his voice breaking you out of your thought process.

"Thanks" You roll your eyes playfully at his comment, but consider his words carefully, trying to understand this from L's perspective, what he could mean. 'Simple?' Your face scrunches up in confusion at the word, 'But why does he want that? Does he even want that? If he didn't, then why would he even point it out in the first place?' Your eyes glaze over as you let your head try to break down L's words, hoping that dissecting his reply will lead to a reasonable answer.

"...You're thinking about this too hard." L mumbles loud enough for you to hear, while his large black eyes glance over to you from the corner of his vision. He takes in your expression attentively, before going back to staring intently at two photos that lay side by side.

"Well, it's hard not too when I can't figure out if being 'simple' is a good thing or not." You huff out a laugh, one hand coming up to fiddle with the fabric of your shirt sheepishly. You look away from his form entirely, not sure what to make of this conversation at all.

"It is-" L starts as his index finger taps his lip in thought, no doubt about the case that was presented to him no more than 2 hours ago. "-You are easy to emotionally read, no matter how subtle or obvious your tells are, simple in thought process, so, predictable-" He continues while reaching over the table to grab a file, from the other end of the table, to scrutinise.

"WOW, just call me stupid why don't you?" You joke quietly with a silly smile slapped across your face. Though L makes a mental note to pick apart the emotional and mental connotations that that comment comes with, along with your expression, later.

"-, and, to me, accessible." L finishes, opening the file and taking in the information it presents him, though, before he starts reading, he stares at you with a prominent expression and says.

"You're simple, and that very thing is a quality I appreciate and look for in my environment when all I see is complexity." Then L looks down to his file, like he never said anything in the first place. He almost looks distracted, even though you know for a fact he is nothing of the sort, like he's not listening and you take a moment to admire him, as subtly as you can, in all his glory. The way his black hair shines in the white fluorescent light of the hotel room, how his finger brushes over his lip in thought and most of all, how his dark eyes scan over pages of facts and data. He's so pretty so it's not fair how he's so smart on top of all of that.

'What do you have to offer to him? What do you do for him? What makes him stay?' You look away from L as you let the thoughts quietly fester in your mind, because, they were right, weren't they? Even if what he wanted was simplicity and you were, apparently, that very thing, It's not like you were easy to interact with or be with as a partner. Insecurity lurked in every corner of your mind tainting each thing you said, did or even thought. No matter how far you ran from it, it would always find you and curl its sharp, venomous claws into your heart. So maybe you were simple, but you were in no way easy to handle, and you were just waiting for him to get sick of you and your constant self-doubt.

A small hum brings you out of your thoughts once more, before you notice L placing down the file he was reading, onto the table, and shuffling towards you. He crouches in front of your chair, in his typical L stance, while his eyes bore into your own with a certain intensity you've only seen very few times.

"Do not think that because you doubt yourself, that you are less deserving of my affections. Your value isn't determined by your flaws, nor your failures; nor is your worth in this relationship determined by how much you 'contribute' or 'bring' to the relationship. Your insecurities don't take away from the amount of fondness I harbor for you." His voice holds an air of unwavering certainty, like the mere idea that this could be a false statement was a crazy thought. L's normally deadpan face softened as you scanned his expression, eye brows, lips, nose, for any sign of deception. Then the moment you gazed into his eyes, you saw it, a warm tenderness that L unusually didn't show so freely, but here it was, just so you could confirm that he meant this, confirm how he felt. He was committed to you, and maybe this was his silent way of showing it.

"You will see your worth, for yourself, one day, but for now simply remember that, once again-" L leans in closer to you, chest almost brushing your knees to emphasise his words even more. "-your value isn't determined by your flaws, nor your failures." His voice carries a weight to it that you couldn't name if you tried, but his eyes tell you all you need to know. So even though you're uncertain, even though you don't feel that you're enough, you nod because you know that even if you don't feel worth the trouble, L does and maybe that, in itself, enough.

☆ Bonus!

"...so you like me because I'm stupid is what I'm hearing?" You joke again while leaning towards L in your chair. Whatever tension that had been building between the you two immediately dissipates as you let out small giggles.

No matter how much he tried to understand you or the whole thing itself, it was not for him. Nothing he could have explained logically, and this was something he disliked.

One of the reasons why it took so long until you two got accustomed to each other over the years. But you two grow closer in the Kira case...much closer.

You sat on a couch, your face tears struck like always since the last weeks, since the moment you saw how L fell from the couch into Lights arms. These big dark eyes in shock, his heart what stopped beating. It was horrifying for you. You were surrounded by death, yes. But usually it never terrified you since you learned to live with it.

But it was L, your L. The man you slowly gave your heart to. Regretting you never said anything clear to him. It shattered you. You missed him, and since his death, he never popped up again, at least you thought so.

Sometimes there was a weird feeling, especially when you were in bed in the night, as if someone would hug you, yourself too sleepy and exhausted from the crying, thinking it probably was just your imagination. L would have showed up, wouldn't he? When his soul would be still here?

Often people remained when they weren't ready to go, when they didn't clarify something, so you thought he was still there, but there was no sign of it.

It depressed you to a state you barely was able to go outside, you tried to support Near and Mello, you tried but yourself too caught up in the mess.

You sat there with your knees against your chest and your arms slung around them, staring into the empty TV.

"In hell with you, Lawliet, how could you leave me here?" you mumbled, wiping away a tear.

You wanted to get together, you really wanted. It was just so hard.

But this was the moment...when suddenly a figure appeared walking from the front door right in front of you to the nearby stool. Baggy jeans and a white shirt, it crouched down on the stool with bare feet. You sat there without a reaction at all. It was a daydream perhaps, you always saw him in your dreams.

"In one thing I was wrong, truly wrong. You indeed are a medium. At least in death I can give you right." the voice was so known and clear to you. You felt cold, so very cold.

Your eyes widened, your voice stuck in your throat. A shiver ran down your spine.

More hot tears poured into your eyes.

Was this really L? Did he show up? Now?

After that moment you decided to move from the couch, it was him, his damn ghost was still here.

"I didn't plan to leave you. But I guess, it's my fault, like it is always when you are angry with me." he added then, because h had heard how you mumbled to yourself, his tone kinda dry with that sarcasm but logical intent.

You suffered, he saw it. He felt it, and you could tell he suffered with you, because of his own death.

Never did L thought you would mourn after him like that. Not with the unsaid things from both of you.

He was the one who came in the night when you had nightmares, to hug you with his ghostlike cold presence. Who kept whispering soothing things in your ear. But, who refused to show up, because he hoped you would stop missing him.

He didn't want to disturb your mourning process, but well, he saw there was no point in hiding anymore. Not when you were sitting in a hole like this.

"Are you insane? I cry my damn eyes out, and you show up like weeks later?" you asked him, tears rolling down your cheeks, you were sad, and relieved and angry all at the same time.

You grabbed a pillow from the couch, before throwing it at him.

It simply flew through him, L's dark eyes looked down right on his chest where the pillow flew through.

"This, was not nice, it felt tingly, like uncomfortable tingly." he said to you, his expression still not really faltered.

After your little outburst you went over to him, dropping on your knees, your big sad eyes looking at him, kinda even pleading.

"Why didn't you showed up earlier? You knew I didn't lie to you of being a medium. You felt it, at least this is what other ghost said, they felt when someone could see them." you explained, you wanted to reach out, but you knew even when you tried to touch him, he was not really there, at least not physical.

He sighted, so many things in his big brain, and yet this was hard. In death, there was no investigation he could follow, only him and his existence now. The fact that he loved you, and never said it. He made a mistake in not believing you...

"I hoped you would get over it. Like you always get over things. I thought it would be better when you think I am gone. But I am stuck here, and you didn't seem to stop being sad." he told you, you could listen to the sad tone in his voice.

L had restrained himself, for your sake.

"Yeah, get over you...as if that would be so easy." you chuckled, because of the irony in this situation yet your voice still hurt.

"You are stuck because of the Kira case, aren't you?" you mused out loud, before looking back into his face.

Your face, so pretty and full of adoration towards him. No matter how complicated your kinda relationship had been, how unsaid things were and how sarcastic you were sometimes towards him, you adored L.

You never got tired of trying to understand him, and even when you don't, you never judged him. A trait he loved on you, a trait he admired, you weren't to judge, not him.

"It is Light... I know it was Light, but he is still not arrested." he agreed with you, before his cold fingertips reached out. You couldn't touch him, but he could touch you.

Pale fingertips marveling at your skin, before a thumb wiped away a tear.

Why did you even like him? He still couldn't get it. You, a sweet thing like you, although he didn't really believe you with being a medium until his death...

~~~~

"What I mean is, I believe that you believe that you are like talking to ghosts or seeing things. I am just going after the facts. No need, to throw a tantrum." his voice was calm, too calm for your taste when he still kept looking into a file on the monitor. The white dim light illuminating his features. Dark circles from the lack of sleep, and yet he didn't let discuss his opinion about you.

"Oh, so you are stating I am psychotic? Do I seem insane to you, L? Watari called me, because you are running out of evidences, and I could help to at least get a point." you replied in an instant, leaning over the desk.

You were not amused he could tell, to this point he knew what was said what you could do. And it was not like he wouldn't go along with you. Always thinking you were weird, but cute. Since he was small, since he grew up with you. But working with you? On this level, that he needed your help? Help in talking with dead people? It sounded awkward in his head.

"Well, when you are talking like that, insane seems to be an option." there was his dry sarcasm, when he saw you took a deep breath and was about to throw something at him.

When you were angry everything was a weapon to you.

"Watch your tongue, Lawliet. I am not in the mood for that. But fine, when you think you can do it without me. I am going back to the Wammy's House." you meant, clearly pissed at him.

It was not like he wouldn't believe in your person, and you didn't seem to be insane. But for him, it was not logical at all.

He sighted before finally turning to you, when he watched how you wanted to grab your bag.

So cute how you tried to assert dominance and as if you wouldn't care.

You were sensitive and L was pretty much aware of that.

"Stop being angry, you can't go...not yet. I mean, would you feel better when I let you do your stuff? I will take a look, for whatever you will gather on information. However unconventional it will be." he meant, maybe more, to not have you go back. He couldn't explain it, but he liked when you were around, kinda. Besides that, he would get a word from Watari, when he wouldn't at least let you do your stuff. It was not like you would be stopping the other investigations or anything, he would just need to get over with it. At least in his mind.

He saw your expression soften a little.

"Idiot." you bickered before turning back to finally take a look in the case.

He could turn the tables to a better start at least.

"You are still making cheesecake when you are done, right?" he suddenly asked you, as if nothing was wrong. He loved cake and sweets, but he loved the cheesecake you made the most. You gave him a glare when he looked at you, his eyes seemed to be cold, but you saw there was a tiny little bit of a plea in them.

"When the detective stops being a difficult teenager, maybe." no matter how sweet you were, you were a handful when you got attitude because you were angry.

~~~~

"You never told me you thought it was him?" you spoke, feeling tingly cold touches from his hand, it felt like a cold winter breeze, soothing you and gently stopping your tears.

So many things happened between you two. From the very fact you two the complete opposite, but the damn pull you had to each other.

And now that he was dead...you were the only person who could see him, who could talk to him as long as he was stuck here.

"I never had an evidence, you know me, don't you, sweetheart?" his voice felt to be a little lower, he missed you, yearned for you. And yet the case, the case was important, not just for him, but he knew how hard it would be for Near and Mellow...and for you.

"You always want a proof, for everything. I could sing a song about that." you answered, especially since it was a pain in the ass to make him believe in your delicate state of being someone who could interact with ghosts.

"Near and Mello are now trying to catch Kira...or more Light. But it's complicated. They have different methods." you told him then, leaned into that could touch, he caressed your soft skin.

You were still looking up at him, wanting to dig your fingers in this raven hair, what was so fluffy. But your heartbeat seemed to get steadier, now that you kinda had him here.

"And this is the point...they are good, I won't say there are. But you need to help them... I am here because you need to get out of here and do something." he said, his voice as urgent. It was serious, he leaned now down, still crouching like he always did. His forehead touching yours.

You looked into his eyes, even when he was dead now he wasn't gone.

"I don't know what I should do, even when it is true, and it is Light...most of his victims don't even know what happened. And one of them refused to talk about him." you explained it to him, you felt lost, without him, you felt so lost. You had tried your fair share of communicating with some of his victims, but there was that point....You a medium, but you needed to rely on the help of the dead people. And not everyone was still here, or they didn't even want to tell you. Not everyone was nice or interested in the living anymore.

"It's not just about your ability, you are more than your ability. I had told you that, haven't I?"

It was true, since it was difficult for him to accept your being as medium, he saw other qualities. Qualities that others didn't seem to notice at all.

You were perfect for being supportive in these things. Did your best to make it easier for L, you took care of him. You indeed tried to help him understand the social aspects better, you had ideas with different insights.

You were...lovely.

And since Wammys's House was like family for you, Mello and Near were like younger brothers.

Younger brothers who would need you, in some way.

"You did tell me a lot." your voice still was sad. He said so much and yet not everything. Just like you.

"There is something you didn't tell me, right?" he asked you before his cold hand gently cupped your chin, tilting your head.

Indeed, a thing, you never could really explain yourself. And you were a medium, you were fertile for paranormal things.

"I didn't tell you because I didn't know what I...saw or more what I sensed." you said and shrugged your shoulders, trying to look away since this was something what creeped you out.

But L didn't let you turn your head away.

"You don't get rid of me in death with avoiding my eyes, tell me." L wasn't pushing you, but he was firmer.

"Light...there is something around him, something that follows him. I can't see it, I...sometimes, I just can maybe sense a shadow. I don't know what it is, it is not his aura and it is not a ghost. It is different." when you spoke out what you sensed, your eyebrows knit together.

"It doesn't seem evil, like more neutral. As if it is waiting what happens." you added in thought.

"Whatever it is...you need to find it out. Near and Mello need to find it out. I am here, I maybe can't really invest age, but you can do it for me. They both need you, as I needed you." his voice was serious, and it was like he wanted to tell you so much more...but this now was bigger than you two.

"I am not even half as smart as-" you tried to argue, since Ls death you were more than insecure in yourself.

"You are smart, you are talented, you are what I needed. What I still need, but I am not alive anymore. But they are, and they need you." he interrupted you, as he cupped your cheeks now with both hands.

"They do everything on their own. Mello is more drastic, wants that Kira makes a mistake, while Near tries to be more attentive. How should I even make this work, they do what they want." as you explained he could listen to your desperation, not just about his death but about the over all situation.

"When someone can change that....then it's you. You made me see, so you can make them see. You need to be there for them, I know it's hard. And believe me, I never wanted to make you sad, not now or ever. But you need to get up, right now you need to do something...as you always did for me." Ls words were sincere, true, and now the clinical detachment was away. It was warm, he wanted the best. And the best was you....

~~~~

"Come on, you needed a break. A few hours won't hurt you." you said as you lead him down the hallway from the hotel. You were much too joyful now. He had been up for about 1 1/1 day, no real break. This case, still damn hard, another case where you were called to help.

Although since the last times, L requested you for your special insights. Even when he never said it, but he liked having you by his side. The way you always looked over his shoulder, analyzing the files and pictures. And your proximity...weird for him to acknowledge that, but sometimes he felt the urge to brush a strand of hair out of your face. The reaction you had when he did it, when you blushed...made him want to do it again, but he wouldn't push boundaries.

L was always an observer, so he tried to gauge out your reactions.

"Not me, that's true but maybe someone else." L replied as he watched how you were looking for a key card.

"I know you got a big brain, and it is working non-stop. But without some sleep or at least some peace, not even you can be focused perfectly all the time. You are still a human, mostly, I think." the chuckle you had when you opened the door and literally pulled him on his wrist inside.

"I was tested, as a child. I am a human, everything is alright. My blood type is B and I have a good metabolism." he threw facts around just to fuck you up a little.

But not today, not when you finally tried to get him to relax. It was always like this when you were with him. You disliked that he rarely slept and that he was always in front of a monitor.

Not that you didn't understand it, but even when he didn't want to take a break, you wanted him to take one.

So you tried to be a little creative.

"Yeah, maybe it is written you are human, but you are still a weirdo. Never mind, I prepared something." you let him know and switched on a little light.

You looked nervous, your idea had been endearing.

It was a castle you build out of pillows and blankets, with some fairy lights. You wanted to make something cozy. You always knew L was a damn smart one, and even as a child totally weird because his brain worked different. And yet sometimes he enjoyed being in a castle made out of blankets and pillows. It was quiet with you inside there, enough time to play chess or read. Having you yapping about the "weird people" you saw.

"I know, a little random, but I think you had enjoyed it too when we were younger. I just...thought, well, it could be-" while you tried to talk and telling him why you did it, he already walked forward to the entrance, crouching down to crawl inside.

It was a little hard for him to tell you, he found it heart-warming, since this was a strange feeling for him in his chest, but he liked it, and he would show you it with crawling inside.

"I understand the act of this. Things that we used to like, bringing back a nostalgic feeling, what is there to feel calm and relaxed. Probably that what you planned for me. So are you coming?" L spoke out the facts, understanding the thought behind it, explaining it like it would be a scientific fact.

You two chilled inside there, indeed playing chess, what you lost of course what else, you never won against L. You even had placed some candy inside for him.

When you two laid in the pillows as you looked up to the fairy lights, his head turned over to you. Studying your profile. The form of your nose, the shape of your lips, your soft skin, the way your hair was a little disheveled from being inside here. You were so pretty, a pretty girl in an ugly world.

L was always a weirdo for others, but he never gave much away for it. He had his quirks and there were people who put up with him like that, people like you.

You on the other side, a weirdo too, seeing dead people, being a medium. But you were more empathic, more sensitive to the reaction you got from people.

"Why you are staring at me?" you asked him, your eyes not moving away from the light above you. Still the black eyes solemnly on you, only you.

"I just seem to like your profile." he let out, clearly saying what he thinks.

"My profile? So you don't like my front face?" you asked him, with a playful edge in your voice as you finally turned your neck. You two were so close now. Just a few inches and your noses would touch, with the way you laid there.

"Oh, I do like your front face. It's a pretty face. I always wonder why you are so good at managing with others, but I guess for other persons it's hard to say no to a pretty face." he meant, clearly searching logical reasons why you seemed to appeal to him. And there was this slight blush over your nose. As you wanted to turn your head away because you noticed it.

"Don't turn away, this is the best part. That pink shade on your face. Let me look at it." his hand reached out to gently grasp your chin.

And now, now it was a moment it made his brain stop.

What was that feeling? What was he feeling when he did that, and it came just so out of instinct. L usually never just acted out of instinct, everything he did was calculated and for a reason.

"For someone who is a pain in the ass, you can be pretty demanding. Just so you know." you tried to pull it off with your little attitude, but you failed when you got lost in his own dark eyes.

"To be honest... I don't know what I do when it is about you." he let out. It was true you were so different from him, and yet still this fact you said you were a medium, that Watari himself meant you were special. Special, like all the Wammy kids, just differently.

"You are joking, you know exactly what you do." was the reply you gave him, and you really believed he would know, since he always did these things to make you blush.

"Nah, you are relying on assumptions. I just analyzed what makes you blush, I can't help myself. I don't even know why I like it. It's just so interesting that one small move can bring you out of concept. And that for someone who says who can talk to ghosts." L spoke, and his voice was a little lower. Maybe he got a little bolder, not quite getting that his actions had not only an impact on him but on you too.

He liked seeing you blush, but now he liked how your pupils widened, how your breath seemed to stuck in your throat.

"Dead people don't do stuff like that, this is different." you tried to argue, so cute. But he propped himself up, leaning with his head over you.

He could see your blush interned, his breath mingled with yours.

Your red cheeks heating up more. His breath smelled like the candy you two ate.

You always smelled good, he always liked the feeling he got when he got a whiff of your perfume.

"Dead people...stay buried." he meant, his voice just a whisper now when you felt his cold hand laid on your neck. You kinda wanted to pull away, since you got the feeling he grew bolder in gauging out your reactions, but you would lie when you would say you dislike it.

"Not always, but I guess we had this discussion." you replied before you felt his nose touching yours. He wanted to try this closeness, and he only felt comfortable trying it with you.

"Exactly we had...we should move on to another topic, I guess." he said to you, when he felt that you laid one hand of yours on his shoulder, as you kept looking him in the face.

"May I try to kiss you?" the question slipped out of his mouth. It made you sigh.

"You have me blushing and barely breathing here. I would be worried when not." you admitted it, a little shy, but you admitted it that you would be ok with it.

And as soon as his lips laid on yours, so sweet and gentle at first...it turned out to be intense. L himself, a little overwhelmed when he noticed that this was indeed relaxing.

How soft your lips felt against his, the way your finger went through his hair. That he didn't even want to get air.

Slowly it turned out to be a make out session, tongued tangled with each other. Sloppy kisses and kiss bitten lips. No time to speak or think, just to feel.

But when you decided to take more the lead, the detective as gone. When your hands laid on his lean shoulders. When you rolled you two over so you straddled his lap. When your lips drifted down his cheek, his sharp jawline. Peppering it with kisses.

But as soon as you gently nipped and sucked on his pulse point, you felt how he had grabbed your waist. How his fingers dug into your clothes, as he tried to suppress a breathy whimper.

It was not the intention to go too far, really not, but this was simply just the start of the relationship you two would have.

Never really saying it out loud, always something to do, always something that made it hard. Just this short little downtime you two tried to have.

None of you knew if this had a future or not...but you wouldn't be doing it when you wouldn't love him, right?  

~~~~~

When the time went on, L was indeed there. It was nearly a little weird since you always had a ghost around you. Someone talking to you, you grew back to be accustomed to him. You enjoyed the fact he holds you, as much as a ghost could. No matter how cold his dead touch was, you felt an inner warmth that spread through your chest.

You had worked hard, so really hard with Near, and you tried to help Mello, tried to talk.

Of course L helping you, with arguments, even when you didn't tell any of them that L was with you, as a ghost.

Everyone was different with the loss of him.

And when finally the Kira case was closed, and thanks to you Mello stayed alive...

You thought it was time to say goodbye, right after you got the news Light was dead that Mello and Near outsmarted him...

Usually when the thing what kept a soul here was done, they slowly started to fade, but L didn't.

"You said you were stuck because of the Kira case..." you spoke as you stood in front of him now. You didn't want him to go, you really didn't want.

"It was one of those things." he agreed with a nod, of course it was not the last thing.

The reason he was still there was not only the Kira case. It was you...

You, the sweet girl he learned to love, he learned to have. It made his heart feel heavy, could he really stay with you when only never saying it?

He would want to, he enjoyed the fact he could pop up and startle you. One of the positive things of being dead.

But he didn't want that for you.

L was dead, and you were not.

You couldn't throw your life away because of him.

And the painful fact was...he knew you would rather stay alone when he could stay as a ghost here, then to actually live under the living.

"What is the thing now? I mean...we do have time....we-" you meant to him, before he took a deep breath, grabbing your hand.

"There is this one thing I never said...something I regret I never said. I never did. I always told I am clever, guess I wasn't that always." he started, even when he seemed composed and put up a straight face. You weren't dumb, you knew what he would say, because you knew it was the same thing you never said to him.

"Don't." you pleaded, you didn't want to let him go.

"Just a little while, please." you added, and he already could see your lower lip trembling.

"We had a little while, and I do enjoy that. I would love nothing more than to haunt you...but you need to live. You need to live for me." his words hurt you, and he tried not seem too vulnerable, but he was.

He was dead, there was nothing more why he would need to put up a front. Why he wouldn't need to let these weird feelings he didn't understand when he lived, out.

"I missed you, I... I am afraid that I forget how your face looks like or your voice, how it sounds. L...it was not fair, and it is not fair." your voice was cracking now, you were so close to the edge of tears.

"You are perfect, you know that? You are sweet, and caring. Attentive even, I don't know a better person who would build a pillow castle and give me cheesecake. You deserve to live...under the living. You need to, we both know I can't stay here." he whispered leaning down, cupping your cheek, he didn't want to make you cry, himself tried not to do so.

Because he couldn't afford to go weak, not now, not when this was for you.

"I am seeing death every day, but it terrifies me when it is about you. I...don't want to. Because I..." you nearly said it, you nearly said you loved him. And it took him a moment, he just stared at your pretty face. God, it was hurting him. More than any case ever could.

"I love you, I know it wasn't easy with us. That it was unsaid. And I do regret for not making more of it. I just thought we would have more time. I love you...and I keep watching, ok? Just promise me, that you don't waste yourself." he finally said it out loud, he would have loved to have a life with you. Probably it would not be the conventional one, but it would have been worthy.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you.

His cold lips, you felt them on yours, so tender and full of love. You were so precious. You tried to cling to him, but you couldn't since he was not physical there. He started to fade. The last thing that kept him stuck here, was you. It was the fact he needed to tell you he loved you.

-

"He did it so quickly!"

"I couldn't even feel a thing!"

"He was so handsome!!"

You overheard some of your coworkers discussing a private dental clinic that had opened not so long ago.

Fine.

Maybe you should go book with the dentist there- just this once. Before the pain would get worse and you'd have to get the tooth pulled or something. Then you'd definitely get someone to bring you in unconscious.

A Wednesday, somewhere in the later midday.

You were sat in the rather aesthetic waiting area, just the receptionist sitting at the front desk and typing away with her long nails. Whoever owned this clinic had good taste in style.

The clock ticked and ticked and ticked…

God, you were feeling sweatier and more nervous by the second.

What if you could bail and just ignore the slight discomfort forever-

"Miss, Doctor Geto is ready to see you."

You give her a small smile and got up, fingers nervously holding on to the front of your shirt.

The doors pushed open and shut behind you, standing alone in a rather intimate space- it didn't feel as… hospital-esque and sterile cold as other places you've been.

Don't get me wrong, it was pristine and organized, hygienic and and and…

Your thoughts trailed off when you saw a man emerge from a room in the side, a warm smile on his lips and narrow eyes filled with a welcoming warm shade, some folder with papers in one hand. He was so handsome- those girls at work were right.

His hair was done up in a man bun, face mask tugged below his chin. And something about that lab coat and dark gray scrubs. Oh my.

"Hello, Miss. I hope i didn't keep you waiting for long. "

Your fear suddenly bloomed from a cold anxious ball to some blooming flower in the middle of your tummy.

Whatever, might just be the five stages of denial.

Getting up on the chair and having a sexy dentist wrap that little stupid piece of tissue and clip it around your neck shouldn't have made you feel hot in the face but it so did.

Until you saw him sit down, man spreading and getting comfortable while grabbing one of those dental mirrors. And the rest of the tools- hanging nearby on some expensive looking machine. But dear god if it didn't make you start shaking, blunt nails digging into the sides of the lush leather of the chair you sat in.

You could feel it start to lower and you were now laying flat down on your back.

Your eyes snapped shut, not to mention your teeth clenching and refusing to open. That same fear was flooding back. You had forgotten that you were supposed to let your doctor get a look at your chompers.

"Sweetheart? Hey… cmon, can you open your mouth for me, please?"

"Mnn…"

"I promise I'll just check up on your teeth, nothing painful."

"Mhnn…"

"Cmon… say ahhhh…"

A gloved finger lightly tugged on your bottom lip, making you peek one eye open to see a worried faced Geto peering down.

You managed to loosen up your jaw, opening up just enough.

"There we go, not so bad. Now, Miss, please keep open for me."

You just nodded yes, trying to keep your tongue from shifting too much.

The little mirror was cold when it clinked against a tooth or two. But besides that, it wasn't too scary.

You did wish it was his fingers inside instead…

Oh.

"Sweetheart.. open up a bit more for me, yeah? It will be quick. I just have to see all of your pretty teeth." Suguru calmly spoke to you, clearly wanting to have you calm down and cooperate. But the tone in his voice made you feel like melting instead of focusing.

You hadn't even noticed you were drooling, eyes now fully open and unable to look away from his focused face, so close… too close.

Those seemingly warm eyes turned, irises locking in with yours.

You swore you saw him try not to smirk before focusing back to looking over the backs of your upper molars. You did open up wider. Getting some small praise… why was he praising you? You liked it.

"Good… you're doing so good, just a bit more. I'm sure you can handle it."

Your eyes kept flicking down from watching his hand to then back to his face. It was like you couldn't decide what was better.

"It seems you have some sensitivity on your second molar, Miss."

You blinked, giving a small nod, unable to make anything besides a "mhm" sound with the mirror still inside.

When Suguru pulled it out you felt a bit sad his hand wasn't anywhere near your mouth anymore.

"Please rinse your mouth." Geto smiled, placing the mirror away to start picking up some other tool.

You glanced over to the little paper cup, watching it getting filled with water- picking it up and swishing the water around in your mouth, glancing over to the dentist with cheeks puffed up from the liquid.

"Spit it out, doll." Suguru chuckled, watching you seem unsure about what to do with it now.

You leaned back down and spat it out, trying to ignore the name he called you so casually, using the flimsy paper towel around your neck to wipe the saliva strings trying to escape your chin.

"Your teeth are healthy and in rather nice condition, but it seems you haven't visited a dentist in a while, hm?" Geto tapped a few fingers on the headrest of the chair, signaling for you to lay back down.

You obviously did as told and tried to answer his question.

Maybe Suguru had caught on by now, because once you opened your mouth a few fingers were pressing down on your tongue and then gently moving side to side as if inspecting your bottom set of teeth, lightly pressing down on your canine.

"Isn't it a bit rude to not answer questions, sweetheart?" He cooed down at you, the thumb of the hand in your mouth softly pressing against your cheek, making you tilt your head, having you look up and meet his amused gaze.

"Wehhll…m..doont.. likkeuh denthisthts…" You tried to babble out with the digits in your mouth, drool already pooling around them.

How embarrassing.

It looked like you were shaking, again, not from fear though.

Something about the way the gloved thumb caressed the side of your cheek and whilst the middle and ring finger were taking their time to spread your saliva around while "inspecting" the rest of your pearly whites had you forgetting why the hell you were even here. The small pain from your molar gone.

"I see… you don't like me then? Not one bit? I'm hurt, Miss… really am." Suguru pretended to pout a bit, the two fingers gliding deeper- you hoped he didn't see how your eyes rolled back, hands unable to hold on to just the sides of the chair and twitching to grab into his arm.

You wanted to say that no, no you did like him but that no came out as a small…

moan.

"Oh?" The hand halted, slowly pulling out- as if teasing you for making such a sound.

The fingers didn't get too far though, gathering the dripping drool to nudge back inside of your parted lips, almost having you splutter.

"I guess i was wrong."

Your hand finally reached up, nervous digits gripping into the white sleeve of the lab coat.

You initiating some sort of touch was like a switch being flicked down.

Suguru pushed himself up, wiping your drool across your cheek while smiling down at you.

The chair silently lifted up, riiiiightt until your face was laying at the perfect height. Just about where his bulge was.

Great.

Sucking a dentist's dick wasn't on your bucket list.

But watching Suguru use his teeth to pull the gloves off and reach down to the waistband of those a bit too oversized scrubs, you already had your lips parting. Again. For a completely different reason now.

Fwop!

A girthy cock smacked you right across the face, you could feel it wanting to twitch from the feeling of your skin.

"Patience, doll."

Your hands struggled to stay put while Geto slowly dragged it back and forth, just rolling his hips and nudging it closer and closer to your mouth- greedy tongue already darting out to try and get a lick in.

"Such a dirty girl, put that back." He gripped the base of the heavy thing, lifting it to smack across your mouth a few times, finally letting it slide over your glossy lips after, making sure to only drag it between them, not inside to let you have a taste.

"You're not so scared anymore, are you, sweetheart?"

"Mnnoo…" You pursed your lips to speak, kissing the pinkish tip before it slid past.

"How cute."

"Let's get you off of this chair, mn?"

-

The floor was a bit hard on your knees, but that wasn't the thing you were worrying about right now.

It was the man standing above you, a large palm playing with your bangs while the other lazily jerked the tempting thing in front of your face.

A dark happy trail disappeared underneath up his shirt, the ivory coat shifting with each of his movements- your nails dug into your knees this time, eyes almost doe and watery by how badly you wanted to lean forward and have Suguru's cock down your throat.

It was cruel, honestly.

"Will you be a good girl and open up wide for me?"

"Yes-"

The meaty thing lightly smacked against your cheek, leaving a light smear of precum on the spot.

"Don't answer me, just do. Let's try this again, hm?"

"Open up. Say Aaaah."

"Aaaaahhh…"

You thickly swallowed, opening your mouth just barely, too focused on staring at the way Suguru's wrist was sloppily dragging the palm back and forth, running across this big vein that you swore you could taste already-

Another smack to your cheek with the fat cock.

"Wider, sweetheart. Be good."

You let out a small whine but finally let your jaw go loose and leaned forward.

The hand in your hair reached further back, gripping into your locks and pushed you forward.

The delicious way that thick girth slid into your mouth… across your tongue and farrr back down to your throat. Not even having you gag surprisingly.

"There we go, finally got what you wanted so bad, yeah, doll?"

"mhnmmhm!" your humming vibrated around the meaty thing stretching your lips and rewarded you with a soft groan from Geto.

The sound of full balls smacking against your chin, lewd gags and wet slurps filled the neat space.

Drool was definitely dripping down your chin and dampening the collar of your shirt.

Not to even talk about the puddle drenching trough your panties…

But Suguru was filling your throat so good you couldn't do anything but blissfully shut your eyes and hold on to your own thighs.

"Feels nice, yeah? Sooo good…" You could hear him start to ramble from above you, both of those large palms cupping the sides of your head to keep it in place as he used your mouth. Clearly this was getting to Geto just as much as you.

"Fff… shit… Will you be a do.. doll and… swallow? Swallow for me?"

How could you say no to such a lovely man.

Suguru almost collapsed, having to let go of your face to grip into the tool trolley nearby, rattling it- making sure to push in alll the way to the hilt, neatly trimmed hairs tickling your nose as your throat convulsed and tried to swallow around the girthy thing down it.

The hot cum spurting down it made you choke and try to pull away for some air. But you definitely did swallow every last drop.

The softening length gently glided out, leaving your throat feeling empty.

-

Well then.

After your dentist helped you get cleaned up a bit and made sure you were alright.

It was time to go home.

Tooth still sensitive.

But it's okay, Dr. Geto made sure to leave a spot for you to come in next week. On a Wednesday.

And the week after that. For free.

How kind.

Seems like your fear of going to the dentist had disappeared too.

Yoon's notes: FOR MY LOVELY MOMMMY @serpenttine. I am still very i donno insecure about my writing after everything and doing a char i have never done IM SHITTING MYSELF SCARED. but i love drea so much i wanted to make this special, to show her how much i care for her. AND AS A CONGRATS ON HER BIG MILESTONE IN FOLLOWERS. you deserve the world mama. MWAH I HOPE YOU LIKE

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art: ilameys (?)

tags 1/5: @maplewood-valley @xqce @cactusvolumes @sxno0 @yeschefcarm @puppyrawpawz @dustypepsi @izeizebaby @Imbetter111 @stellarixe @deftoneslut @itstotallynotbrina @mimiiis @yorikae @astutetwilight @ghonegh0stwrit3r @1cckedheart @kissmatz @svvpernova @satorusdollie @itimisu @chloeee20 @liahcharms @jinjoohaaa @theartofsugarcoating @fruitypatootie @iluvfictionalmen4eva @jj5110 @magicalpeenpoo @Iilteef @zukobendsme @namjooningera @jaaazy @kebablover @suckerforsatoru @milf-ivy @love-d-luxe @mrskamikazekaito @cursedkisss @lilithkleii @serpenttine

want to join the taglist? HERE

©yoonsucks

all work belongs to @yoonsucks , do not copy, repost, translate or feed into AI !!

You never thought you'd date the world’s greatest detective, L. He wasn't even your type, he isn't even what people would call “boyfriend material” either. He slept like a bat, ate sugar everyday like it was his last day on earth, and stared at people for so long it felt less like eye contact and more like being investigated for a crime you didn’t remember committing. Even most conversations with him felt less like conversations and more like psychological evaluations. You never imagined someone as logical as L could truly love someone. Or trust someone, for that matter. He viewed the world through deductions and probabilities. Emotions always seemed secondary to him.. unnecessary, even..

But yet here are both of you, side by side, shoulders touching. The soft glow of computer screens illuminated the dark headquarters while rain continued to pour outside. Papers were scattered across the table, cold coffee sat forgotten beside reports, and somewhere behind you was Matsuda, slumped awkwardly across the couch with papers stuck to his face. Aizawa had fallen asleep at the table, arms crossed tightly against his chest, Mogi was somehow in the same position as Aizawa. Soichiro’s head rested against the chair behind him, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

Unlike the others though, Light had gone to his room hours ago. As hardworking as Light was, he was also disciplined when it came to himself. While the rest of the task force destroyed their sleep schedules to chase Kira, he actually understood the concept of basic human health.

L remained focused on the screen before him, thumb pressed lightly against his lower lip as he read through another stack of files. Your eyes drifted to him.

Messy black hair with dark circles beneath his eyes. Bare feet tucked beneath him on the chair. Occasionally hearing some thoughtful hums from him.

For a moment, you simply watched him. And somehow, your mind drifted back to the first time you met him.

݁˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“I am L.”

THIS was the world’s greatest detective?

..was the first thing you remember thinking when you saw him, judging by the expressions on your coworkers’ faces, you clearly weren’t the only one thinking it. After you, and your coworkers showed your IDs and introduced yourself to L. He suddenly raised his hand, pointing to your group as his fingers shaped like a gun.

“Bang!” L said flatly.

“Huh… what the hell was that!?”

“If I were Kira you'd be dead, Mr. Soichiro Yagami, Chief of the NPA.” L said in a matter of fact.

Working with L was one of the strangest experiences of your life. One second he was pointing finger guns at everyone like an overgrown child, and the next he was calmly dissecting Kira’s psychology. As L, ahem.. Ryuzaki explained how Kira was childish and hated losing, the entire room fell silent listening to him. Somehow, every theory connected perfectly. When he was asked what would happen if the media stopped revealing criminals’ names, from deducting that Kira was manipulating criminals to test the limits of his abilities before killing the FBI agents, every deduction painted Kira as someone intelligent, egoistical, and close to the investigation itself. And when Ryuzaki finally admitted that by revealing himself he had already “lost the battle” against Kira but refused to lose the war, you found yourself staring at him differently than before. He was someone genuinely willing to risk his life to stop Kira, no matter the cost.

݁

After L revealed himself to the task force, you started working with him directly almost every day. It was honestly exhausting trying to keep up with him. His thought process just moved.. too fast, you weren't that intelligent enough to keep up with him but you still tried your best. His conversations jumped from one topic to another without warning. Most of the task force would eventually give up for the night and straight up sleep on the spot. But since your sleep schedule is just as horrible as his, night after night, the two of you would remain awake alone in headquarters, illuminated only by the glow of computer screens and the quiet static from the surveillance feeds. Sometimes hours would pass in silence except for the occasional thoughtful hum from L as he analyzed footage. Other times, he’d randomly ask strange questions as though discussing the weather.

“Do you think boredom is enough reason for someone to become evil?” he suddenly asked one night, eyes still fixed on the monitors.

You pulled your attention away from the surveillance feed. “Is that your way of trying to start a conversation?”

“Well.. yes.”

You giggled before shaking your head as you answered him. “I think boredom just removes distractions,” you said quietly. “Most people spend their lives too busy surviving, studying or working. But when someone suddenly gains power or control with nothing holding them back.” Your eyes drifted back toward the monitor. “That’s when their real mindset shows.” You continued. “When a person convinces themselves that only their judgment matters, they stop seeing other people as people. They start seeing them as obstacles or maybe even tools. And once someone reaches that point, hurting others becomes easy because they think the outcome justifies it.”

You turned your head towards him, since you wanted to see what his reaction was to your answer and immediately flinched back a bit. Wide, black and dark eyes meet your glaze, he rubbed his thumb on his lower lip thoughtfully.

“You understand Kira surprisingly well..” he murmured.

“Huh? That was about Kira?” you tilted your head.

“Hmm well.. Yeah.. ” he took a sip of his coffee. “I'm surprised you didn't know..”

“Was I supposed to?”

L paused slightly, as if genuinely considering the question. “Yes.”

“Feels like you should’ve specified it..”

“I assumed it was obvious.”

“Whatever! Enough about conversations about the cases though!” you leaned back and crossed your arms.

“Soo, you're ending the conversation?”

“Well yeah, for my well-being..”

Silence settled between you for a moment, before L spoke again. “Then what would you prefer to discuss?”

You actually thought about it because talking to L never stayed simple. It always turned into analysis, or psychology, or something that felt like you were being quietly evaluated under a microscope.

“Normal things?” you said cautiously.

“Define normal.”

You sighed. “I don’t know, maybe… anything that isn’t Kira-related.” you said finally.

“That removes most of my interests.”

“Seriously?” you sighed before an idea popped into your mind and smiled teasingly.

“Oookay then.. What about.. your preference in women? You wiggled your eyebrows teasingly. “or men if you're into them too..”

“Preference..?” L repeated

“Yup, like… do you prefer blondes or brunettes. More into shy or bold girls.. You know, those types of things!!” you look at him expectingly.

“Hmm.. I suppose I don't have one. It never crossed my mind nor was it interesting enough for me to even think about it..” L answered.

“So you’re telling me you’ve never even thought about it?”

“No.”

“Not even the tiniest once?”

“No.”

“Oh c'mon really? Maybe you're just lying.. Or maybe you just have a weird taste.. C'mon tell me! Promise I won't judge!!”

“You talk as if having preference is required..” L looked at you through the corner of his eye.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “I mean, no.. It's just.. most people just have them”

“I do not operate based on most people, and you know that..” he replied.

You groaned softly. “Right. Of course you don’t.”

A silence lingered between you again. The monitors flickered softly in the background, rain tapping against the windows like a metronome.

“You're such an Enigma, Ryuzaki… seriously I don't think I've ever met anyone like you—”

You freeze slightly as you feel something heavy landing on your shoulder. “R.. Ryuzaki?”

There, Ryuzaki fell asleep, his cheeks pressing against your shoulder, his messy black hair fell slightly over his eyes, and his usual tense posture had softened completely. You didn't even move a single muscle, afraid that even the slightest move could wake him up. Eventually, your tense posture slightly softened as you also felt your eyelids getting heavy. “You’re going to give me a backache like this, you know…Not that I mind.”

You carefully wrapped him with a blanket nearby as you carefully leaned your head on his too.

“Sweet dreams, Ryuzaki..”

You still remember that night clearly when both of you were woken up with the flash of Matsuda's cellphone when he was trying to take a picture of the both of you.

݁

You didn’t really notice when it stopped being “working with L” and started becoming something else. Sure… maybe you were the one who spent more time with him due to both of your sleeping schedules being horrible and having conversations that weren't related to the case but oh boy, you knew you were fucked up the moment you started looking forward to nights you told yourself were supposed to be “just work.”, how you found yourself wanting his approval more than you were willing to admit, how you caught yourself smiling at the smallest things he did even something as simple as a quiet “hm,” or the way he tilted his head when he was thinking.. And the absolute worst one was when you stopped noticing that you were tired just to stay awake a little longer if it meant he stayed too.

You realized you enjoyed being with L, you want to listen to him more, talk to him more.

You like him. No, rather, you love him.

But this was really bad timing too. You are here to catch Kira, not to catch feelings, plus what would L even say about this?

“Ms. Y/n… is there something wrong?” L suddenly asked, snapping you from your thoughts.

“What? No—no, I’m fine.” you said quickly, your face was heating up as you avoided his gaze. This reaction would of course make L raise his non existing eyebrow. “Are you hiding something..?”

Your eyes snapped back to him. “I’m not—”

“You looked away faster than usual..” he continued, as if you hadn’t spoken. “Not to mention your heartbeat is beating so fast I could practically hear it from here…”

“You can’t just.. ugh.. read me like that.”

“I can though..” he replied calmly.

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?” he asked.

Your brain short-circuited for a second. Because how were you supposed to say that the point is I just realized I’m in love with you and I’m actively trying not to explode in front of you without actually saying it?

Your fist clenched on your lap. This was L. Lying to him would be pointless, he could see right through you like a transparent glass. And somehow, like he could sense where this was going. L shifted slightly in his chair.

“If you are simply tired, you should rest.. There is no need to continue this conversation—"

“No.” you cut in softly, tugging on his sleeve lightly. “I… I like you.. Ryuzaki.. I-I know this is b-bad timing and—”

“I understand..” L interrupted.

”Huh..?” you whispered.

“I said I understand,” he repeated.

Your grip on his sleeve loosened slightly without you noticing.

“I am aware of what you are implying,” he continued. “And I am aware of the potential consequences of that implication.”

Your heart was beating too fast now. “Then—”

“This would interfere with the investigation..” L cut in again. “And your judgment may be affected.. And mine as well.”

“Right..” you murmured after a moment, forcing your hand to fully let go of his sleeve.

Of course. It made sense. This was L after all, you didn't even know what you were expecting. You turned slightly back toward the monitors, pretending the surveillance feed suddenly required your full attention.

“Forget I said anything.. I'm sorry for letting my emotions get the best of me..” you added quietly.

“Yes...” L replied.

Somehow L's answer to your confession made your body feel heavier than normal. The exhaustion you've been ignoring all day finally caught up with you. Your eyelids felt heavy as you eventually fell asleep.

The next morning, you woke up groaning. But smiling comfortably like an idiot. You shifted a little, rubbing your cheek against whatever had been supporting you as you slept. “…Mm…”

“I see you're finally awake, Ms. Y/n.”

Your eyes snapped open instantly, because that voice.. It was L.

You froze before slowly and painfully, you tilted your head up. He looked down at you curiously. You immediately flinched away as if he was fire that burned you. “R-Ryyzaki!? I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you, I swear I was just— I don’t even know when I—”

“It's fine. Please calm yourself.” L said calmly as he continued eating his unfinished cake.

L really confused you, because yesterday he had cut you off, saying that it would interfere with the investigation, practically shutting the whole thing down, so in your mind that was a clear rejection. Why didn’t he move you? Why didn’t he treat it like a problem he needed to remove like he always did with anything that could disrupt the case? Your hands tightened in your lap as you finally spoke again, seriously. “Ryuzaki… you’re confusing me. Yesterday you said this would interfere with the investigation, like I was a distraction you needed to avoid, but your actions don’t match that at all. You didn’t push me away.. Why?” you swallowed hard. “If you really meant what you said yesterday then please, push me away. Or else I might get the wrong idea.”

He was silent for a moment as if he’s thinking thoughtfully about what he should say next before he finally spoke. “I can say many things if I believe they are necessary. I could even lie to you with words if it helps the investigation. But my actions are harder to falsify.” He stirred his coffee. “And I didn’t move you away because, despite what I said, you are not the disruption I need to eliminate. It was a lie. In fact, your presence being a ‘distraction’ is… one of the less significant problems I am dealing with.” Your eyes widened at this, but before you could say anything he spoke once more.

“You should understand something clearly.. being with me puts you in immediate danger, especially in the Kira case.” You then saw his eyes looking around before continuing. “You should assume there are eyes closer than we think. If I allow personal attachment, you would become a weakness. My weakness.” He took s sip of his coffee “That is why I rejected the idea of you being close to me in the way you are implying.” His fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “It is not because you are a distraction… but rather.. I do not want you hurt because of something that begins with me.”

Silence lingered, L then looked at you as if expecting you to saying something after that, but he was just met with adoring, sparking eyes, your hands covering your mouth in awe. “So.. you didn’t reject me because you didn’t like me but because.. you wanted to protect me..?”

“Well I suppose yes..”

You can’t even stop yourself as you throw your arms around his neck, throwing him off caught, he had to grab the table to prevent the both of you from falling. After that he raised both his hands up, like he’s unsure where to put his hands.

”I.. I’m really glad. I thought I was bothering you, a hassle. But..” you can’t help it as your eyes get watery, the relief hitting you all at once. “I thought I ruined everything.. I honestly thought you'd be more cold to me after I confessed..”

L seemingly did not know what to do, now that you were crying, he didn’t say anything. You didn’t expect him to. You just continued to hug him, your ear pressed against his chest, hearing his soft heartbeat gave you comfort. It was quiet again, except for your soft sniffles fading in and out as you tried to calm yourself down, L remained still at first, then, little by little, the tension in his posture eased. Almost cautiously, he gently placed his hand on your head. His other hand eventually wrapped around your waist as both of you became one in that moment.

“Hurting you was never my intention… I apologize, I just want you to be safe..” You heard L whisper next to your ear.

And that was how you and L started dating, even though both of you agreed to not tell anyone at all. The task force came and went like usual. Mogi barely spoke, Matsuda talked too much, the Chief stayed focused. Everything continued as it is, because that was the agreement. Because sometimes, when no one was looking too closely, L’s hand would rest just a little closer to yours than necessary or your shoulder would brush his and neither of you would move away immediately.

݁

The investigation finally reached its peak, plans that L and Light worked on were set into motion, and for the first time in a long time, there was actual movement and actual answers, and then it finally happened. They caught Kyosuke Higuchi, or most commonly known as Kira.

You remember standing there in silence, watching it settle in. Kira had been caught. The fear that had controlled the entire investigation for so long finally had a name, a face, and a captured body. Relief hit you. It’s done. For the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to breathe normally.

It’s finally done.

You looked at the helicopter where L was in, you wish you could see his reaction. The two of you can finally be together without L being so cautious of his surroundings.

Kira was gone. That was what mattered.

…Or so you thought.

Because not long after, you and the other guys were finally arresting Higuchi, guiding him to the car, suddenly died of a heart attack.

Just like before, like Kira’s victims.

The relief you had just started to feel disappeared instantly, replaced by that familiar sinking feeling in your stomach.

Was Higuri not Kira then? No that can’t be, it was confirmed it was him.. he just said that he used a notebook of death to kill people. There was solid evidence.

The “end” you had felt only minutes ago collapsed completely. Kira was still out there, and the case was far from finished.

And that’s how the investigation continued up until now.

݁˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Is something bothering you?”

L’s voice snapped you back to reality, as your memories faded. “Ah.. it's nothing, just thinking about the case..” you smiled.

L studied you for a moment before he stood up, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Why don’t we continue this investigation in my room..?”

“Your room?” You repeated.

”Mhm, it will be much more private and.. I have something to tell you, so please follow me..” he turned his back to you as he walked, expecting you to follow him. You eventually stood up and followed him behind. Well.. it's good now that both of you can finally have some alone time together since both of you couldn't do much when he was chained to Light.

He opened the door, letting you in first as he locked the door behind him. The two of you went straight back into the investigation, reviewing notes and connecting details across the case, the glow of the screens reflecting in the dim room as L sat curled in his chair, already analyzing patterns as usual. As you were working, he suddenly pushed his unfinished cake slightly toward you. “Cake..?” He tilted his head.

”Thanks..” you took a bite, humming in satisfaction. You noticed L looking at you, sucking his index finger. You tilted your head at that. “Is something wrong..?”

”Your face..” he simply said.

”Uhh.. what about my face..?”

He didn’t say anything and just leaned onward, grabbing your wrist. “Huh..” and before you knew it, he licked the icing that was sticking off the side of your mouth. You froze, then you felt your whole face burning.

“W—wait—” you blurted, immediately pulling back so fast your chair squeaked. Your hand flew to your mouth, eyes wide. “R-Ryuzaki!? What was that?!”

”You had icing on your face, I simply removed the icing..”

“Jesus— I know that, Ryuzaki… I just didn’t know you could be bold like that. After all, I feel like physical touch would be the least of your love language..” You slowly dragged your chair next to him again.

“Bold? What do you mean bold I just simply wiped the icing...” he asked innocently but he seems to actually be teasing you.

“Yeah.. With your tongue… you could’ve just told me you know..”

“Yes I could have..”

That made one of your eye brows raise. “Then why didn't you..?”

“Perhaps, I just wanted to find an excuse to do that..” he shrugged.

You paused for a second, just straight up looking at him with disbelief before chuckling. “Ryuzaki… you silly dude..” you said, shaking your head. “You do realize we are dating, right?”

“Yes.” L replied.

“So you don’t need to find an excuse just to do things like that, you could just… I don’t know… ask me.” you continued, still smiling. But the embarrassment is still there.

“Hmm, ask you? ” he repeated quietly.

“Yeah..” you nodded. “Like a normal boyfriend would.” you said despite knowing the fact that he's anything but normal.

He then leaned in forward for a bit now. “If I ask, will you not refuse?”

“I mean, if you ask, I won’t refuse. That’s kind of the point of being in a relationship, Ryuzaki.” you blushed and smiled, all of a sudden you can't look him in the eye, your gaze drifting to your hand what was resting on your lap.

It only really hit you how little “physical” your relationship with L actually was. The most physical it ever got was simple things—that one time when you hugged him once or ended up sleeping on each other's shoulder during nights of investigation. But despite the lack of physical intimacy you never really felt like anything was missing. You were already content just being beside him or listening to him about the case. That has always been enough for you.

You then feel his hand grabbing your chin to push your head up gently so he'll be able to look at your eyes before dropping his hand. “Then may I?”

“Uh.. yeah… yeah I mean yes..” was all he needed before leaning in, pressing his lips against yours.

It was a quick, almost an experimental kiss before he immediately leaned back, to get a full view of your reaction. It seems like that first kiss was just a quick one to see your reaction first.

Your brain completely stalled for a second. You just sat there, looking at him like you were trying to process what just happened. “R-Ryuzaki…?” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “You just—.. Why do you kiss like it was a test run or something..?”

L tilted his head slightly. “It was. I needed to observe your response first.. Was it unpleasant?”

“Of course it wasn't..” you smiled.

“I see… then if you don't mind, I would like to try again.” he looked directly into your eyes as he asked for permission once again. You nodded in response, closing your eyes.

Then you finally felt his lips pressing against your once more, humming against his lips before you cupped his cheeks. This kiss was longer than the last one, your hands slid to touch his ear, your thumb softly brushing against the tip of his ears, it was warm. Maybe instead of blushing through his cheeks it showed on his ears instead. So he does get shy, huh? You opened your eyes slightly, wanting to have a glance if his ears are indeed red. But instead you were met with wide black eyes looking straight into your soul instead.

“Gah—!” you jerked back slightly in surprise, causing L to tilt his head concerningly.

“Is there a problem? Were you uncomfortable..?” he asked quietly.

“No you just uh… you just caught me off guard..” you laughed awkwardly. “Ryuzaki, were your eyes open the whole time we were kissing?”

“Yes. I have to see your reaction after all..” he replied.

You looked at him and sighed which was followed by a soft laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “Ryuzaki… most people close their eyes when they kiss, you know.”

“If I closed my eyes, I would not have been able to observe your reaction.”

“You don't have to observe me or my reaction with your eyes. Just feel it.” you explained softly. “How about we try again..?”

L nodded, leaning in already but you placed a finger on his lips, stopping him. “Ah—ah.. Close your eyes..” you instructed.

“Close my eyes.” he repeated quietly, L is always the one giving the instructions, so being instructed was unfamiliar to him.

“Yup!” you laughed softly. “No analyzing or observing, just trust me on this one.. Okay?”

A brief silence followed, still not closing his eyes. But then, surprisingly obediently, L closed his eyes.

You stared at him for a second, trying not to smile too hard at how oddly serious he looked even now.

“Woah you actually listened..” you whispered.

“I said I would try..” he replied calmly.

Your heart softened a little at that, then, slowly, you leaned closer again, more careful this time, your hand lightly resting against his cheek and when your lips met his again, the kiss was softer than before—less experimental and awkward. You get to taste him better in this kiss and of course, he tasted sweet, like the strawberry cake you just had.

Your hands that were resting on his cheek slid to his neck, then his hair, pulling him closer now as the kiss deepened. You feel him tilting his head slightly and not long after you eventually felt his hand snaking around your waist and pulling you closer.

The kiss was getting heated now as you started gripping his messy hair. You felt shivers from the little satisfied hums he was letting out here and there, L’s hands were also gripping your shirt now. You had to scrunch your face to stop yourself from slipping your tongue in his mouth, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

Eventually both of you, somehow, pulled back at the same time, panting and out of breath.

“W—woah.. that was..” you started, but you can't think of anything to say after that. You were speechless and still catching your breath.

You just stared at L, trying to recover while your face burned. L, did the same, looking at you while still slightly out of breath before he finally spoke.

“You taste sweeter than sugar..” L licked his lips before continuing. “If I knew you tasted this sweet then I would have done this sooner..” L added quietly.

“Ahaha… you do know how to make a girl's heart pump out of her chest sometime..” you teasingly shove your hand to his face pushing him back slightly so he won't be able to see how embarrassed and red you were.

“Anyway..” You cleared your throat, pulling your hand back. Trying to cool off by changing the topic ”..you said you wanted to tell me something, right?”

That made L pause on that, his expression turning serious once more and nodded. “Yes.. I.. did say that.. it's related to the case and well.. us.. but I’ll have you to promise me, you won’t tell a soul about this..”

L was trusting you once more, you would always be glad whenever he would tell you something only the both of you know, it makes you feel happy and special in some way knowing he trusts you. “I promise!” Seeing you all excited, you saw the faintest smile tugging on his lips before his face immediately got serious. Without another word, L picked up the Death Note and opened it carefully, turning it toward you so you could clearly see the rule written there:

If the person using this Death Note fails to consecutively write names of people to be killed within 13 days of each other, then the user will die.

“The thirteen-day rule..” he said quietly.

You looked back up at him. “What about it?”

“I am not convinced it is legitimate. In fact, I believe it is most likely a fabricated rule.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “A fake rule…? But why would someone add a fake one?”

“To protect the current user..” he answered immediately. “Think about it. If the rule is accepted as real, then anyone imprisoned for longer than thirteen days without using the notebook would automatically be proven innocent. From a logical standpoint, it functions too perfectly as a safeguard.”

“And the only people who could be protected by this rule are..”

”Yes, Light Yagami and Misa Amane..”

You frowned slightly, still staring at the page. “But Ryuzaki, we already tested the notebook materials, didn’t we? The paper, the ink… everything. The scientists said those substances don’t exist anywhere on Earth. If Kira really wrote those rules himself, then how could he create materials that literally can’t be replicated by humans?”

L stayed quiet for a moment before humming thoughtfully. “That.. is the strongest argument against my theory..” he admitted. “Or perhaps it wasn’t written by Kira. That is why I’ll test it..”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Test it…?” You stared at him in disbelief before your expression shifted into alarm. “Ryuzaki, you’re not seriously thinking about using the Death Note yourself, are you?!”

“No..”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

L continued. “I have already instructed Watari to arrange two death row inmates. One inmate will write the other inmate’s name into the notebook. If the thirteen-day rule is legitimate, the writer should die after thirteen days of inactivity, however if they survive…”

“Then the rule is fake…” you finished quietly.

“That is right.. I'd also like to add more to my theory, if you don't mind...” L said and you nodded.

“I'm all ears!!”

“Alright then.. During Light Yagami’s 14 days in confinement, Kira’s killings completely stopped before resuming..” You listened carefully as he continued. “Now… I'd like you to listen to me carefully why this just all goes back to protecting both Light and Misa.. I'll try to explain it simply just for you..”

L placed the Death Note aside before pulling a blank sheet of paper toward himself along with a maker before opening it. He then drew two simple figures.

On the left, he wrote: Kira.

On the right: Light.

He tapped the ‘Kira’ drawing lightly. “From the beginning of this case, before we had suspects, all I possessed was a behavioral profile of Kira, thanks to the “Lind L. Tailor” bait that I had planned..” he explained. “A childish individual with a strong ego and a god complex. Someone who hates losing and wants control over the world..”

L then pointed at the ‘Light’ drawing. "Now, let us temporarily assume that Kira and Light Yagami are completely different people.”

He then drew an arrow from ‘Kira’ toward another figure he drew, who was named ‘Higuchi'.

“Kira passes the notebook to Kyosuke Higuchi..” L continued. “However, according to the 13-day rule, if the original owner does not continue writing names within thirteen days, they die.”

L circled the ‘Kira’ drawing before putting a question mark beside it.

“So logically, why would the original Kira willingly do this?” He looked at you directly now.

“Why would an egotistical individual, obsessed with victory and becoming a god suddenly place themselves in a situation, knowing they will die?”

Your eyes lowered toward the paper again. When he phrased it that way… it really didn’t make sense. Yeah, why would the original Kira basically kill themselves..?

L drew a large X over the ‘Kira’ and ‘Light' figures. “If Kira and Light are truly different individuals, then the original Kira would essentially be committing suicide by surrendering the notebook..”

He tapped the paper once more. “But that contradicts Kira’s established personality completely..”

Then L moved the marker again and wrote:

Kira = Light

“The only explanation that remains logically consistent… is that Light Yagami and Kira are the same person..”

You were silent after that. No, more like speechless, still looking at the paper. “I… wow that was..” you breathed out softly, leaning back in your chair. “When you explain it step by step like this, it feels so obvious.”

Your eyes slowly lifted toward L again, and despite the heaviness of the conversation, you couldn’t help the small smile that appeared on your face. “You really are the world’s greatest detective..” you murmured honestly. “I mean it. The way your brain works is actually insane.. It's like you’re a gift from heaven itself..”

L looked at you quietly for a second before he drifted his gaze from you. “Thank you for the compliment..”

You chuckled at that. Maybe you should compliment him even more just to get even a little reaction from him.

“A gift from heaven, huh..” he repeated absentmindedly.

You smiled faintly. “What? Was that too dramatic?”

“No, it's just quite ironic.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Ironic how?”

L’s eyes shifted to the window. The rain outside tapped gently against the windows while the still on monitors hummed faintly in the background.

“Lately.. I have been hearing church bells.” he began.

“Church bells?” you tilted your head.

“Yes..”

“Eh, I don't think there are churches nearby though..”

“That is precisely why I think it's strange.” L murmured.

You stared at him for a second, trying to figure out what that meant. “You’re kind of creeping me out right now, Ryuzaki.. What do you mean by that?”

He didn't answer, causing you to worry more. “Ryuzaki…”

He finally looked back at you, dark eyes calm in a way that almost scared you more. “If my conclusion about the 13 day rule being a fabricated rule is correct.. Then the closer I get to proving that Light Yagami is indeed Kira… the closer I get to becoming an obstacle that must be removed.”

You immediately frowned. “Ryuzaki, stop talking like that.”

“The closer we approach the truth, the more dangerous this becomes and that is a fact we must accept—”

“No, it’s not!” you shot back quickly. “You’re going to solve this case, and after that we’re both going to look back at this conversation and laugh about how weird you were being..”

“But it is true.. If Light Yagami truly is Kira, then he is also aware that I am approaching certainty.. That’s why I wanted you to know my reasoning now..” L continued, more quietly now. Almost like a whisper. “In the event that I am unable to explain it later.”

“Enough! Stop talking like that!” You sharply raised your voice as you stood up.

You can tell L was caught off guard by your sudden reaction before narrowing his eyes lightly, but his expression, of course, remained as calm as ever. “You are being emotional.”

“Yeah, no kidding!” you snapped. “You’re acting like your death is already decided?! Do you even hear yourself right now?

“It's a possibility.”

“Oh there you are again with your possibility.. You keep talking about logic and possibilities and risks, but did you ever stop to think what hearing this sounds like for me?” your voice shook despite trying to steady it. “Do you think hearing you talk about dying like it’s inevitable doesn’t affect me..?”

Even L looked slightly taken aback by your words. He was silent for a moment, not sure what to do, to say before he also stood up, in front of you. “I do know it affects you..”

“No, I don’t think you do..” you replied, voice trembling now. “Because you keep talking about your death like you’re only discussing another theory. But you’re not, Ryuzaki. It’s your life, it's you.

Your eyes burned before tears finally spilled over despite your efforts to hold them back. “And I—” your voice broke. “I finally got you. Do you understand that? After everything, after all your walls of logic and the way you keep acting like you’re impossible to reach. We just started ‘us', we still have so many things to do together..”

You wiped your eyes angrily. “I don’t want to lose you before I even really get to have you.”

The room fell completely silent after that. L just stared at you quietly, like he genuinely didn’t know how to respond to emotions this raw.

He then walked towards you until he stood right in front of you. “I apologize.” he said softly.

You looked away, sniffling. “That’s not enough.”

“I know.” Then, awkwardly, L reached up and wiped one of your tears away with his thumb.

“I do not want you to cry because of me..” he murmured. “I apologize if it seemed to you like I was just throwing my life away, but.. even I.. I don't.. I don't want to die…”

You swear you could’ve heard a shake and fear in his voice, this was the most vulnerable you've seen him. Your chest felt heavy with guilt, for thinking that he was just a cold, emotionless dude who's being run by logic and deductions alone.

No. L is human.

“No— I… I’m sorry, Ryuzaki..” you whispered quickly, your voice softening almost immediately. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that… I just…” You looked down at your trembling hands, struggling to put the feeling into words.

“I got scared… hearing you talk like that… like you already accepted something happening to you…” Your throat tightened slightly. “I hated it.”

You wiped your eyes roughly before continuing, letting out an embarrassed sigh now. “And I think part of me forgot that you’re carrying all of this too, you always sound so calm and collected that sometimes I forget this case affects you too…”

Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves. “I’m sorry for acting like your feelings didn’t matter.” You looked up at him.

L looked back at you silently for a moment, his dark eyes studying your expression carefully before his gaze softened just slightly. “You do not need to apologize for caring..” L said.

Your breath hitched faintly at how gentle his voice sounded. You could listen to it all day.

“I understand why you reacted that way. In your position, I would most likely dislike hearing those words from you as well..”

Your tears were forgotten but there was still sniffing fading in and out from you as you chuckled. You raised your hands to cup both his cheeks, causing his eyes to widen just for a bit. “No one's gonna die… not me or you, or anyone. You're gonna prove that Light is Kira, and you'll solve this case. That’s how this ends, okay?”

His gaze remained fixed on you, dark eyes softer than usual in a way only you ever got to see. “You possess a surprising amount of faith in me, don't you?” he murmured quietly.

“Of course I do.” you giggled. “You’re L. The L”

The room slowly fell quiet again after that, the tension from earlier finally fading little by little. Your thumbs traced circles on his cheeks. He brought his head down to press his forehead against yours.

Both of you just enjoyed each other's presence before your eyes suddenly widened slightly. “Wait.”

L opened his eyes “Yes?”

“I almost forgot.” You quickly pulled your hands away from his face and leaned over to grab your bag from beside the desk, making L watch you curiously as you searched through it.

“I was supposed to give this to you earlier..” you muttered. “But everything’s been so chaotic lately.”

After a few seconds, you finally pulled out a small neatly wrapped box and held it toward him a little awkwardly.

L stared at it silently. ”What is this?”

“It’s your birthday gift.”

“My… birthday gift?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Yup! Everyone’s been too busy with the investigation lately, and obviously couldn’t exactly celebrate or anything…” you laughed softly. “So I just wanted to give you something at least.”

L slowly took the small box from your hands, still looking oddly confused by the concept of someone preparing something for him specifically. Carefully, he opened it.

Inside was a simple handmade strawberry-shaped keychain attached to a silver charm engraved with a tiny L.

Your face warmed slightly. “I know it’s not anything expensive, but yeah. It's like a little key chain for your cellphone, I made one too so we can match!”

You show him yours, it was the same but instead of L it was the first letter of your name. “Well, I understand if you can’t attach it to your phone right away. If anyone notices we’re matching, they’ll definitely get suspicious.”

Your smile softened. “We can wait until Kira is brought to justice.”

L then shoved the gift to his pocket before looking back at you. “Let's catch Kira as soon as possible then..”

She smiled and nodded. ”Mm..” then you pulled away from his face a little to yawn.

“Do you wish to rest now? You've been working nonstop after all..” L said.

“Mmmh… Maybe a little..” you smiled now walking towards his bed and sitting on it as it cracked quietly. “What about you?”

“Work..” he simply said.

“Aww c’mon…” You finally laid down and scooted him over. “It's not everyday I get to sleep beside you… I can't do this for a long time especially when you were chained to Light you know..”

L looked at you silently for a moment, dark eyes unreadable as if he was genuinely debating something internally.

Work… Or resting beside the person he loved.

Eventually, he turned away and began walking toward the glowing monitors.

You let out a disappointed sigh, sinking deeper into the pillows. “Of course…”

But then, suddenly, a shadow fell over you. Your eyes widened slightly as you looked up to find L standing right beside the bed, leaning down just enough for his messy hair to fall slightly over his eyes.

You immediately sat up in surprise. “WH—! Oh, I thought you were going to work!”

“Work?” he repeated quietly. “I was just turning off the monitors..”

“Oh really?! Yeyy!” you squealed in happiness and practically pulled L down to you by wrapping your arms around his neck. Both of you adjusted before his face ended up resting on your chest with your hands brushing his messy hair softly.

“Jesus Christ L, you're so tense..” you whispered, half amused.

“Well… I am not particularly used to sleeping in normal positions..” L deadpan.

“Yeah I can tell..” you snorted, since his man always sleeps on that same crouching position on his chair, sideways. How weird can he get? But that’s part of him and you love it.

Eventually L starts to relax, his shoulders eased little by little as if his body was finally accepting that he didn’t need to stay alert for once. His arms wrapping around your waist as he adjusted slightly, trying to find a comfortable position. Eventually he ended up with his ear pressed against your chest.

Ba-dump... Ba-dump... Ba-dump

“This feels nice..” L started.

“Yeah?” you giggled softly, your finger continued to brush his hair softly. Your finger just wouldn't stop.

“I never imagined I'd be sleeping in the arms of someone… with my guard down..” he admitted.

“Oh why? Is that a bad thing?”

“No… It's just quite the peculiar feeling. But it's not exactly a bad feeling, in fact it's very warm, it feels as though a weight that I didn't even know existed has been lifted from my shoulder..” he said in a sleepy voice.

“Heh… hearing you say all that makes me so happy, Ryuzaki..” you held him tighter. “There's something I want to learn about you, do with you… but all of that can wait. For now. I'm already content.” You buried your face in his hair, your heart was swelling with joy as you were already imagining your future with him.

“Good night, Y/n.”

“Good night, Ryuzaki..”

Both of you drifted into sleep into each other's arms as the night ended…

And so did you..

The next day came quietly. L woke first, as he usually did, adjusting to the unfamiliar weight of sleep beside someone else.

But he immediately noticed something was wrong. You weren't as warm as you were just last night. L immediately supported himself by putting both of his hands on either side of your head and quickly, he checked for signs, his fingers moving with practiced urgency, pressing lightly at your wrist, then pausing as he tried to find any pulse, any indication of life. Nothing. Realization then caught up to L.

Kira. Kira killed you.

L's teeth gritted, clenching the bed sheets as he just stared helplessly at your lifeless body. Rage. Guilt. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Helplessness. Loss. It was overwhelming, he had never felt so many emotions at the same time before, his heart felt heavy and it was eating him up alive… yet not a single word came out of his mouth.

Eventually, he stopped clenching the sheet and stopped gritting his teeth.

L looked silently at you, looking at your lifeless face that was just smiling and full of life yesterday. His body hurts, his heart, his head is spinning but despite all of it he carefully adjusts you in his arms, lifting you with care, as if any rough movement would break something already fragile beyond repair. He carried you down the hallway, his entire body felt slightly unsteady, but his face stayed controlled and expressionless.

At the stairs, the task force was already focused on the task assigned to them.

Mogi and Aizawa seem to be reviewing some reports. Matsuda was talking to Ryuk. Soichiro was on the phone with someone while Light was looking at the computer.

“Ah! Ryzaki there you are—!” Matsuda’s smile faded as he noticed L stepping in… carrying you.

“Ryuzaki… hey, what happened?” Matsuda asked, alarm rising in his voice.

The other task force members heard the worry on Matsuda’s voice causing them to look at Ryuzaki's direction, their eyes widening as all of them immediately circled him.

“Ryuzaki, what's the meaning of this?!” Soichiro demanded.

“Hey, hey is that… Y/n.” Aizawa’s eyes widened.

“Hey! C’mon Ryuzaki tell us what happened!” Light said with a frown on his face and he tried shaking L.

Only his grip tightened slightly around you as more questions were asked.

“Y/n was killed.. by Kira..” he simply said his head down, bangs covering his eyes.

“What?!” Tension suddenly filled the air before L set your body down on a table.

“A—ah.. why…” Matsuda’s knees felt weak and eventually gave up. “No… no, this can’t be.. she was… was just so alive yesterday..” He started crying. Aizawa clenched his teeth and looked away. Mogi just looked down, not sure how to take the news in. Soichiro placed a comforting hand on Matsuda’s shoulder.

A loud bang was then heard, echoing in the room. Light just brought his fist down to a table, facing away from the group, his voice was shaking as he spoke. “Damn you Kira…”

Then Soichiro looked at your body with pity, still keeping his hand on Matsuda’s shoulder, forcing himself into duty despite the grief in his eyes.

“We should prepare her funeral..” he said quietly. The weight on the room felt even heavier.

“She had no known family left so.. it will be up to us. Burial… or cremation. We will decide what is appropriate for her…”

Matsuda let out another broken sound, covering his face. Aizawa stayed turned away, silent. Mogi nodded faintly, still not looking up.

There was a painful silence that lingered on the air, with only Matsuda’s sobs fading in and out. Soichiro was the first one to break the silence, his voice heavy but it was obvious that he was trying to maintain a professional tone. “We should bury her. It’s the most respectful option.”

No one disagreed.

Aizawa nodded quietly. “Yeah… burial.”

Matsuda wiped his face again, still shaken. “She wouldn’t… she wouldn’t deserve anything less…”

Mogi simply gave a slow nod.

Soichiro exhaled. “Then it’s decided. We’ll proceed with burial arrangements. I’ll handle the coordination.”

L stood slightly apart, silent for a few seconds as the decision settled. Then, in his usual monotone voice, he spoke. “If there are financial or logistical issues, please do not hesitate to speak to Watari. He will assist with everything.”

”Right, we will.. thank you, Ryuzaki..” Soichiro thanked him.

He turned slightly, already preparing to leave, but then a voice stopped his tracks..

“Ryuzaki,” Light called after him. Light’s expression was worried, but his voice hid something sharper underneath. “You’re going to attend her funeral, right?”

L didn’t respond. Matsuda looked up, surprised. Aizawa frowned slightly. Soichiro went quiet.

Light continued. “After all.. She seemed… quite attached to you.”

“Kira is still active. If I allow myself to stop now, then her death would become meaningless..” L replied calmly, not turning his back to look at Light. “If anything, the least I can do is ensure this does not happen again.” No emotion slipped into his tone as he stepped forward and continued walking out of the room, without waiting for a response. The door closed behind him.

Then Aizawa clicked his tongue, frowning. “Cold as ever… even now when someone just died..” he muttered.

Light stayed quiet for a moment, watching the door L had left through before crossing his arms. “Ryuzaki is always like that, it's best if we leave him alone for now..”

The room went quiet once again, Matsuda looked at your lifeless body. “I… I still can’t believe she’s really gone. Everything’s just happening too fast— I—… she was just handing me coffee yesterday… and now she’s..”

Soichiro exhaled slowly, tightened his grip slightly on Matsuda’s shoulder, steadying him even though his own expression was just as heavy. “I know..” he said quietly. “But we need to stay focused. We’ll give her the proper arrangements she deserves.”

Soichiro now dropped his hand from Matsuda’s shoulder and he looked at your body. “As an officer, she did her duty properly. She had a strong sense of justice and a heart of gold. I won’t let that be forgotten. We’ll make sure she’s honored properly..” Soichiro then looked at the task force, frowning. “For Y/n, Ukita.. and the others who bravely sacrificed their precious lives for this case… we will catch Kira..”

Aizawa nodded once. “Yeah. That’s right!!”

Matsuda wiped his face quickly, nodding even while still shaking. “Y-yeah… we will…”

Mogi gave a short nod, his expression still unreadable but firm.

Even Light didn’t speak at first. His eyes lingered on the table for a moment before speaking. “We will catch Kira.. No matter what it takes!”

The sad environment was still there. But now it was backed by determination.

“Let us proceed then..” Soichiro said finally. “Watari will help us with the arrangements. After this, we will continue the investigation immediately.”

For a brief moment when everyone was occupied, Light then looked at your lifeless body before finally letting out the smirk he had been holding back for a while now.

No hard feelings but I just had to get rid of you. You were.. becoming someone important to L, you became his weakness and I just had to take advantage of that. Actually I’m not even sure if there was something going on between you two but seeing that he can’t even look anyone in the eye as he carried your body, gave me the answer..

Light snapped himself back into reality before anyone got suspicious.

In L’s room, crouching on his chair as usual, reviewing reports, eyes moving quickly across every line of data, every inconsistency, every possible thread that could lead forward. His eyes moved here and there—his fingers kept rising to his mouth, nails pressed between his teeth as he bit down harder than usual. A faint trace of blood appeared at his fingertip, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Light Yagami. Kira. He killed her.

But as always he didn’t have proof.

His fingers tightened slightly against his lips before he finally pulled his hand away, only now noticing the blood staining his fingertip. He looked at it for a second without expression before absentmindedly wiping it against his pants.

The room felt painfully silent.

No soft voice interrupting his thoughts… No presence sitting beside him while he worked, listening to his theories and deductions.

L’s gaze slowly shifted toward the side of the room where you usually sat as his chest tightened faintly. He gritted his teeth slightly before looking away, burying himself deeper into work before his thoughts could linger there for too long.

L did nothing but work until the day of your funeral.

Rain poured heavily outside that morning, tapping against the windows of headquarters. The atmosphere felt colder than usual. But L remained the same.

Or at least, that was how he appeared.

He stayed crouched on his chair in front of the monitors as usual, reports scattered around him while his eyes moved endlessly across screens and documents without rest.

Meanwhile, the rest of the task force quietly prepared to leave, dressed in dark clothes with umbrellas in hand

No one really talked until Light decided to cut the silence before speaking carefully. “Ryuzaki… aren’t you coming?”

L didn't respond, he didn’t even look away from the screen with only the sound of typing filling the room.

A long silence followed before Aizawa sighed irritably, already sounding exhausted. “Leave him alone, if he doesn’t want to go, don’t force him.” he muttered.

One by one, they eventually left headquarters. “We'll be back in no time, Ryuzaki…” Soichiro said before closing the door.

And soon enough, L was alone again, only accompanied by the sound of rain and the humming of the monitors. But another sound was heard.

Ding.

L’s fingers paused over the keyboard.

Ding… Ding…

His eyes slowly lowered beneath his bangs, expression unreadable as the sound lingered faintly through the empty headquarters. The same bells he had mentioned before to you.

He stood up and decided to follow the sound of the bells, stepping away from the monitors. He walked through the silent halls of the building, barefoot, while rain battered the windows around him. Past empty corridors and dim stairwells until he finally reached the rooftop door.

The moment he pushed it open, cold rain immediately poured against him. Wind howled across the top of the skyscraper, as the rain soaked through his clothes almost instantly. The bells continue to ring faintly somewhere beyond the storm.

Ding… Ding…

L slowly stepped forward onto the rooftop, his wet bangs sticking slightly against his face as the city lights blurred beneath the heavy rain.

And for the first time in years, his mind was quiet. No calculations, theories or deductions racing through his head… nothing but the thoughts of you.

Your warmth. The rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear the night before. Your sweet voice calling him Ryuzaki… All of it, gone, just like that. He'll never have it again. The realization settled heavier the longer he stood there, something cold and hollow tightening inside his chest no matter how hard he tried to suppress it beneath logic.

Because no amount of intelligence could bring you back.

The bells suddenly sounded louder and closer.

Ding… Ding… Ding… Ding…

His fingers hesitated briefly before pulling out the small keychain you gave him. The tiny matching charm rested quietly in his palm as he simply stared at it.

The memory returned instantly—your smile as you showed him the matching one you made, your voice laughing softly as you told him both of you could attach them to your cellphones, once Kira was finally brought to justice.

“I was too late..” he murmured quietly.

And for once, the world’s greatest detective had no answer.

His eyes closed briefly as another bell echoed through the storm, he raised his head to the sky. “Wait for me..” he whispered softly into the rain.

Bi-weekly pay had gotten to him. Week one of his lavish expenditures had left him eating sleep for dinner on week two. He had run through his supply of drugs the other night at one of Thanos’ party and with literally no fucking money to buy the drugs he thrived on, Nam-Gyu was not well off.

He tried to get through it, he really did! But the shakes, the brain fog, the migraines, body aches and every other symptom in between have gotten worse. So that led him to walk the 3 miles to your cozy apartment in hopes that you would be kind enough to help him out.

He doesn’t remember the journey, he really just remembers coming face to face with your front door and the brightly colored door mat. Lifting a shaky arm, Nam-Gyu knocks on the door, hoping that you wouldn’t kill him for showing up unannounced at 12am.

“H-heeeyy..”

You look at the jittery man on your doorstep, hand scratching at the back of his neck and heart practically beating out of his throat, “I needa buy.” He’s the picture image of withdrawal. Sheen of sweat, jaw clenched and you can tell the way his body is locking up to try and stop the violent jitters that wrack his body.

“Nam-Gyu?!” You say adjusting your eyes to the backlit Nam-Gyu standing on your porch. It had to be at least midnight. “Fucking hell…” you groan, “I told you to text before coming here.” You’re irritated, blocking the door opening with your body. You give him a once over, eyebrows knitting together, “what the fuck happened to you.”

“Look I-I know you told me to text before I came around but I really need something right now. You always have the best shit- fuck please- I sold the rest of my shit for rent, I-I don’t have anything it’s been days-“

He’s raising his voice, desperately pleading with you to give him a moment of your day despite him turning up out of nowhere. The last thing you need is one of your neighbors getting suspicious of some odd man on your doorstep. You already have people uneasy with how many people come and leave from your house in quick intervals.

You’re groaning, reaching out and gripping his shirt, “Get the fuck in here. You’re acting a mess on my porch.” You’re practically throwing him into your house and slamming the door shut behind Nam-Gyu.

“Fuck thank you, you have no idea how much I need this- I-i mean I really did try to find something else, didn’t want to bother you- but no one fucking answered!” He’s practically pulling his hair out, hands sliding up his face to grip at his hair in a state you could only describe as anguish. You can hear how dry his throat is, each syllable coming out in a creaky broken rasp.

It’s times like these that really make you with that you didn’t deal drugs. Sure, you dealt pills, shit harder than weed- but a good dealer always tests her product and none of your product would do that to someone. Nam-Gyu was coming down off some harder shit.

You feel bad in a way, he’s not a horrible guy and seeing him like this is upsetting. He’s definitely a sarcastic asshole, but, many a time he’s been the one to actually talk to you while picking up, ask you about your day, albeit in a disinterested voice and a slight eye roll. He’d maybe compliment you here and there- he didn’t just toss you money and bolt off your porch.

Your knitted eyebrows relax themselves as you witness his state, “Jeez…‘s okay…” you mutter, trying to calm him down some. “I’ll…uhh get you somethin.” You say pointing behind you in the general direction of your product. He was in a pitiful state, sweaty and gnawing on his inner cheek so hard you’re sure he’s going to bite through his skin. You almost didn’t want to leave him like that just in the middle of your living room

You knew he normally did shit harder than what you were dealing. You were wondering why he even came to you. There had to have been someone else who would have answered. Guess that just means you’re good at your job?

Nam-Gyu watches as you shuffle off awkwardly down the hall. If he didn’t feel like his whole body was on fire he probably would have laughed at what you were wearing- a nightgown with some cutsey designs and fuzzy slippers (bunny ears included). This was who he was getting his drugs from?!

You come back with a few bags in your hands, tired eyes counting over your inventory. “I mean, I got whatever you need…” you say, trying to get this over with as fast as possible, you want to go back to bed.

Nam-Gyu nearly drops to his knees when you come back with all the drugs he could only hope to do. “Fuck yes! I- uh…y-yeah, yeah. Uhm I don’t know, fucking pills of some sort.” He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt and huffing out a shuddering breath, blown out pupils fixated on the bag of colorful pills.

You’re walking over to a chair in your living room, sitting down and popping open one of the small baggies you got, you’re dumping the pills into your hand and examining them- you’re really not sure what you want to give him (you really don’t want to give him anything but it’s not your place to deny him as his dealer if the dude was gonna pay).

You don’t realize it, but Nam-Gyu sure does. When you dump the pills into the cupped hand that’s raised over your lap, excess powder falls through the gaps of your fingers and onto your exposed thighs. He’s raising his hands back to his hair, gripping at the strands and pacing.

Blown out pupils latch onto the dust, he can only imagine the relief that would come if he just had that small amount- just the sprinkling of dust from the pills he knows are good as fuck, would help with the body shakes, the tense jaw, the racing heart and the ungodly amount of sweat, surely!

His body moves on its own accord, Nam-Gyu is dropping to his knees in your living room and crawling towards you, towards that sweet powder he needs.

Lifting your head up you just look at him, dumbly. You’re rightfully confused, this is insane. Nam-Gyu, out of all people on all fours in your living room, crawling towards you. You can’t speak, you’re just genuinely too dumbfounded, watching him come closer and closer.

It’s genuinely jarring, seeing him reduced to what he is right now, hair stuck to his face by the sweat that coats his forehead. His eyes are hollowed, ringed by dark circles that emphasize the pleading, desperate look he has in his eyes as he shakily crawls towards you.

Chin practically over your knees, you can see each breath he takes. “What the fuck are you-“ your voice dies into a surprised gasp when Nam-Gyu’s mouth drops open and his tongue lolls out, diving towards your thighs. You still don’t even realize the powder ecstasy that litters your thighs, all you can think to do is cup the pills into your fist and raise your other arm up to press your palm against his damp forehead.

He’s surprised how strong you are, you’re stiff arming him away from his goal and keeping your elbow locked, looking down at him incredulously. Nam-Gyu looks up at you from his position on the floor, on all fours, eyebrows upturned in a silent plea.

“What the fuck…” you repeat, looking down at him with a look of ‘are you fucking serious?!’.

And Nam-Gyu whines.

“Y-you’re going to fucking waste it.” He’s fighting against your hand, pushing towards your thighs and the multi colored power that dusts your skin. You finally follow his line of view, realizing how much you dropped. And he was right, you would have just dusted off the powder anyway, it was such a microscopic amount that you didn’t even pay it any mind to begin with, why would you save it?!

It’s a moment of silence, so quiet you can hear Nam-Gyu’s breath and your own. He’s not just breathing heavy though, he’s panting. Like a dog begging at your heel for a treat he’s been deprived of for far too long.

You don’t know why, but you’re slowly easing your arm up. Maybe it’s to see the lengths he would actually go to, to get his fix? Maybe it’s because you think your idea of what he was going to do was so far out of his character, he was going to do something different than what it looked like it.

Nam-Gyu is instantly pushing against you, crawling towards you and lowering his head to your thighs. He does exactly what you thought he was going to do.

You’re pulling your hand away from his forehead and you’re gripping the armrest of your chair, drawing in a sharp breath. Nam-Gyu sits up on his knees, placing large hands on your legs and ghosting his lips against your thighs. What the fuck were you even doing?! Letting this client of yours lick fucking powdered ecstasy off your bare thighs?!

But you don’t stop him.

You jump a little when you feel the warmth of his tongue lathe up your left thigh, tracing a wet line through the powder up your leg. He’s slow at first, licking one long stripe and pulling back. His mouth closes, tongue rolling around in his mouth to savor the bitter flavor of the mini dosage. The second he feels the slightest bit of a rush, he’s diving back down and running his tongue along your other thigh.

You just watch, you can’t do much else. Heart thrumming in your throat you watch as his tongue licks up and down your thighs, coating the pink muscle in the powder you weren’t even going to think twice about. Every little bit of ecstasy that begins to coarse through his veins just makes him want more. He becomes sloppy, tongue licking over spots he most certainly has been already.

Each lick eases Nam-Gyu’s symptoms little by little. It’s still not enough though. How could it be?! He is a connoisseur of drugs far harder than yours, a little powdered ecstasy isn’t going to give him the relief he needs or the high he desperately craves.

Gravity works wonders though. As he pulls away the slightest bit, trying to see if there’s any spot he’s missed, he sees what he believes to be the jackpot- the small pile of powder that has collected between your thighs. He can see it, just under the hem of that stupid pink nightgown you’re wearing.

It’s calling to him like a siren calls a sailor- he’d be going into treacherous waters to get it, he knows you well enough to know there’s a 50/50 chance you might snap his neck for even trying to get at the pile of white happiness.

Withdrawl overtakes rationality and he’s going for it. His hands tighten their grip on your knees, beginning to push them apart so he could lick along the insides of your thighs.

You jolt upright, hand flying to his hair and pulling at it, pulling his face up from your thighs. Hrs practically drooling, tongue still stuck out and fighting against your hand to get more.

“I have actual pills Nam-Gyu!” You say, rattling the pills in your hand, “quit licking at the powder like a fucking dog.” The fact he’s doing all of this for so little makes your clothes feel tighter than they are. And the way you’re speaking to him, looking down at him like he’s some freak makes his pants way tighter than he’s ever going to admit.

He seems to snap out of it a bit, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and sitting back on his heels. If he had a tail, you’re pretty sure it would be wagging. “‘M sorry.” He mumbles, wide eyes looking at you with the most desperate look you think you’ve ever seen. “I want the actual pills.” He nods frantically, hands still gripping your knees.

“Yeah…okay..” you say, finally uncurling your fist that holds the pills but not the fist that holds his hair. You try to tell yourself the wetness that’s between your thighs is from Nam-Gyu’s tongue although you know you pulled him away before he could even get up that far. You rub your eyes with your free hand, you can’t believe this is what you night turned too.

“I’ll do the normal 25 for two.” You say simply, looking down at him. You get a front row seat to the way his face falls. His eyes dart around, trying to look anywhere but at you. The sheen of sweat that lines his forehead thickens, beading faster and faster. “Y-yeah, no, yeah, of course…” he nods as best as he can given your hand still in his hair.

Looking at him a bit skeptically, you release the hold you have on his hair and look to the three pills in your hand. Not wanting to get up to get another bag you say fuck it and pop one in your mouth, holding it under your tongue and dropping the other two pills into the small baggie and zip it closed.

Nam-Gyu doesn’t even move. He could put on a whole show of getting out his wallet and looking into the empty money slot but he doesn’t. He knows he doesn’t have the money, he wouldn’t be on his knees licking off ecstasy scraps off your thighs if he had the money to pay you for drugs.

And you were smart, you’ve done this long enough and sold to Nam-Gyu for long enough to know there’s no way he’d be looking at you like a desperate puppy on his knees if he the means to pay you for the pills. But, when you look back from the bag of pills to Nam-Gyu, seeing his eyebrows upturned and bottom lip quivering like he was about to cry seeing you take the full pill so easily- not having to worry about paying some dealer- you keep the charade going.

You hold the bag up in front of his face, “you want them or not?”

He nods, reaching for the bag. You’re snatching it away, watching as he fumbles and nearly falls over trying to chase after the two measly pills. Catching himself by planting both his hands on your thighs, he’s looking back up to you and panting, the minimal high from the small dose off your thighs now dwindling. He needs more.

“Payment.”

“I-I I can pay you next time! I swear I’m good for it! W-with interest too!”

You scoff, laughing in his face, “I’m not a bank or a loan company.” Your fingers are curling over the bag of pills and pulling it away from him.

Nam-Gyu can see the way your tongue rolls the pill around in your mouth. He can see the way your pupils begin to dilate and cover your irises, he fucking needs that. He always thought you were interesting for that- you’d let it melt, slowly dissolve into your bloodstream rather chewing it like he did.

He’s frowning, realizing he’s not getting far with that proposal. His eyes dart around, hands tightening their hold on your thighs. He’s trying to think of anything!

“Let me eat you out.”

“What?!”

He’s looking directly into your eyes, desperate and completely serious. He’s shaking so hard at this point, being so close yet so far from the thing he needs most right now. Those sweet fucking pills.

“I’m good at it! I’ll- I’ll make it worth your while! However long you want!” He says, wide, wild smile on his face. Nam-Gyu sees your very obvious confusion- eyebrows scrunched and face flushed. “F-for the pills! O-of course!” He laughs nervously. Fuck, did he just fuck up his relationship with, arguably, his favorite plug??

“You’re….” Your voice trails off as you try to think of what to say or even how to say it, “You’re trying to… whore yourself out for drugs?” Nam-Gyu can feel his dick twitch in his pants when you word it like that, your words sort of slurred with the pill you keep tucked under your tongue.

You cannot believe this. Nam-Gyu reduced to a begging mess willing to sell his body for some pathetic pills. Though the thought of him eating you out makes the wet spot between your legs, that you will swear was from Nam-Gyu licking your thighs, grow wetter, you don’t want him to only do it for pills.

“Yeah.” Nam-Gyu responds simply, hands sliding up your thighs, “I don’t have money but I can give you that at least!”

You scoff, “That’s a little pathetic.”

Nam-Gyu’s eyes flutter shut, he’s drawing in a shaky breath and he’s canting his hips upwards, trying to ease the strain his pants put on his growing erection. Though he fucking loved the sound of you calling him pathetic, he knew where the idea came from. He knew what you thought and he thought it was stupid you even assumed this was only for drugs, like he wouldn’t be down to eat you out any other time.

He would. Oh, he absolutely would but the time never arose. You two lived different lives that only intersected at a small intersection. Nam-Gyu knew your life wasn’t all about drug dealing- you had a degree on your wall for fucks sake- drug dealer or not you were far better than him. Too good for him.

“F-fuck I-I’m not just saying this because I want the drugs…well I want the Fuc-fucking drugs but I wouldn’t j-just whore myself out like this to anyone!” He’s rambling, every other word cut off by a shuddering hiccup.

You raise an accusatory eyebrow, a grin now beginning to spread across your face, “so, you’d just whore yourself out to me?” You bite your lip, resolve crumbling the longer you watch him on his knees, fingertips absentmindedly digging into your thighs as his need for the high he had for a split second ago heightens once more.

Nam-Gyu’s eyes widen, realizing exactly what he said, what he was implying. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest, he’s so fucking hot he feels like he’s burning from the inside out. Fuck, is he going to vomit? He literally just begged you to let him eat you out for two fucking pills. What has he come to.

You can see the way his eyes literally can’t meet yours anymore, the way his breath is quickening in pace becoming short, rapid pants as he tries to think of anyway to remedy a situation only he saw as a failure.

Too out of it, too far into withdrawal and teased by the slight nirvana the minuscule amount of ecstasy he got off your thighs, he doesn’t even realize how you’ve shifted. You’re tossing the two bagged pills across the way and onto the couch of your living room and lean down.

One of your hands captures his chin, fixing your hold so your thumb is on his bottom lip and your pointer finger is hooked under his chin, forcing his gaze back to you. “Beg for it.”

His eyebrows scrunch, lip almost instinctively rolling into a defiant snarl, “huh?!”

“You want your fix right?” Nam-gyu’s breath hiccups once more as you roll your tongue in your mouth and push the bright purple pill in between your teeth, holding it there- showing him that the pill in your mouth was the one he was about to get.

“Y-yeah, I want it. F-fuck please, it’s been fucking days since I’ve been fucked up.” He’s pulling his hands off your thighs and clawing at the fabric of his pants.

You push back off the chair and slowly stand. When Nam-Gyu teeters on his knees placing a hand on the ground like he’s about to push himself up to stand with you, you strengthen your grip on his chin, putting his focus back on you. You can see the way he struggles- he’s not used to this.

“I didn’t say you could stand.”

He looks up at you, eyebrows scrunching like he’s angry- yet he doesn’t move. He’s bigger than you, he can easily overpower you and stop you at anytime but he doesn’t. He’s just keeps his chin tilted up at you and lets you continue.

“Now beg for it.” Your words are spoken through clenched teeth as you keep holding the pill to be visible.

“Y-you want me to beg for a pill, that’s..that’s been in your fucking mouth a-already?!” He shudders out, almost in a hiss if it wasn’t for his ragged breathing that just wouldn’t cease.

You’re sucking the pill back into your mouth, “You have the money to pay for a pill that hasn’t been in my mouth?”

The way you say it in such a mocking tone, the way you tilt your head ever so slightly and squint your eyes for emphasis- just rubbing in the fact he has no room to complain.

Nam-gyu opens his mouth to protest, to call you a bitch even- but that wouldn’t get him the high he desperately needs- he’s closing his mouth and pouting. He needs something, anything at this point. It’s a deep, almost engraved need that has his mind spiraling at the sanctity that even that pill, the one that was a third of the way dissolved in your mouth by now, would give him.

He’s swallowing thickly, fidgeting awkwardly on the floor in his kneeling position, “P-Please.” It’s soft, like he’s testing it out, seeing if that’s all he needs to do.

It’s not.

When he realizes that you don’t even flinch, you just continue to look down at him with a twisted grin, he lifts his hands to his hair, scratching at his scalp and moaning, it’s an exasperated, needy groan that just proves how bad he needs this small fix. His eyes are rolling back and screwing shut like he’s battling with himself (he absolutely is).

He doesn’t even get the solace of looking away to gather himself, your hold on his chin keeps him looking up at you. “F-fuck…holy shit, a-alright, fuck!” Nam-Gyu is nearly yelling now, face flushed and taking on a new sheen of sweat that begins to come back full force. “Please! I fucking need it. Y-you have no..no fucking idea!”

There it is again, the upturned eyebrows and quivering lip that makes your cunt throb in ways you didn’t think was possible. Oh, you could get used to this. Your grin widens, “You gonna text before showing up again? Like I’ve told you a thousand times before?”

He nods erratically, falling forwards placing his hands back over your thighs as he shakes his head free from the hold you had on his chin. He’s surging forward, chin resting on your stomach and hands sliding upwards from your thighs to your waist.

Now he’s pulling you closer, keeping your gaze. You could swear he’s nearly crying now, eyelashes becoming matted with the way his eyes well up in pure desperation.

“Yes- ohmygod yes! I promise! I-I’ll text you, I’ll even call when I’m 5 minutes away when I’m heading to you! I-I fuck! I’m so s-sorry I showed up out of..out of fucking nowhere I just need something! P-please! You’re…you’re the only person I could think to go to.”

It’s full on rambling now, it didn’t take much for his resolve to fully break. You honestly miss half of what he says because you can’t stop staring that the outline of his erection that strains against his pants.

You nod, hand coming to cup his cheek and push him away from you the slightest bit. Fingertips ghosting lightly over his cheek and down to his chin, holding him much how you were moments ago, you only respond with one word, “Open”

And Nam-Gyu does. His mouth drops open before the word even falls from your lips completely. Tugging him forward slightly, you’re leaning directly over him. He lolls his tongue out eagerly, he’s not dumb- he knows exactly what you’re about to do and he couldn’t be happier.

You’re bending down slightly before you purse your lips and suck your teeth. In a slow, thick, glistening trail, you’re spitting the pill onto Nam-Gyu’s tongue.

The second the pill hits his tastebuds, surrounded by the taste of your spit- something he never imagined he would ever taste- he’s practically keeling over, cock becoming painfully hard. Snapping his mouth shut, he’s chewing the pill and sighing deeply.

You pull back, dropping your hand from his chin and smiling slightly. Nam-Gyu visibly relaxes, straightening his back and rolling his neck from shoulder to shoulder with a groan as the high slowly but surely begins to take over his body. You’re backing up and sitting back down to watch the show, how his chest heaves and now sweat beads down his neck. As much as you want to not be, you’re also focused on the outline of his dick.

You’re positive he’d stand and bid you farewell. Nam-Gyu only hung around you sometimes and sure you’ve had decent conversations with the guy but it’s always been under the same pretense- Nam-Gyu stopping by to buy drugs from you. Once he got that fix, after the stunt you just pulled- you’re certain he’d be fucking gone the second he got his bearings. The erection was just a symptom of his withdrawal desperation. You did erotically spit a pill into his mouth…But he also wasn’t exactly in the right mind.

Nam-gyu leans back on his hands, tipping his head to the ceiling and letting out a soft hum, the effects beginning to wash over his body. Assuming he’s gotten what he’s wanted and getting ready to leave, you go to speak,

“I can see you out-“

“Can I still eat your pussy?”

“Oh-“ your voice cuts off into a surprised squeak as you realize you two had very different ideas. Your wide eyes look over to Nam-Gyu like you’ve misheard him, his head still tipped back and eyes still closed. “Look- I don’t feel right having you whore yourself out for some pills…I’ll just give you one for the road if it’s that bad. You don’t have to-“

“I fucking want to” he’s cutting you off. “This isn’t about the pills anymore.” Nam-Gyu is snapping his head back forward to look at you and then down to his very obvious erection.

Once again, much like the beginning of the night, you’re looking at him incredulously, like he’s not even speaking the same language as you. Now you’re the one left with your mouth hanging open trying to find something to say.

“Fuck..” Nam-Gyu says breathlessly and exasperated much like he was before- like eating you out is something he needs, “Do I have to beg for that too?! I-I will.”

He’s crawling again, dear fucking god, he might kill you at this rate. You’ve seen his man get into rages that scared you when you’ve seen him working at Club Pentagon. You know all too well he’s a ticking time bomb of an erratic nature that freaks most people out. That terrifying image is whittled down to a pathetic, desperate man that crawls to you. He’s looking at you with wide eyes as he moves back into the same position when he was licking ecstasy off your thighs.

Ringed hands splay themselves over your thighs, gripping the flesh as he kneels before you. “C’mon, fuck, please, just lemme get a taste. I c-could fucking, ohmygod, i could fucking smell you when I was licking your thighs clean.” as he rambles, he’s staring down at your lap like he could see through the bunched fabric of your night gown that hides your pussy from his view.

“I…” He scrunches his face like he’s debating on saying something and it seems like the courage his high gives him wins over whatever battle he was going through, “I fuckin’ dreamt about eating you out. W-wanna know what you sound like when I suck on your clit…” his hands are sliding up your thighs, “Y-You made the cutest little squeal this…this one time when you got tickled by your best friend when I was here to pick up a-a month ago…been thinking, fuck..” he’s squeezing your thighs as he rambles on, “been thinking about if-if you make that same sound when you cum.”

You hardly remember the time he’s talking about- you know you had your best friend staying over a while ago- maybe they had scared you and tickled your sides and he had been waiting in the living room?! You didn’t know but his words made your mind fill with too much static to even try to dig the memory up.

He takes your silence as he needs to do more. Need to beg more. Be it the increasing intensity of the high he’s feeling or just the sheer need he’s been bottling up for a fix of drugs and a fix of you, he’s rambling on without you even telling him to.

“I jerk off thinking of you! The first time I came to buy from you after Thanos sent me your number I-I fucking went home and fisted my dick raw to the thought of you giving me head.” Nam-Gyu’s blown pupils bounce around as he looks around, trying to think of anything else to plead his case like he’s talking to his old parole officer when he broke his probation.

You let him speak, shifting under his hold as he rambles. The high makes his mind spin in ways that when he’s focused on talking, begging you to let him eat you out, he doesn’t even feel the way you throw his hands off of you. Hell he doesn’t even see how you flip your nightgown up, revealing your bare pussy- his head is tipped up to the sky as he begins to list nearly everytime he’s gone home hard just become he’s come over to pick up from you.

“Nam-Gyu.”

He finally snaps his head back to your eyes and looks at you, only when your eyes drop down to your cunt- directing his gaze- does he follow.

“O-oh fucking hell.”

He’s moving forward eagerly, throwing all caution to the wind. The only idea, the only thought he has is diving tongue deep into your cunt.

“Aht!”

Your hand is flying to the top of his head and pulling at his hair, scolding him like a dog. You’re pulling him back and closing your legs, shielding his direct view of your sticky cunt. “I didn’t say you could touch.”

He looks up to you, eyebrows furrowed and bottom lip jutted out in a pout, “Wa-wait no please! I promise I’ll make it worth your while. F-fuck you have such a pretty fucking pussy.” Nam-Gyu is so fixated on the fact he’s seen your bare pussy, the fact you haven’t been wearing underwear the whole time, he’s forgetting what he’s trying to ask.

Part of Nam-Gyu is so overtly aware that he would never be in this position sober. On his knees and begging?! That wasn’t in his personality. The high of the drugs you deal, the drugs that you spit in his mouth, have completely melted any inhibition he’s had.

“You said you jerked off to me?”

The fact you don’t even address his rambling directly makes him leak pathetically, he’s nodding in response.

“Tell me about it. What did you think about?” Your voice comes out in a soft purr, legs falling open once more. With your heels tucked up on the seat you sit on and your knees falling outward, you’re spread open for him once again. Still holding him by the hair, you tighten your grip to make sure he still remembers what you said. No touching.

“I- uhh…oh fuck…” his eyes are darting around as he’s trying to think of the last time he thought about you with his hands around his cock, it’s hard to even think about something in the past when his face is level with your pussy. “Last m-month.” He pants out, eyes back on your cunt.

He’s pausing, mouth watering as he watches your hand trail down your stomach and to your inner thighs, “Go on…” you’re urging.

“I came to fucking get some weed. You- oh fuck.” Nam-Gyu chokes on his words as your hand run back upwards, sitting against your pubic bone, fingers sliding down the sides of your cunt and spreading yourself wide.

“Come on ‘Gyu, don’t tell me you haven’t seen a pussy before.”

“Not one this pretty, no.”

His response catches you off guard, no sarcastic remark, no angry glare, just the truth about what he was thinking. Something he hardly ever spoke outwardly. Nam-Gyu was closed off, everyone knew that. His inner most feelings were anyone’s guess- but right now, he seems like he’s spouting off exactly how he feels no problem.

“You- ohmygod- you were getting ready to go to the club with your friends…with the- the fuck, the VIP thing I gave you.”

“You mean the wristband?”

“Yes, fuck, the wristband. Oh my god, you’re gonna kill me.” Nam-Gyu groans, all sense of proper thinking going out the window when he watches two of your fingers pet at your clit. Light circles, barely any pressure, but with each complete circle around the pulsing bud, he watches as more of your creamy arousal leaks from your entrance. The worst part? He can’t even lick it up, you won’t let him, your other hand is still latched onto his hair, holding him an arms length away.

“You had this fucking outfit on- the black dress, the one that was far too fucking short and some heels.” Every word is an expletive at this point, “You fucking bent down to pick something up and I-I saw your fucking thong, pink with bows. And fuck your ass…I just-”

“You perv.” You scold with a teasing grin, “looking up my dress like that~” your fingers move lower, tracing around your entrance, “So then what? You went back home and fisted your cock to the thought of my thong?”

“If I say yes can I eat you out?”

“You’re so impatient. You want it that bad?” You can hear the way his breath hitches when you sink two fingers into your pussy, curling them upwards a few times. He’s fixated on how you writhe on the chair when your fingers sink deeper into you.

“Fuck yes I do…” he mumbles. He can get over how he’s actually in the position he’s in. The year or so he’s bought drugs from you he’s thought about fucking you stupid plenty of times. Nam-Gyu has fantasized about the day he actually got to see your cunt after getting to see the silhouette of it the time he just rambled on about- puffy lips hugging the frilly fabric of your thong, practically swallowing the fabric to the point of making the damn thing useless.

You slowly take your fingers from your cunt, shuddering at the feeling of your fingers dragging along your walls. Every feeling is heightened to the point of lighting up every nerve with a liquid heat that only makes your pussy leak more. You let the pill Nam-Gyu begged for melt in your mouth, you’re just as high as Nam-Gyu was now.

“Open”

You don’t have to tell Nam-Gyu twice. He’s leaning forward and grabbing your wrist with his hand, pulling your fingers towards his mouth. His lips wrap around your digits and he’s sucking, hard. His tongue is lathing in between your fingers and cleaning any sort of remnant of your juices off of your fingers.

Nam-Gyu decides then and there that your pussy might just be better than any drug he’s ever done. Even from the second-hand taste he’s getting, he’s already addicted. Who would have thought his plugs pussy could be so fucking sweet?!

You remove your fingers from his mouth slowly. Letting out a shuddering breath of your own when you see Nam-Gyu chase after your fingers the best he can. Fingers fully removed, you’re bringing the digits up between you two and admiring how they’re covered in his spit instead of your own wetness. Bringing your fingers to your own mouth, you’re wrapping your pink lips around them and moaning softly when the taste of him coats your tongue.

The high seems to hit Nam-Gyu all at once, the steady climb of the trip has reached its peak. Face level with your puffy cunt and eyes watching how you suck his spit off your fingers like you’ve thought about this exact moment before- the symptoms of his withdrawal are completely eased for the time being and forgotten about.

The symptoms of his withdrawal gone, he realizes just how depraved you’ve made him. He was on his knees licking at your thighs like a dog and begging for a pill that you’ve already sucked on. You’re withholding the cunt he’s dreamt about eating and gripping at his hair while he kneels before you- this isn’t him.

Confidence boosted and chemical courage running through his veins, you can see the shift that happens in him. Nam-Gyu’s eyes drop, becoming dark and hooded. His pout that he once wore turns into a wicked grin and his hands that he was being so nice about keeping in his lap? Oh, he’s putting them to use.

He moves quick, he’s not letting you get away now that he has you like this. He fights against your hand that holds him by his hair and loosens your grip. His hands grip at the back of your thighs, folding you in on yourself and pushing you deeper into the cushion of your chair. Nam-Gyu is lowering his face towards your cunt, so close that you can feel the tip of his nose ghost over your drenched folds.

He gives you no time to prepare, he doesn’t want you to have the opportunity to pull away and keep trying this shit you were doing. Mouth engulfing your pussy, he’s prodding his tongue into your entrance and sucking. The taste he got from your fingers? He needs more of it and straight from the source.

You’re jolting off the chair, squealing out his name and trying to close your legs around his head. It’s futile, his hands stop your legs from closing and even when he feels them begin to twitch shut- he’s pressing on your thighs harder.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Nam-Gyu huffs against your pussy. He’s looking up at you with a warning glare, blown out pupils fixated on keeping your gaze. He’s dropping open his jaw wide, laying his tongue flat and licking a devastating stripe up the entirety of your pussy. Reaching his destination, he’s flicking his tongue against your clit.

“Fucking bitch making me beg.” He’s talking to himself more than you, like he’s trying to tell himself to be mad and act as if he wasn’t turned on by being in such a pathetic situation. With every word he speaks he’s making sure his lips dance along your throbbing bud. He licks at it one more time, pulling away to examine you.

One of his hands releases your thigh, coming up to rest on your lower stomach as his thumb and pointer finger caress the sides of your clit, “You just wanted to hear me talk about jerking off to you like some fucking cock addicted slut..” he points out his eyes narrowed and his words laced with a mocking laugh-but he’s still panting, tongue practically lolled out of his mouth and licking at his lips pathetically trying to get any bit of your taste he can.

“Wanted to act all big and bad, making me beg like a dog in heat…fuck you’ve wanted this all along haven’t you?” Nam-Gyu’s eyes flick from your dripping cunt back up to you, expecting a response. You try to respond but he keeps petting at your clit making nothing but whimpers fall from your lips. He chuckles, “You nasty f-fucking bitch, you-you did want this.” He has a glint in his eye and a wicked grin.

He’s lolling his mouth open wide, dropping his tongue out of his mouth and letting a thick, warm glob of his spit pool at the tip of his tongue and drop down onto your pussy with a wet plap! Nam-Gyu is staring as his spit slowly follows the contours of your cunt, tracing over your clit and dropping lower to dribble down to pool at the edge of your quivering entrance. Fingers still playing with your throbbing clit.

“O-oh, f-fuck, Nam-Gyu~.” You pant out gripping at the fabric of your nightgown to hike it up further, eyebrows up turned in a desperate expression waiting for him to continue his ministrations. “Fuck- yes, needa hear you say my name, keep fuckin saying it- sound so pretty.” and he’s wrapping his lips around your clit once more and trying to get you to cry out his name more and more.

When you’re pressing your hips up into his face, greedily wanting more. Nam-gyu finally has the realization that the attraction was mutual, he can’t take it anymore, he’s removing his fingers from your clit and diving nose deep back into your pussy. Keeping his mouth on you, he drops both hands to shimmy out of his pants and underwear, pulling them down just enough to get his cock out.

He’s leaking at this point, as much as he’s trying to turn the tables and make you seem pathetic- the way his lower abdomen is covered in his mess, his thick cock is coated in sticky precum, more leaking out of the red and throbbing tip and adding to the mess that traces down each pulsing vein- now that’s pathetic.

You can’t pick where to look- where he’s slobbering all over your pussy, driving his tongue deep into you or where he’s frantically fisting his cock. Nam-Gyu is fucking his own hand with a vigor that has him groaning out into your sweet cunt.

“T-this is wha-what you should be dealing.” He grunts, “this pussy’s better than- oh fuck- better than any drug out there.”

“I should fuckin’ ruin you for- mmmph fuck, so good- for keepin’ this from me.” Nam-Gyu is whining against your puffy lips now, taking deep inhales of your scent like he’s trying to engrave it into his nose for days to come. “This sweet…” he’s pulling back to ogle at the mess he’s made of you before wrapping his lips around your clit and giving a harsh suck, “sweet.” Suck! “Fucking.” Suck! “Cunt.”

With a cry of his name, your head is flopping back bonelessly onto the chair. He has no real technique, his tongue feels like it’s everywhere at once and yet, it feels so fucking good. Your hand is scratching at his scalp and your hips are lifting up off the chair to grind on his face, babbling out phrases of praise and his name. Each time he hears the syllables of your name fall from your drool soaked lips, he’s fisting his cock harder.

The worst part? He won’t stop looking at you. His hooded eyes are locked on to every little reaction he drags out of you. How your breath squeaks when he tenses is tongue and flicks your clit, how your hold on his hair tightens when he sucks on your labia, and how sweet your lips look calling his name.

He’s watching you as he’s furiously stroking his cock. He’s staring while he’s dropping open his maw and giving your wide flat licks, making sure you see the way your creamy mess coats his tongue only for him to greedily swallow it down and do it again.

Nam-Gyu wants sure if it was the trip of the pill you gave him or just his pent up need for you but he cannot be satisfied. He’s thinking of every time he’s come to buy from you- your cute little self handing him some pill that was some shit Jehovah hasn’t even witnessed packed in a pink little baggie with hearts- he’s thinking of every time he’s been here and just thought about doing this exact thing- he has to make up for lost time.

“Na- oh my god- fuck!” You’re squealing and trying to shut your legs, everything he does feels so heightened- you took the same pill he did, after all!

He’s laughing into your poor cunt, dropping his cock in favor of pinning your plush thighs open. “Keep- mmm shit, so wet- keep your fucking legs open.” His voice is laced with a tone that commands your compliance, his eyes narrowing slightly like if you were to deny him of his feast he might go wild.

His thumbs dip inward, tracing the outside of your cunt before prodding their way into your weeping hole. Nam-Gyu nearly blows his load all over his own hand when he feels how tight you are, how fucking soft and warm and wet- just taking his two thumbs so easily, your cunt swallowing the digits greedily.

He needs to be inside you. He needs to feel you cum on his cock.

You’re far too gone to even get a chance to realize he’s moved, completely pulled off of you and has stood up. The mix of your high and the onslaught of his needy mouth has you blissed out beyond comprehension. He’s yanking you up off the chair and picking you up.

“F-fuckin makin- making me wait a year to fuck you….” He’s grumbling hands holding you up by your ass, fingers practically bruising you with an iron grip. He’s maneuvering you the best he can given the pants and underwear around his ankles. Your hands thread themselves in his long hair, tugging at the raven strands as you grind down on his cock that’s pressed between the two of you.

Nam-Gyu fumbles a bit as he turns around and drops himself to the couch. With you straddling his legs, hot cunt ghosting the underside of his cock, Nam-Gyu swears this is exactly how one of his wet dreams of you played out.

You’re looking down too, mouth hung open as you admire his weeping cock. He’s created such a mess of himself just by eating you out. He’s so hard you’re sure it has to hurt at this point. The tip is red and angry, leaking glob after glob of pearly pre-cum down his veiny shaft. Every so often it twitches against you, bumping against your needy clit.

“S-see what you do to me?” Nam-Gyu asks, fingers gripping harder into your ass. “Fucking leaking jus’ from eating you out.” He’s huffing, said his hands to shift your hips and grind your warm, wet cunt across his dick. “Dreamt of this…”

You’re removing your hands from his hair and placing them on his shoulders, letting soft whimpers fall from your lips anytime the thick vein on the underside of his cock drags against your clit. “Always wondered how you ride cock- mmmpf fuck- know you’d take it so well.”

He’s bucking his hips up into you as he rambles on and on about every single time he’s imagined fucking you exactly how you were now. Running his cock through your folds, coating himself in the cream that leaks from your abused pussy.

Nails digging into his shoulders you’re leaning forwards and colliding your lips with his to shut him up. It’s hot and heavy, messy with spit and tongue. Nam-Gyu is whining into your mouth, hips picking up the pace of humping against your sweet cunt. He’s never going to get over the feeling of your lips on his.

Pulling away from the kiss breathless You’re lifting yourself up the best you can with your thighs still shaking, one of your hands grabbing the base of his dick. As soon as your hand squeezes around his cock, more pre-cum oozes out and flows down over your knuckles.

“You’re rambling.” You huff against his lips, resting your forehead on his as you look down between you two. Dragging his thick cock head through your folds, you’re tucking your legs behind you. Hooking your feet over his thighs you’re slowly sinking down on him.

When Nam-Gyu realizes how you’re positioning yourself he’s sucking in a shuddering breath, fucking hell you’re going to kill him.

“I-oh fuck-“ you want to say more but you’re choked up. The second the mushroom tip is pushing into you, splitting you apart, you can’t even remember what you were going to say. The high you’re both experiencing is reaching a peak, you can feel every little bit of him in ways you never thought was possible.

Your mouth is already watering at how much the girth of his dick is gaping your walls. With a sickening, wet pop, Nam-Gyu’s cock-head sinks into you. It’s no where near all of him and yet you’re feeling the delicious dull throb between your thighs that tells you how wrecked you’re about to be.

“Oh- shit-“ he’s hissing out, gripping at your hips and preventing you from sinking down further, “g-gotta fuckin’ relax, squeezing me so tight.” You fight his hold and sink yourself down further. Nam-Gyu is falling back bonelessly on the couch, a whiney moan falling from his spit soaked lips as he feels more and more of his cock be swallowed by your hot cunt.

“‘M gonna fucking bust qu-quick” he’s whining, “wanna savor it, yeah? S-slow…or yer gonna kill me.”

“Y-you’re so biiig…” you’re whining out, one hand still guiding his cock into you the other holding up your cute little nightgown, bunching it up under your tits.

“D-don’t fucking tal- oh god- talk like that.” Nam-Gyu hisses. His voice is rugged and choked, he’s snarling trying to hold himself together- canine teeth clenched and eyes screwing shut. “You are going to make me blow my load so fucking quick.” It’s coming out in a breathless laugh, not a single one of his dreams of fucking hey could compare to the real thing.

He’s already mindless just by the way your walls were trying to suck him deeper even with his hands holding you up- your words are only making the shiver that runs up the base of his spine tighten, he feels like he can’t fucking take it.

“Mmmm, fuck, please~” you whine out, fighting against his hold and stuffing yourself with even more of his cock, “wan’ it inside…so fuckin’ bad…” you’re babbling on mindlessly, dropping your hips down. Nam-Gyu’s cock is prying your gummy walls apart, destroying your sopping pussy.

Blissed out beyond belief, Nam-Gyu lets you drop down. With a wet slap, your ass is connecting with his thighs and you can feel his heavy balls slap against your ass. The second you’re sinking all the way down you can feel his throbbing cockhead press on that sweet, sweet, spot that has you seeing stars.

“O-oh fucking hell.” Nam-Gyu gasps, head picking up off the back of the couch to look down where you connect. The way the circumference of his veiny length splits your puffy folds apart has him twitching deep inside you. Your poor pussy looks absolutely wrecked, gaped open and leaking- covering his pelvis in the sticky sheen of your wetness.

“I-I fucking dreamt about this pussy..” he’s nearly shaking, his hands on your hips are vibrating, digging into the fat of your hips. Now that he’s gotten the sweet taste of your saccharine cunt wrapped so tightly around him like a vice he never wants to pull out of. “Sooooo fucking wet….” He’s drawling on, lifting a shaking hand to put it in between you, thumbing over your clit.

You’re keeling over, falling forward so your chest is flush with his, swiveling your hips both into his touch and down on his cock. “You-hah- you fucking wanted this. Wanted me to whore myself out for- shitttt~”

You’re cutting him off by lifting yourself up then dropping back down with a wet smack! ass rippling against his thighs. When Nam-Gyu feels the tight, wet glide of your cunt up and down his cock and the fat of your ass jiggling against you, a switch is flipped.

He’s pulling both his hands away from you and shifting lower on the couch. Ringed hands come back with a vengeance, grabbing handfuls of your ass and pulling you to him. “Ri-ride me, fucking use my cock.”

With a wanton cry of his name you’re rocking your hips up and down his length. It’s devastating, sliding up and down his fat cock feels like you’re destroying your insides in the best way. “Mmpfh- shit- so, so fuckin’ good.” Nam-Gyu huffs from below you, not able to keep his eyes on one place for too long. Your face, your pretty tits bouncing in his face, your dripping cunt that’s creaming around him?! He can’t pick!!

“Nam-Gyuuu…” you huff, arms wrapping around his neck and gripping at the black hairs that sit at the nape of his neck. Your head is falling to his shoulder, nosing along his jugular.

Hearing his name fall from your mouth in the pathetic, needy cry it was he can feel his balls tighten. Everything you do makes his cock twitch deep insure you- and you can feel every fucking bit of it. “So fucking warm…” he sighs, more to himself than you. He’s positive he could completely lose himself in the ecstasy that was your tight, wet cunt.

He can hear every soft whimper and moan right neck to his ear, your breath tickling his skin. “Y-you’re so fucking deep.” You coo, your eyes fluttering shut and rolling to the back of your skull when you begin to roll your hips against him, grinding his cock deep inside you.

“Ye-yeah?” He chokes out with a breathless laugh, trying to keep any sense of composure he can. Nam-Gyu is not a virgin by any means but this secret crush, no, obsession, he’s had with you for the year you’ve been his dealer has bubbled up for so long and he had NEVER thought he would get to this point.

To him you were untouchable, so far out of his league that it was pathetic of him to even try with you. You were nothing like the sleazy bimbos he found himself hanging around during his shifts at the club. You were cunning, funny, so fucking smart that it pissed him off but yet, you were one of the largest dealers in the area with the best reviews. You were a walking fucking dream.

“You like it?” He hums, nudging your face with his cheek, you lift yourself back up with a moan, feeling his cock rock deep inside you with every minuscule movement. Leaning back a bit, you’re both looking down at how your swollen pussy is spread wide around him, puffy lips swallowing him greedily and stretched open so wide your clit is on perfect display.

Folds gaped obscenely to take in every inch he so graciously gives you, throbbing but visibly pulsating. “feeling how f-fucking deep I am…I’m ruining your poor cunt..” he gasps, mouth going slack and watering at the sight.

You whine, both at his words and the sight itself. Your dragging on hand off his shoulder and sliding it down your stomach and to your leaking pussy. Pointer and middle fingers tracing the edges of your cunt and the sides of his cock- you’re clenching when you feel with your own hands how your pussy is accommodating Nam-Gyu’s girth.

“Don’t f-fucking do that- oh my god…” Nam-Gyu chokes, he can’t even describe the things seeing you touch yourself does to him. He watches on as you trace the pads of your fingers around your clit, the sound of your wetness sloshing with each circle you make. You’re jolting against him, eyebrows upturned, biting your lip, moaning so sweetly and you’re oh so fixated on the same view. Nam-Gyu looks back up to you, sees how you’re just as wrecked about it as him he’s releasing your ass and bringing his hands up to his face.

Veiny hands drag down his face, he’s laughing in disbelief that he’s even gotten to this point, but he knows it’s inevitable…the high of those pretty colorful pill you spit into his mouth is making him feel everything 10x more.

“Yeah, I’m gonna cum quick.” It’s said like it was the conclusion of a whole conversation he had inside his head.

You look back up to him, finally, broken out of the trance you were in when you hear him, you have no time to ask him what he even meant- he’s planting his feet flat on the carpeted floor of your living room and snaking his arms around your back, caging you to him completely.

It’s an instant onslaught of rapid, depraved thrusts as Nam-Gyu pistons his hips up into your cunt. Wet squelches and slaps fill your ears and you’re digging your nails so hard into his shoulders that you’re breaking skin through the fabric of his shirt.

“O-oh! F-fuck!!!” You’re sobbing out. His cock has a down right evil curve that makes him hit your g-spot every single time. “Nam-Gyu!” You feel like you’re about to explode.

“Mhm….’s it..you take it so fuckin’ well.” He slurs, manipulating you up and down his cock like you were a fuck doll, “c-could fuckin stay in you forever.” Nam-Gyu is biting his bottom lip, turning his head to nuzzle himself into the junction of your neck and shoulder.

Hands running up and down your back, he’s trying to touch anywhere he can. Nam-Gyu can feel his cock throb, pulse after pulse he’s chasing after the orgasm that he’s been holding back since the second he got a taste of your pretty pussy.

It’s so fucking good. It’s messy, sloppy, and desperate. You can feel the bloom of your orgasm deep within your cunt. You’re sobbing out, “yesyesyes! Jus’ like that- oh my godddd” you slur, completely cockdrunk at this point. You can’t remember the last time

You were fucked like this. Your head now falling to his shoulder and your fingers tugging at his hair Nam-Gyu is letting out a low hum of approval.

This is how he needed you. Fucked dumb. Fucked dumb by him.

“Uh-huh ‘s it….jus’ take it…” he’s sushing you, the idea of you using him is out the window. He knows he’s going to be a goner for sure, he’s going to busting quick in your gooey walls, he needs to feel you cum before he does. “needa- fuck you’re so wet..” he growls, nails scratching at your back and waist, “needa feel you cream around my cock.”

He’s shifting once more, nudging you to sit back upright as hard as it was, “touch y’self f’me again…wanna watch.” He pleads, eyes trailing downwards to look at the mess you’ve both made, “Fuck you’re so messy…” another groan.

Placing one hand on his knee and leaning back, your other hand goes straight to your engorged bud, tracing frantic circles that make your pussy spasm around him. He doesn’t let up, he’s jackhammering his cock into you, your sticky wetness spraying his abdomen with every thrust.

“It-it feels so fucking good~” you sob out, the wet noises of your sloppy pussy drowns out by Nam-Gyu’s whiny moans and praises. “I-oh shit- Nam-Gyu you’re gonna make m-me cum.” You pant, your orgasm imminent at this point.

He never thought he would hear those words in person. He would have accepted the fact that what you just said was something he conjured up in a fantasy he imagined while he was fisting his cock- but no, you’re saying it. You. Are really saying it.

“Ohhhh fuck me..” Nam-Gyu groans, he can feel the way his balls tighten he’s about to cum so fucking hard, “You close?” He says running one hand up your spine to grab at the back of your neck forcing your eyes back up. Making you look at him, he has to know what a pretty face like yours looks like when you cum.

“I can- fuck mmpfh- I can feel you clenching around me.” You nod in response at his words, the only possible way you can respond. You can feel him pulse and throb inside you, his hand on your neck grabs tighter, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Gonna let me c-cum inside? Needa fill you up so bad.” He’s looking up from your messy cunt to you, giving you a look that’s akin to a pleading puppy.

“Y-yes! Please, fuck- ohmygod! Just like that!” Your words are slurred and almost impossible to decipher. You’re body is locking up it feels so fucking good. All you can do is take it, your hips moving in tiny sporadic jerking motions as you let him use you while you rub your fingers against your clit.

“Fuck you’re not real…” Nam-Gyu gasps out, nose touching yours, breath fanning your lips. “Gonna cum so- fucking shit!- gonna cum so deep in your tight cunt….” His voice is turning to a snarl, his teeth clenched and you can feel the way his nose scrunches.

“Mhm!!!” You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood nodding your head, getting closer and closer to that sweet release.

“An’ your sloppy pussy’s gonna take it all…” he punctuates his words with a particularly harsh thrust, “A-and I’m gonna….” He’s grunting, he’s so fucking close, “gonna cum in you over and over until your leaking my cum for days-“

“Cum f’me, pretty. Fuck- please…please I wanna feel it.” Thrusts now sloppy and erratic, he was so, so fucking close. Rhythmic, lewd wet slaps fill your ears, you can hear the sloshing sound your cunt makes with each drive of his cock deep into you.

“O-oh! Fuck! Yesyesyesyes!!” Words slurred and creaky, you’re meeting his thrusts with equally depraved and sloppy swivels of your hips and your fingers work harder against your clit. Your orgasm gushes out of you in a thick stream that splashes against his pelvis, cunt clamping down on his cock.

“I-oh fuck! You can squirt?!” Nam-Gyu says, somewhat pulled back into reality when he realizes somehow you just got better. Like all the lewd porn videos he’s watched, your cum is streaming out of you, splashing with every thrust he uses to prolong it. Your moans are practically squeals at this point, fingers still working against your clit fervently.

“Oh god- fuck- ‘m gonna cum- so fucking tight!” He’s growling, fingers gripping the back of your neck so tight you know you’re going to have an imprint of his hand there tomorrow. With a couple more brutal thrusts he’s slamming himself deep within you and cumming. It’s so much. Rope after rope, you can feel every gooey strand paint your insides in a warm white coating.

“‘M cuummminggg..” it’s a low, choked rasp that has your pussy clenching even harder around him. Much like he fucked you through your orgasm, you do it for him. Continuously slamming your hips down and milking his cock for all he has.

Nam-Gyu is whining, pathetic attempts at your name and praises of your pussy. Hips pathetically jerking into your cunt as he cums buckets into your cunt like a virgin who just fucked for the first time. And you just continue to fuck him- he’s in heaven. Every slide of your cum filled cunt up and down his length has Nam-Gyu vibrating with overstimulation.

He’s the one who has to stop you- adjusting his hold to your hips to still your movement. A soft whimper comes from your lips, the trip of the pill and the feeling of his cum leaking from you- already making you want to go again.

“E-easy- fucking shit- you fuckin’ milked me dry, baby- I-i needa minute…” leaning back on the couch and releasing his hold on the back of your neck, Nam-Gyu looks down at his lap.

He’s covered in a debauched mixture of his own cum and yours. He can see as it still leaks from you, creaming around his cock and adding to the milky white ring around his base.

“It’s so much…” your soft whine makes him look back to you. Face flushed, hair a mess, cute little nightgown still bunched in your hand- god you’re a dream. You pull your hand away from your clit with a jerk of your body.

“Mhm…” Nam-Gyu hums, “couldn’t help it…your pussy is crazy good.” He says teasingly with a soft laugh.

“Better than my drugs?” You question, equally as breathless, your smile matching his.

“If you were selling this pussy like you were selling drugs…..” Nam-Gyu murmurs, his thumb suddenly brushing against your cunt, tracing your swollen folds and collecting the mess between the two of you on his finger.

“Well for one I’d be upset becuase this….” He says, thumb tapping at your clit, “this pussy is priceless….” He laughs breathlessly.

You cringe at the joke and playfully slap his shoulder. Even with him still deep inside you, cock pressed up against your cervix, you banter like best friends.

“But, fuck yeah…’s better than any high I’ve ever had. And I’ve shot up designer shit in the back of Club Pentagon…” Nam-Gyu grabs your hips, shifting a bit- just trying to get more comfy on the couch. He doesn’t mean anything by it truly- his cock is so overstimulated that it hurts but he cannot bring himself to leave the warmth of your tight cunt.

When he sees how more of his cum is forced out of you, pouring out of your gaped cunt and around his cock?! Yeah…suddenly he’s ready to go again.

Taglist: @namsgyu @nuttybeans @namgyucat @g1rlonthe3internet @reilapse @yuuumeee @thanosspills @thequeenbmulan @infinetlyforgotten @gothinlove @seaweef @lov3lycosmos

one big hand slides up, covers your mouth completely. palm warm, fingers splayed wide so your muffled whimpers vibrate right into his skin. he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hurt—just holds. keeps every needy little sound locked behind his hand while he starts fucking you in long, punishing strokes.

the wet slap of his hips meeting your ass fills the room. loud. obscene. you can feel how soaked you are, how your slick’s dripping down your thighs, coating his balls every time he bottoms out.

his other hand snakes between your bodies.

two fingers find your clit immediately: swollen, oversensitive, throbbing and he doesn’t tease you, just rubs firm, tight circles.

your man is mean.

your whole body jerks under him, back arching uselessly because there’s nowhere to go. he’s too heavy, too deep, too everywhere. the overstimulation hits like a freight train and you’re crying into his palm, tears slipping down your temples, thighs trying to snap shut but his knees keep you spread wide.

“there she is,” he breathes against your cheek. “that’s it. let it happen.”

he grinds in deep, pubic bone crushing right against your clit while his fingers keep working merciless little circles. your cunt clamps down so hard he groans—low, wrecked—and his rhythm stutters for half a second before he fucks you even harder.

“gonna cum again for me?” his voice is velvet dragged over gravel. “even though it’s too much? even though you’re shaking?”

you can only sob into his hand. nod frantically. thighs quivering, toes curling, whole body wound so tight you think you might break.

he presses his forehead to yours. eyes dark, pupils blown. watching every twitch of your face while he ruins you.

“good girl,” he whispers. “cum on my cock. soak me. make a fucking mess.”

his fingers speed up. relentless, and you do.

you shatter so hard your vision whites out, back bowing, cunt spasming violently around his length while you scream into his palm. he doesn’t stop fucking you through it—keeps that same brutal pace, drawing it out until you’re limp and twitching and drooling against his hand.

only then does he finally slow.

still buried to the hilt.

still heavy on top of you.

he lifts his palm just enough to let you gasp wet, shaky breaths.

then he kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and almost tender.

“you’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “not until i say so.”

and he rolls his hips again—just once. slow and deep.

making sure you feel every inch.

You can’t tell him – what if it got back you snuck away from your stepmother? She’d have you sweeping that damn chimney for the rest of your existence.

Your pulse rushes in your ears, stepping just a little closer, knowing you're probably terrible at pretending to really be nobility, or any sort of lady, feeling the heat of his palm through your satin gloves. "I'm... um, just a guest."

"Every guest has a name," he says, his gaze drifting down to the little chain on your neck curiously, his hand falling off. "Tell me, what brings someone so lovely to hide in the gardens rather than dance?"

"I'm afraid I cannot dance," Satoru blinks curiously, the way the moonlight hits your face and bounces off that silver mask has him almost blushing, the rise and fall of your chest in that snug corset, your own faint blush heating up your skin - out of every girl tonight, you're just...

Different.

"Cannot dance? Nonsense," he smirks and holds out a hand now, tilting his head. "I'll teach you."

"N-no! I'm utterly unteachable... I... oh!" Satoru tugged you in his arms, and you fell against his hard chest, a hand on that elegant blue uniform he's wearing. "Prince Gojo..."

"Call me Satoru."

“Oh I could not ever,” you are panicking being this close to him, his heat, his hard chest so strong as you stumble and damn near trip over your feet. “I’m stepping all over you!”

“It’s fine,” you could literally walk on Satoru and he’d just thank you, with those pretty glass slippers that click gently as you move. He picks you up and grins as you gasp out. “I’ve got you.”

“You cannot just…” he’s lifted you off the ground now so that your feet are on his, moving and guiding you with a little chuckle. “I’ll hurt your feet!”

“Nah, I’m fine,” he’s more than fine – Satoru thinks he’s fucking in love at first sight.

The nonsense of fairytales, but how else does he explain how perfect your corseted waist feels in his arms? How you’re looking at him and making him melt? Satoru’s in love with a girl and he doesn’t even know her name. Perhaps it’s the champagne and how pretty you are, perhaps his advisor Suguru was right and Satoru was a dreamer.

Yet you’re like a dream waltzing rather clumsily on his feet.

He finally manages to speak, to act like any of this is normal, his lips quirking up at the corner. "You're a natural, see?"

"I'm just standing on your feet!” You’re giggling though, the sound and your smile making him ache. He can only wonder how beautiful you were without half of your face covered, even more pretty than those eyes and those lips?

Yet it’s more, something about you drawing him in, he tightens his hold on you, your body pressed to his, clearing his throat as he tries to focus.

Tonight was supposed to be ‘the end’ so to speak – find a boring, perfect debutante for his bride, he had been dreading it for months, yet all he can think of right now is how much he is enjoying being in this garden with you.

"Details."

“No? Actual facts?”

“Semantics, sweetheart,” you laugh again, shaking your head.

“You’re nothing like I’d think a Prince to be.”

“Is that good or bad?” He asks, stopping his movements and easing you off his feet, not releasing you, no, he’s got you firm against him still. The music from the ballroom is fading, just a little hazy in both of your ears, intermingling with his soft chuckle and your little pleased sigh.

“It’s good, very good,” you can’t say it – that you are so wary of nobility because of your step mother, because you’re hidden merely because your mother was a mistress rather than a wife. “You’re just… different.”

“I could say that about you,” his lashes lowered just a bit, hand on the small of your back sliding up where it’s bare, ever so scandalously. "I think we've earned a break from the lesson, yes?”

You manage a little nod, swallowing nervously as Satoru’s silk gloved hand slides from your back to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling gently in the hair that’s coiffed and pinned. He tilts your head back gently, having you meet his gaze, your own hands sliding to his chest, hidden by the alcove so that you’re just out of sight.

If you’re going to have one night of freedom, shouldn’t it be a good one?

How can you think like this!

"You're blushing again," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Even your ears are warm. Is it the dancing, or is it me?"

You can't form a coherent thought, let alone any sort of words for an answer, just looking up at him and wetting your lips nervously, tongue slipping over the plump of your lower one.

“Asked you a question, princess.”

“Oh I’m so far from that,” you whisper, he chuckles as he thinks to himself how your hips would give him perfect heirs, how he’d love those lips to be glossy from his saliva rather than anything else.

“Every girl here wants to be the next princess,” he says, nose brushing yours as he bends down. “Not you, though.”

“Not me…”

Gong. Gong. Gong.

“Oh!” You look at the giant clock ticking overhead, enormous and pristine, loudly echoing in your ears. “It’s almost midnight. I should… go.”

“A curfew?” He asks, even more curious, nobles party until well into the morning, but you’re leaning up now, hugging him around his neck, making him falter.

“Thank you for tonight, Satoru,” god how your name sounds on his lips, pressing a kiss on his cheek and pausing, a breath away from the corner of his mouth. He tilts your chin up, studying you carefully.

“Running away already?”

“I must soon…” You trail off and look right at his lips, sighing. “Perhaps one minute more.”

“May I kiss you, before you disappear?” He asks then, you nod quickly, seeing the lashes casting shadows on his high cheeks as he bends down, closing the distance and capturing your lips.

The first press of his lips is impossibly soft, a tentative movement that he pulls back from quickly, exhaling, the breath ghosting over your mouth, grip tightening as he paints soft kisses against them. You whine out before you can stop yourself, making him moan and pause for just a moment.

“Oh I’ve… never kissed…”

“I’m your first kiss?” He asks softly, you nod and tug him down again, making him chuckle. “Did you like it, princess?”

“I do very much,” he kisses you again, his tongue slipping on the seam of your lips as if it’s seeking entry, tasting of champagne and something sweet – scones, you think, the mixture hypnotic somehow.

Your first kiss is with Prince Gojo.

You both stumble a bit until you fall onto him in the gardens, he lands on his back with a soft thud on the grass. You’re gasping as you lose your balance, Satoru chuckles as he catches you on his body, holding you tightly, lips pulled into a full grin that makes him look even more handsome.

“Hmm, I’d like to see you without this mask.”

“Sir you’re very bold,” he raises a brow, hands on your hips – god imagine kissing you between your thighs, holding them firm?

“Says the lady on my lap.”

“Oh, you’re a tease!” You lean up and his eyes are glittering , leaning up on his elbows and nuzzling your nose with his. “Mngh…”

“The sounds you make,” he whispers, you’re straddling him with your skirts strewn all across you, heat pressing on his length, you probably don’t even know what it is but you grind on it, making him hiss. “Just from a kiss, I wonder how you’d sound if I kissed you here.”

His lips press on the rushing pulse behind your ear, you’re rolling those hips once more, fingers entangled in his silky locks, his breath sending trembles across you, the whine that escapes your lips almost makes him lose it.

“Fuck…”

“Oh dear, I’m so-”

“Don’t move, god,” he moans and grips you rougher than he meant to, arching up as he kisses up the side of your neck, lips drifting over your frantic, racing little pulse, your nails press into his shoulders, holding still as his breath ghosts your collarbone, fingertips brushing across your neckline.

“It feels so good,” you can’t help but move again, making him suck in a breath, kissing you deeper, your arms wrapping his neck as your tongue slips in and out of his mouth, exhaling as you move with him, feeling this need building inside that has you hot, dizzy. “Satoru…”

“Don’t leave,” he whispers, lips glossy from your kisses, sighing and cupping your face gently. “Stay. I’ll tell your chaperones.”

Chaperones.

As if you had those.

“I cannot…”

“We will pause,” he says, barely holding onto his last thread, eyes looking up at the pretty masked girl sitting on his lap, sitting up fully and studying you carefully. “I must know more about you, anything… especially your name-”

Gong Gong Gong.

“I’m so sorry,” you stumble off his lap, questioning yourself then – hearing your stepmother and stepsisters in your head making fun of you.

As if you fit in?

Tonight was an insane idea, one your fellow servants had for you, these glittery slippers and your mother’s old gown weighing heavy as you stand, almost stumbling as your heel digs into the earth. The Prince stands with you, steadying you with a hand on your upper arm, his lips parted.

“There’s nothing interesting about me,” you whisper, tears slipping and glimmering in your eyes.

“I find that impossible to believe.”

You smile, lips trembling, before kissing his cheek, your own lashes closing, sticky droplets of tears falling from them. You murmur your name for his ears, before rushing away, holding onto your dress as you ascend the narrow steps towards the ballroom, hearing him call it out.

“Don’t go! Please, just…” You turn and he can’t see your face then, not with the lighting of the ballroom as your background, casting a shadow of your figure.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you turn once more, Satoru rushes up the stairs then, pausing when he sees a glinting bauble on the step by his dress shoe. He picks it up, studying it carefully, his gaze flickering to where you’ve completely disappeared.

Your name was not familiar, it was not a family he’d ever heard of, a name he’d ever heard either.

Just who were you?

*****

“Hurry, miss, hurry!” Your fellow servants are rushing to undress you from the big gown as your carriage, rickety and loud, has made it just before your step family.

“Turn!” You do just that and let them unlace the back of it in quick little motions, the fellow women studying you once they put back on your maid attire.

“Miss, did you…”

“I um…” You’re blushing now, giggling as if you’re intoxicated from that sip of champagne, nodding.

“You kissed!” You shush one of them, even though the three of you are breathlessly laughing. “Tell us, tell us!”

“He was so handsome, so sweet,” you sigh, all dreamy, looking in the mirror and smoothing your apron down your front, touching your ear then. “Oh dear, I lost one of mama’s earrings!”

“She would have wanted you to have fun,” you get emotional then, as they fix up your hair – they still take care of you when they can, remembering how things were before your father remarried, when you were the lady of the house despite the mother you had not being ‘nobility’.

Your mother – all you have is a little photo of her in a locket.

“Was she kind, mama? Would she…” You swallow just a bit. “Like me?”

“Of course she would, miss,” they turn to you then, trying to cheer you up. “Who kissed the lipstain off.”

You blush furiously, before leaning over to whisper. “A prince.”

“A prince!?”

“Shh!” You hear it then, the hooves of the horses on the cobblestone path, turning your head to peer right back at the noise, the one earring you have left firmly in your palm. “We must act normal… but…”

“But?” You turn to them and your eyes well up with emotions, taking each of their hands.

“It was the best night of my life.”

*****

“This earring,” Satoru smiles days later as he has tea across from several young ladies – four daughters in one family, all matching your height and some of your features. He assesses them carefully, searching for any sign of you – since the name you gave him existed in no public records.

Where was the masked girl with the one earring?

“It’s mine!” One girl exclaims, giggling and standing. “It must be mine, your highness.”

“Ah, I see,” he stands and walks over, peering into her eyes, hoping for anything to click like it did before – it had been dark out, was he mistaking this? Was it really you? “Where’s the matching?”

She falters then, and her sisters are laughing at her. “I um… your highness, as it were… I do not…”

“I see…” He finishes his tea and bows at the giggling ladies, smiling all charming like he’s not losing his mind. “Farewell, for now, dear ladies.”

He’s furious when he slams the carriage door, his advisor Suguru looking up from the ledgers he’s balancing while waiting for the prince. His dark eyes take Satoru in carefully. “You look like shit.”

“Aw thanks, Suguru,” he snorts and Satoru climbs in across from him, earring flipped over and over in his palm. “That’s every woman her height and hair color aside from one house – out of twenty nearly. And nothing.”

“What was it about her?” Suguru asks. “To make you announce you’re looking for a bride and all? It’s so unlike you.”

“I can’t tell you it’s…” Satoru touches his lip thoughtfully, spreading those long legs in the carriage bench, the plush velvet brushing his elegant tailcoat as it begins to rock towards the last stop. “It’s everything about her.”

“Is the prince in love at first sight?” Suguru is teasing, but when he sees Satoru’s glare he pauses. “Oh fuck… it is?”

“I don’t know what else this is, this feeling in my heart,” he clutches it over his dress shirt, staring out the pretty countryside view as they start to move towards the last hope. “I can’t describe it at all, but I must have her, I must know her… I cannot even think of another woman when she exists in this world.”

Suguru is quiet then.

“Who knew the rakish prince would fall so in love so quickly?”

“Shut it,” Suguru’s serious then, pulling up the information on the last house and studying it. “Who are they?”

“A widow and her two step daughters… some servants live there as well, but of course they wouldn’t be the ones you met. Maybe one of them is it?”

“We shall see…”

“Satoru?” He raises a brow. “If you don’t find her, what will you do?”

He laughs a bit, leaning his head back and throwing a forearm over his face, sinking against the seat and descending himself into darkness, picturing you so clearly. Running away from him even in his dreams, like he can never actually capture you.

“I don’t know if I can ever look at someone like that again.”

It’s quiet then.

“Well, I hope you’ll find her.”

*****

“The prince is coming!” Your stepmother rushes up to you and yanks your hair, making you cry out. “Make yourself good, girl! Now! Tea, chop chop!”

“Ouch,” you whine out when she smacks your cheek. “S-sorry…”

“Do not talk back!”

“I was not-”

“She’s become such a nuisance,” one of your sisters complains, donned in an obscenely gaudy pink gown, jeweled slippers that you’d worn that night, you pale when you see them.

“Those were my mother’s! You can’t have them!”

“Those were my mothers!” She’s mocking you, making hot tears prick the back of your eyes. “The prince is coming for me, you’ll let me wear them, you nor your mother was never worthy of such luxury.”

You almost smack her, knowing it’s a death sentence or at least a prison sentence to do so, feeling sick as the three women laugh.

“No, he’s coming for me!” Your other stepsister is wearing bright yellow, donned with the hairclip your mother left. “I couldn’t find those earrings of yours!”

“Why are you in my things when you have everything!?” They laugh again at your pain, your tears, always cruel without reason.

Why did you even go, why did you glimpse happiness when they were your reality?

“He’s here, shh!” Your stepmother and siblings stand in front of you now, blocking the view of the Prince being greeted, his dress shoes clicking on the hardwood beneath him. Your heart hammers in your chest as you stand there with your head down, your family making a spectacle of themselves.

“Your highness! Indeed, what an honor,” your mother is putting on the charm, but Satoru’s eyes are on you, a frown on his lips. “What do we owe the great pleasure of your visit?”

He sees the mark on the pretty servant’s cheek and glares at the woman now, the matriarch of the family scowling at you. “Please forgive us, we will leave her and retire to the-”

“You hit your help?” He asks, fists clenching underneath those white satin gloves, she blinks in confusion.

“Well, of course I do. She is quite-”

“You hit your fucking help, really?”

“Is it against any law, your highness?” She asks, raising a brow, Satoru grimaces in disgust, walking up to you, earning the caught breath of every servant, and the anger of your ‘family’.

“No it’s not, yet the thought of treating others like that disgusts me,” he peers down at you, tilting your chin up right in front of the room, your heart hammers so violently in your chest you feel dizzy. “Are you all right, sweetheart?”

Fuck.

Your knees go weak, the sudden sting of your cheek fading into nothing, not when he’s looking at you that way, you can hardly hold in your words – Satoru, it’s me.

You cannot let him know you impersonated a noble, he’s just being… kind, surely. 

“I am fine, your highness,” your voice puts it all together for him then, and in that moment the world shrinks – to just you and Satoru Gojo.

Not just a prince, but the boy you kissed in those gardens.

“Is this yours?” He asks quietly, taking the earring out and watching your expression, hearing their huffs of anger.

“You snuck into the ball!? You little tramp!” Your stepsister shouts, stomping on over when Satoru holds up a hand, halting her in her steps, watching as you tug the other earring out of your little reticule, a trembling hand being touched by his.

“You will be executed for such a travesty!” Your mother says, but Satoru scoffs, simply sliding the hook of the earring through the little spot they were pierced when you were just a little babe. He takes the other but not before studying your hand, covered in callouses, rubbed raw from scrubbing.

“Do not look, please,” you whisper, embarrassed that he has to see them – the nails nonexistent, the skin dry and cracking. He takes off his own glove and sets the other earring on, before he touches your hand, taking it and flipping it over, studying it carefully. “Please…”

“You shall never work these hands like this again,” you gasp at that, letting him take both of them in his own, the touch and warmth of his skin making you dizzy. “I promise you that you won’t…”

He says your name, softly then, smiling all bright as you break out into tears, holding you against him. “Prince Satoru…”

“God I looked all over for you,” he whispers, hand on the small of your back, your clothes are so old they’re falling apart, you seem almost frail to him like this, weak and worn down, not the happy girl he met.

Yet he knows it then, surely.

He did fall in love at first sight.

“What do you think about becoming my princess?”

“I could never! I…”

“Come,” he picks you up like it’s nothing, carrying you right out of there, you cling to his neck as he cradles you and your stepmother rushes up. 

“Surely I will get some compensation!” Your stepmother earns Satoru’s disgust as he looks upon her. “She was my late husband’s illegitimate offspring, I took her in when I did not have to! Fed her, clothed her, gave her shelter.”

“You did a fucking horrible job of all of it, if you ever loved your husband, how could you do this? This is why I hate nobility like you,” he clutches you tightly, feeling your face bury against his neck. “I’ll compensate you plenty to leave my kingdom, all of you, forever. Handsomely in fact. But you’ll never go near her again.”

“Satoru, you don’t have to!” You’re whispering, trembling in fear, but he ignores it all, shaking his head.

“I will make sure you have a nicer home than this, and dowries,” your stepmother quickly agrees, and that’s the last time you see her, or your stepsisters again. “Let us go visit your new home.”

*****

“They called you that, because you sat by the fireplace too much?” Satoru asks you softly weeks later, you all were having dinner but you’ve stayed in your own wing of his castle, he’s making sure that everything is properly done – the wedding a few more weeks away.

“They did,” you admit, holding his hand and blushing as he leans forward, studying it. “It’s still rough, Satoru.”

“That’s quite alright,” he kisses your knuckles then, his lips curving up in a sad smile. “I shall make sure that you never lift a pretty finger.”

“Nonsense!”

“No, you must stop helping clean and cook, too,” you shake your head, earning his smile widening. “Are you not listening to your prince?”

“Old habits die hard, at least let me bake with them! What else shall I do all day long!?”

“You’re a bratty girl,” you giggle, shaking your head and standing, walking over as he tugs you on his lap, sitting sideways, his fingers trailing across your knee, sliding that robe apart. “Very bratty.”

“Me, no indeed,” you are aching to do more, but Satoru has been very gentlemanly – so much in fact you find yourself moving on his lap in such a way that has his lashes fluttering closed. “Are you all right, my prince?”

“You’re killing me, perhaps you’re an evil girl after all,” your smile ruins him, along with the way goosebumps rise up your thigh. “Trying to tempt me before the marriage, hmm? No, no, we do it all properly – you’re my bride to be.”

“I can wait, I suppose,” your fingertips trail across his cheek, laughing softly then at his blush that dances across them. “Can you wait?”

“Indeed I have my methods,” jerking off to you every night after kissing you in front of your bedroom door. “Can you, pretty girl?”

“No,” you’re honest then, gasping as his fingers dart higher, your thighs spreading slightly as if on instinct. “Satoru…”

“Such an impatient girl, tsk,” he glides them higher until they find your cunt bare, already slick underneath the satin of your robes, feeling you shift and cry out in the way only you can. “Shall I have you cum all over my fingers, then? Give you just a taste of what I’ll do to you when you’re fully mine?”

“Oh, mngh y-you… please…” He kisses you as his fingers find your slit, gliding up and down and feeling that wetness just pour, moaning at the feeling, you’re damn near slippery with a gentle touch at your entrance, your tongue moving against his with much more precision than the first kiss.

“Please what, princess? Make you feel good?” Your nod is jerky, your nails pressing into his forearm and feeling it tense as he slides a finger in – making your eyes roll back in your skull. “You’re doing such a good job, look at you.”

“Am I? It’s so thick and… Satoru,” he’s curving one finger just so in your snug little hole, squishing so loud it fills your ears, mixing with his kisses on your collarbone, his nose brushing your skin. “Please!”

“Mhm, take a pretty tit out for me,” he orders softly, in the way only Prince Satoru can, you tug it down and blush when he sees your tit for the first time. “Oh god but you’re s’fuckin beautiful.”

Your answer is to arch your back, your head falling so that your hair cascades across his arm that’s wrapping you, his finger working as that mouth wraps a nipple and sucks. It is too much, the way he sucks, the way his finger moves faster, until you’re about to shatter, to fall apart right for him, his finger hitting that spot that has your vision getting fuzzy.

He moans around your nipple, tongue swirling it – his blue eyes looking up underneath those long white lashes at you, feeling your cunt stretch enough that he eases in a second.

“So full! I’m so… ah!” He pulls back from your nipple, his saliva dripping with strings dissolving from your tit, sighing and nuzzling your breast, kissing back up to your collarbone, his fingers making your cunt quiver. She clamps down as you get closer, feeling that pressure, the grinding of his fingers on that spot.

“You’re close, hmm?” He teases softly, smiling all proud of himself and fucking cute – he was proud he could make you feel good, that he could feel the way you’re reacting, see the pleasure on your face. “You’re so loud, your pussy is making such a mess, too.”

“You’re… I…” You feel it coming, overwhelming in its intensity then, stealing your breath as his fingers work faster, until you’re right there.

“That’s it, let go for me,” he whispers, pressing up on that spongy spot in your wall with his fingertips, massaging it as you shatter. “There you go, good little princess, cumming just for me.”

“Satoru, ngh!” You scream out obscenely, cunt squirting right down his hand and making a mess of his pants, of your silk robe, darkening the material as you fall apart in his arms, weak and almost falling on him. “S’good I… sensitive and… Satoru, I l-love you and…”

He pauses then, exhaling and kissing you deeply, easing his fingers out of the mess you are. “You love me, princess?”

You’re almost in tears. You feel so good, nodding quickly, watching as he sucks his long fingers, blushing furiously – your cunt is pulsing around nothing, seeing his cheeks hollow during the filthy little action. “You’re tasting me!”

“So sweet,” he mumbles, drunk off a lick, pulling back to see his fingers glossy and moaning at the sight, his eyes dark. “I can’t wait to really drink you.”

“Drink me?” He chuckles at how precious you are, tugging down your slip and holding you close, kissing your temple as you come down. “Satoru, that was so intense I just… I…”

“Are you all right? Too much?” He brushes your hair back, feeling your lips on his neck.

“Not enough.”

“Slutty princess,” you gasp and smack him when he chuckles, pulling back and cupping your chin, smiling at you. “I love you too.”

“You love me?”

“Of course I do, the moment I saw you in that garden,” you can’t stop the tears from falling, chest heaving as the aftershocks mix with your emotions. “Now don’t be so impatient, we have forever.”

You nod and kiss him again, and again, and again, until he carries you in his arms towards your bed. “I can’t wait to share the bed with you, my Prince.”

“Soon enough.” He lays you in it and kisses you, studying you carefully, brushing a lock of your hair back.

Satoru was only an eligible bachelor for one day – and now he has his happily ever after lightly snoring in her bed, murmuring his name.

Perhaps being the prince wasn’t so bad if he got you by his side.

your mother claimed you’d come out the womb with a white coat on and a stethoscope in hand while your father would show off your awards, your medals, your trophies to whoever would listen about how brilliant his little girl was. teachers would vie against each other in hopes it’d be their classroom you’d step in, in their classroom that you’d excel and shine in.

you’d only just turned seven when you knew what you wanted to do with the rest of your life.

it was a simple career fair of all things, a way to show what kind of jobs kids could pursue in the future. firefighters, office workers, vets, and more showed up to talk about their experiences and answer all kinds of absurd questions about their profession.

like how dalmatians weren’t a complimentary perk of fire fighting. huh.

that wasn’t even the most interesting part. what really caught your attention had been the doctor that showed up. her display wasn’t nearly as showy as the other people that stood at the front of the classroom prior—there had been no flashy powerpoints with a transition on every slide to keep kids with an attention span on .3 seconds interested, no promise of a lollipop or a gift for listening in.

just a realistic figure of a brain and a dream.

“hello, everyone.” her voice enveloped the room in a warm, gentle embrace with each word she spoke. she wasn’t talking down to you, though. not like every adult tended to do. you already had a strong liking towards her. “i’m here to talk about my job as a doctor. i specialized as a neurologist at tokyo tech hospital and i’ve just started as an attending.”

most of the kids next to you stopped pretending to pay attention long ago—doodling some stick figure on the margin of their notebook or refining their version of an eye, or simply putting their head down in hopes that your teacher wouldn’t ask any questions afterward.

you, though, you leaned forward as far as your plastic seat would allow, back straight as a pin as you watched intently. “this part of the brain’s the cerebellum.” she points to the back of the brain, underneath the big walnut-looking thing you’ve now learned is the cerebrum. “it acts sort of as a little brain and it’s responsible for controlling your movements. most of the cases that i receive are actually either from trauma or a tumor, my most complicated one was actually five years ago…”

since then, you’d been determined in what you’ve wanted to pursue. there wasn’t any sense of self doubt, of waking up one day and realizing you’ve been chasing after a dream you no longer want to do. it started off quite simple—cutting up your stuffed animals and pretending to do surgery on them, stitching them back to health (and stabbing your fingers 3000 times in the process). all from simple surface sutures to re-stuffing nail-biting procedures.

throughout middle school, you started as many preparatory ap courses you could take, piling up more and more work onto your load until you’re eventually buried in books. pre-ap algebra, pre-ap history, pre-ap english, you were doing it all.

that workload only intensified during high school. while many of your classmates were enjoying their last couple teenage years, having the occasional party when someone’s parents were out of town— you were buried in sat prep books and collegeboard textbooks that weighed your backpack down by twenty pounds. reading through paragraph after paragraph of information until you could recite the passage in your sleep.

when you weren’t at school, you were either at the library or going out to volunteer with cleaning up a beach or helping out at a soup kitchen. getting more than the necessary hours to fulfill your requirements, padding your resume into making you the ideal candidate. signing up for whatever club still had openings available, making sure to run every fundraiser like the navy. you built yourself into a candidate colleges just simply couldn’t refuse.

as if that wasn’t enough, you did sports you never would’ve entertained under normal circumstances, joining groups you had a semblance of interest for to have something to list on your college application. stretching yourself out to fit into every slot you’ve signed up—to make it to every team meeting, every volunteering session, every tutoring session. exhaustion weighed heavily in your bones, dark circles practically engraved underneath your eyes.

tokyo tech’s prestigious, hard to get into if you weren’t legacy or had enough money to pad the university’s board. their university was essentially a feeder school into some of the best medical schools in the country, though. but you managed to get in, with a 4.5 gpa, a list of extracurriculars trailing almost a mile long, and a hefty stack of recommendations (after begging for months).

there was nothing in your way to getting into medical school. if you were determined in high school, you were much more determined now. practically living in and out of your school’s café, fueled by caffeine and spite to go through whatever mcat prep book you could find and still get your assignments done at least three weeks prior to the due date. reading through teacher introductions and sucking up as much as you needed to, as much as was required to get you recognized in a sea of over 300+ students.

and yet, all of the work you’ve done seems to be naught when your intro to neuro professor’s keen on destroying that goal. you’re certain of it.

—

“good afternoon class.” the class falls silent upon dr. yaga’s arrival, a couple students managing to trickle in as inconspicuously as possible before he shut and locked the door. there was no room for tardiness, no room for any bullshit in his class. many had dropped out before he’d even finished going through the syllabus first day of class.

“have you ever wanted to meet hellen keller? because if so, take this class and meet her for yourself. you will not be heard, seen, nor will your professor communicate with you. he does not answer questions well, and when he does it's with sass and annoyance. tough grader and doesn't help at all with exams or finals, you are on your own,” said one student on rateonmyprofessor.

another one left a stellar one star review, “i never wore my seatbelt while driving to school because i wanted to die before making it to his class.”

his footsteps echoed through the auditorium, each one purposeful and determined. the promethium sparks to life, this week’s powerpoint up on the screen. “we will be working on a group project—” a chorus of groans erupts from the back, though a stern glare from dr. yaga has them quickly shutting up.

you’re not much of a fan either. people usually take too long to organize, to figure out what they want to do, just to end up doing a half assed attempt of what’s supposed to be their part of the project. or they usually make you feel like you’re intruding when you do go to ask to be a part the rare time you feel a surge of confidence.

needless to say, you’re already dreading it.

“i will be selecting your partners for this assignment and it involves studying injuries to the brain and how it affects each function. for example, concussions, contusions, strokes, inflammation, each one of your groups will be responsible for choosing one and what part you want to focus on.

“you have a month to work on this assignment before you have to present. i don’t care how you divide the work amongst yourselves, i need everyone to work equally on the project though.” hands shot up immediately after he was done speaking, an exasperated sigh leaving your professor’s lips.

most of the questions are repeats of what he’s already stated, his annoyance clear with each one he has to answer. “alright, if that’s all, i will now be assigning you to your groups. there will be no changes done to this, so don’t bother asking.” the last line’s towards you, a pointed look shot in your direction. you merely shrug.

he starts off listing off names, the people in question already starting to move to their designed partner. chairs scrape against the floor, conversations are whispered while everyone’s slowly starting to get their space set up. your ears perk up at the mention of your name, leaned over against your desk to hear him clearly. there’s not many options left, but you hope it’s a decent one at the very least.

anyone but naoya zen’in at this rate. you’re not certain you’ll get to get summa cum laude at graduation inside of a prison cell.

“suguru geto.”

the pencil in your grasp snaps between your fingers, pieces of splintered wood splattering across your once pristine workspace.

—

you don’t have a reason to hate suguru geto.

not really.

he hasn’t done anything to personally offend you or your bloodline, hasn’t done anything but meet your competitive streak with a simple, calm smile. with an easiness you could only wish to achieve in this lifetime.

it was infuriating, nonetheless.

the way suguru geto never had to bury his face into a book, never had to study, never had to show up to class with anything other than a mechanical pencil and a pink eraser to achieve the same things you did.

everything came naturally to him.

photography? the rule of thirds was practically encoded into his dna, lighting and background perfect around his subject each and every time. breaking the rule came just as easily, the man capable of creating perfect symmetry without focusing too deeply on the subject.

biology? suguru geto didn’t need to show up to class unless he needed to do a quiz, mastering the function of each organ without needing to open up a textbook. finishing up two hour quizzes in twenty minutes, labeling the humerus, femur, radius, and ulna without a bit of hesitation.

making friends? he didn’t even have to try to engage in conversation, people just naturally gravitated towards him like planets to the sun. wanting to talk with him, wanting to listen to him, they all just wanted a chance to be able to be around his proximity. it was almost a cult-like following.

everything you needed to work on, that you needed to pour energy and effort into, he excelled in.

“okay, now go on and meet up with your group partner. exchange contact info, talk to one another, figure out what you want to do, all that.” professor yaga retreats from the podium over to his desk, taking a seat in front of his computer. the projector shuts off, leaving everyone to whisper amongst themselves.

you don’t stand up, slowly putting your stuff away. opening your backpack up at a snail’s pace, putting your laptop inside. suguru stands up from his spot at the top, quickly descending to the front. “hey.” he approaches your desk, taking a seat next to you.

geto inches closer to you, placing his laptop and notebook in front of him. in a sea of overwhelming axe body spray and dior sauvage, he’s calming. a velvety, warm aroma of sandalwood and bergamot makes itself known as he leans in, the scent lingering long after he’s pulled away. you hate yourself for how much you like it.

you clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus. there’s no need for introductions, no need to act friendly, “so i was thinking we could do the effects of stroke on the motor cortex and how it affects muscle movements,” you don’t hesitate in speaking up, watching as suguru already starts to type it up in a word document. at least he’s efficient.

“sounds good, you wanna meet up today?” geto looks up from his laptop, amethyst eyes meeting your own, “i know you’re busy and all. don’t want to intrude on your schedule.”

you were busy. you had to finish up studying for a stats quiz and finish up another project for orgo before this afternoon. but you suppose you could spare a few hours, if only for your grade. “we’ll meet up at the library at four pm. don’t be late.” you don’t give him a chance to respond, leaving right after the clock hit 12:30. he’s left scrambling to pick up his stuff while everyone else follows suit.

—

you’re already at the library by the time suguru geto steps in through the doors. sitting at the second floor on a table near the window, not enough for the sun to scorch your body, but just close enough where the space feels warm, that it feels like a blanket’s engulfed around your body. there’s a textbook in your hands, a notebook decorated in pink and blue highlighter next to you.

you almost look approachable from this distance, completely at ease in your element. lazily flipping through the pages, skimming through each paragraph before you’re annotating a couple notes down. suguru doesn’t go up just yet, taking the time to admire you from afar. how the sun he knows that as soon as he steps up, you’ll have your guard back up again.

the smell of caffeine makes you raise your head, looking over to see suguru placed a cup in front of you. “didn’t know which one you preferred so i settled for vanilla with three sugars,” he explains, taking a seat right in front of you. he's quick to take out his stuff, setting down his cup of tea next to him.

“thank… you.” your lips twist awkwardly as you force the words to come out, feeling a physical pain in your chest, even if they’re nothing more than a whisper. suguru seems to hear them all the same, giving you a curt nod. it’s disgusting, it’s humiliating, and it’s really fucking good??

bringing the cup to your lips, your taste buds are engulfed by the sweet taste of vanilla and creamer. it’s better than the coffee you’re used to from the watered down excuse from the student lounge.

suguru pretends not to notice the little pleased smile on your face, choosing instead to bask in it for as long as you’d allow him to. it’s the only time you’ve looked like you tolerated being here.

“are you capable enough of explaining the motor cortex while i take care of the research or do i have to do everything?” and just like that, your attitude returns. like you’ve suddenly remembered you’re supposed to hate him.

his eyes narrow as he meets your sudden glare, “i’m capable of doing the bare minimum, yes.” pulling out his notebook, you’re instantly drawn to the very detailed illustrations on his journal, his handwriting neat and precise. suguru skims through his notes on the primary motor cortex, long, slim fingers trailing behind the page with each word he reads.

nothing about him is sloppy, you’ve come to notice. his hair’s carefully tucked away from his face, his clothes are without creases, even his converse are miraculously clean. you force yourself to look away before he notices your lingering gaze, staring at your computer.

silence clung onto your quiet space of the library, only the sound of your taps against your keyboard echoing around the space. you’ve been scanning through abstracts for what seems to be an eternity, trying to find articles worth using in your project. the words start to mesh into one big times new roman blob.

the sun’s set by the time you’ve finished your session for the day, students trickling out the doors one by one. a few still linger on the tables, the sharp fluorescent from their computer screen only highlighting each and every one of their exhausted features.

rubbing a hand over your eyes, you’re forcing yourself to stay focused. to keep reading the paragraph in front of you—hemiparesis, studies show recovery after stroke is most effective in the first three to six months, neuroplasticity… “you want something to eat?” the question breaks you out of your stupor, looking up to see geto starting to pack up already.

he expects a protest at first, a why the hell would i endure more than necessary with you? and you’d thought about it—the idea of having to spend more time than necessary almost just as appealing as going through studying free-radical reactions again. but then again, you’d be stupid not to bank in on a chance to get free food, especially when you can hear your stomach growling in the silent halls of the library.

so to his surprise, you merely shrugged, “sure. i get to pick the place, though.”

—

suguru wholeheartedly expects you to drain his pockets, expects you to pick an expensive restaurant where reservations are a three month wait, where the menus don’t have the prices next to them, and chandeliers glisten overhead in dizzying glamour.

but you settle for a small ramen shop not to far off campus, tucked away in a corner. it’d be hard to miss if you weren’t looking for it. a bell chimes overhead upon your arrival, the rich scent of broth and vegetables permeating through the air with each step you took inside.

one of the shop owners stepped out from the back, approaching you with a tight embrace. “we’ve missed you around here. you don’t show your face too much anymore,” she jests with a small, wistful sigh. you’ve been neglecting coming over, often finding yourself too tired to make the walk over, resigned to cooking yourself cheap ramen.

she doesn’t seem to linger on it for too long—turning to look over at geto, a bright smile immediately taking over her features. she doesn’t hesitate in embracing him in the same tight hug, “ooh, you finally got yourself a boyfriend. he’s real handsome.”

the idea nearly makes you recoil in your spot. “he’s not my bo-”

“thank you onēsan,” geto’s quick to interrupt your previous protest, a shit eating grin on his face when you turn to look at him. if looks could kill, he’s certain he’d be six feet under right now. but, alas, you’re not that powerful (yet), so you simply follow behind the two over to a small booth in the back.

the lights are dimmed down, the shadows playing over each crevice of his face. it’s too warm, too intimate. “what would you like to order?” you don’t need to flip through the menu brochure, “i’ll get your tsukumi soba, please.”

geto spends a few seconds scanning through the menu, reading over one side before flipping it around. “your beef yakisoba, please.” she takes away your menus, retreating into the back to get the noodles started up. ambient music plays in the background, your fingers tapping against the table. it’s still for a minute, quiet.

he breaks the silence first, gesturing to the space around you, “so can i ask why you picked this place?”

you purse your lips, pretending to be deep in thought before uttering, “no, you cannot.”

“alright then.” geto’s not sure why he expected another response to you, why he expected that one dinner would be enough to change your mind about him.

you merely raise a brow, unimpressed. “do you give up so easily on your endeavors?”

“no,” he’s quick to defend, “i just don’t want to risk making you uncomfortable.”

you can’t believe you’re letting suguru know you on a more intimate level, already regretting the words before you’re even speaking. “i chose this place because the owner’s been kind to me—” he perks up like a puppy at the information, so much for being nonchalant (he couldn’t be even if he tried), “—i came here when i didn’t have anything other than five bucks to my name. and even though the business isn’t doing so well, she covered the rest for me that day.

“i haven’t been here in a while. but i like to come whenever i have a little extra money and i have the time to.” you don’t add your father had been nearly laid off from his position at the time of the incident, leaving you scrambling to figure out how to pay rent on time, much less worry about an actual meal. the old woman had extended a hand of kindness where you weren’t expecting any.

geto clears his throat, “thank you for letting me know this little slice of you. it’s nice knowing you as something other than the valedictorian with a grudge.” you let out a noncommittal hum in response, watching as the old woman walked over with your food. you were welcomed by the earthy scent of the noodles, the aroma wafting throughout the table.

you could feel your mouth start to water before she even finished putting the plates down. “enjoy,” she tells you both, once again leaving you completely alone. there’s no rush when it comes to eating for either of you, no sense of urgency to get out. you blow on your noodles, twisting them around your chopsticks before taking a bite.

“so, are they up to your palate?” why you were making conversation with geto, you didn’t know. but nevertheless, you couldn’t exactly take the words back once they’d left your lips.

“they are. better than what i’m used to.” you savor each drop that lands on your tongue, each bite of the egg yolk that you take. it’s just the right amount of runny, the taste melding in perfectly with the broth. geto makes a few comments here in between about how good the beef is, how the noodles taste, and for once, you don’t find yourself wanting to smash a keyboard over his head.

you even make a few remarks yourself, about the different kinds of noodles that the shop offered. like you were already planning out to come here with him again. the thought should’ve been unsettling, should’ve been straight of your worst nightmares, but it wasn’t all too bad.

geto doesn’t hesitate in leaving a hefty tip behind when the check comes, earning a bright smile from the old lady. it seems she approves of him.

“do you want me to walk you back home?” he speaks up once you make it out of the shop, lingering on the street. it’s dark outside and you still had a long way to walk back home—but it’s just what you need. being in close proximity with geto has messed with your head enough, made him seem tolerable for one afternoon.

“i’d rather take my chances getting kidnapped,” you retort, already starting to walk away. he doesn’t linger for too long, walking away in the opposite direction. the walk back home is brisk, only a few cars passing by on the street, a nice chill in the air. it doesn’t take long for you to reach your building,

you’re certain you see a figure swinging away from the same direction geto had just headed in. you amount it to exhaustion, to your mind playing tricks on you. stepping inside your apartment, you’re welcomed to complete darkness—both of your parents already off to bed.

following suit, you drop your backpack off on the floor and get changed into your pair of pajamas as quietly as you can. you’ve barely managed to get into bed, to snuggle underneath your warm blanket, when your phone buzzes.

a message from geto.

geto: i hope you didn’t get kidnapped on your way home. 

you: i’m sure that you’d be delighted to hear that, less competition for valedictorian after all. 

geto: fair point. but then i’d have to do this project all by myself :( 

you: i’m sure you’d be able to figure out if you rubbed your last two brain cells together

geto: i’m sure. good night. 

—

you don’t see much of geto throughout the week—not that you’ve had much time to give it any thought (is what you keep trying to convince yourself of). in between trying to study for quizzes, getting assignments done, and searching for internships in the summer, you haven’t had much time to breathe much less pay attention to your group member.

“good afternoon class. today we’ll be going over neural coding and the perception of sound, we’re on page 456.” the sound of fingers tapping against keys rings throughout the classroom—yours included, as you start typing out your notes for dr. yaga’s lecture. he starts talking about neuron frequency and parameters, studying an orientation tuning curve—the sound of his voice fading into the background once you take a look around the classroom.

suguru didn’t show up for today’s lecture, his seat taken up by a guy who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed five minutes ago. you should be glad—you don’t have to talk to him in the odd case yaga ends the class early. instead…you find yourself wondering just what exactly prompted his absence. wondering if he’s okay. your fingers inch towards your phone across the table, about to take hold before you remember—

you hate this guy. he’s probably fine and you don’t need him anyways—you could complete the project on your own accord. right? right. instead of thinking about geto any further than you had to, you picked back up on writing the lecture notes yaga was giving on mt tuning curves, on visual motion in different directions and rose plots.

your day ends in a blur of different powerpoint presentations, note taking, and about twenty different assignments due on friday at 11:59 with no exceptions. there’s still some time before you have to head back home, so you decide to head to the library. it’s quiet upon entering, the few students inside burrowed deep within a book or a last minute paper they don’t even have articles for yet. padding against the carpet, you take your seat at your usual place. second floor, table near the window.

suguru shows up at the library five minutes later, a grey hoodie pulled over his head. he looks rough, a splotchy purple bruise marking his right eye—roughly a day or two old if you had to guess, along with a nasty cut running across his cheek. he looks like he hasn’t slept in days—hair tousled up into a half-assed attempt at a bun and rings circling underneath his eyes. you almost wince at the sight.

“you look like you’ve been hit by a train.” suguru didn’t want to admit that he had, in fact, had to hold a train back on a shattered track. he pulled a seat across the table, a pained expression on his face and a hand clasped around his (very broken) ribs upon taking a seat. his backpack dropped to the floor in one ungraceful sweep, pins clattering against each other upon impact.

still, he tried to pretend like he wasn’t actively in pain. pulling his laptop out from his backpack, tapping quickly to open up the shared presentation you’d set up. you didn’t mention anything, neither did he. it wasn’t your place to. a quiet settled upon the table, each of you getting to work on your designated slides.

it only lasts for about ten minutes when,“what’d he go over during the lecture today?” he questioned, looking up from his laptop to meet your gaze.

“i’ll send the doc over once we’re done here, maybe you’ll even do better on the test with my notes in hand.” on another occasion, maybe he would’ve met your retort with another one of his own, would’ve tried to tease you back. but all he could manage was a weak laugh, “yeah, maybe.”

the next two hours are relatively quiet, if only for a few questions about formatting, about including an article shared in between whispers. suguru doesn’t look much better than when he first stepped foot into the door—hand still clutched around his ribs as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. “i don’t know what happened to you,” you start off, his attention diverted from packing up for the night, “but come over next time you’re hurt. i don’t have much but i can at least stitch you up. don’t really wanna get stuck doing your portion of the work when you’re half dead.”

suguru pushes his laptop inside his backpack before speaking, “right. you’ll be my nurse for the sake of your grade?”

“absolutely for the sake of my grade.” you hand him over a ripped piece of notebook paper with your address scribbled onto it, watching as he carefully tucks it away in the back of his phone.

“i’ll take you up on that, then.”

“good.” a breath you didn’t realize you were holding leaves your lips upon exiting the library, a relief filling your body. you convince yourself it’s the assurance of your gpa staying intact—it’s not. you couldn’t stand to see geto sit around in pain, hear his meek attempts to keep up with your banter and each strained breath he let out when he stood still for too long.

you worried about him. for the first time, you admitted to yourself feeling something other than petty hate towards him.

you: i hope you feel better. doesn’t feel the same being mean to you.

suguru: i’ll try. get home safe.

—

as begrudging as it becomes to admit, you slowly start to get comfortable to having suguru around. to having your designed meet up at the library every monday and wednesday at four, being greeted with a warm cup of coffee and a kind of patience a saint would be jealous of.

it’s ridiculous. suguru doesn’t stoop as low as to meet your biting remarks with one of his own. he simply treats it with a calm smile, with a, “yeah, i’ll get that done.” when you bite out an order to do something.

“you’re more capable than i gave you credit for,” you remark, opening up the powerpoint to find that he’d settled on picking a nice theme. he’d picked up on where you left off last night with ease—sorting out your scrambled mess of notes into something feasible.

it was weird having someone you didn’t have to constantly be explaining yourself to. weird, but nice.

“well, you set a high bar. i, at least, have to make the effort to be worthy of working with you,” he retorts, reaching over. a quiet laugh escapes you, a sound he wants to bottle up just so he knows he’s not imaging it.

“your efforts are greatly appreciated.” you’re not sure when’s the last time you’ve been such at ease working on a group project. maybe never. you’re usually too stressed out trying to pick up where everyone else is lacking. plugging your earbuds on, you get back to reading through an article on motor functions.

“you should send me that playlist. for motivational purposes, of course,” suguru speaks up when you’re finished for the night. amongst corny science memes (from his part) and photos of cats he’s found on the street, you send him your playlist. showing him a glimpse of your soul—or at least what you like to listen to.

of course, it’s in alphabetical order. he finds himself playing each song, carefully listening to each of the lyrics. wondering what your thoughts were when listening, how you related to each one. your mind was a complex cavern, one that he intended to explore fully.

and across the city, you find yourself thinking about every interaction you’ve been having with him lately. about how he’s changed his brand of pencils to pentel 0.5mm in case you’d ever ask for one, the way his touch makes you feel like your body’s been electrocuted, how he’s memorized your coffee order by now.

you’re thinking too much about it, aren’t you? definitely. no way in hell you’re starting to develop feelings for suguru geto. you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

and yet, why can’t you convince yourself of the fact?

“you’re acting weird. you okay?” suguru doesn’t hesitate to call you out, noticing you’ve been all too quiet during your session today. no biting remarks, no jokes, just silence. at first, it was comforting. now it just seems unsettling.

you nearly jump out of your seat, having been staring at the same word—and—for the past five minutes. you clear your throat, nodding. “i’m alright.” he’s not convinced but he lets it go. maybe you’re just having a bad day. you’re grateful he doesn’t try to ask any more questions, but… you miss the conversation.

fuck, you’re screwed.

—

suguru: can’t show up to our library session tonight, try not to miss me too much ;)

you’re not sure why you almost feel…disappointed at the news, wondering if he’s off getting beat up like he did two weeks ago. but it’s not like you wanted him to see that you’d put in more effort into dressing up today—that you’d ditched your (very comfortable) hoodie and sweats for a pair of jeans and a nice blouse you’d gotten on a discount rack. that you’d put on a dab of mascara and tinted gloss.

absolutely not. you didn’t care.

with nothing else to do around campus, you decide to head back home. flipping the tv on, you quickly come to find out each news channel’s covering the same segment—a giant lizard terrorizing the city while spider-man swings from building to building before jumping into action.

the hero picks up a decent looking buick, the expensive car practically weightless in his arms, tossing it over. it pierces through the air like a bullet, cameramen at the scene quickly panning their cameras to the zooming vehicle going at what seems to be a hundred miles per hour. it lands.

and spider-man misses. tossing it a mile past the point where the lizard’s crawling up a building, the car crashing into nothing but a mess of glass and debris. police sirens speed closer to the scene of the crime, thick clouds of grey smoke from the impact clouding up the atmosphere.

that’d be your last straw, you think. coming out of a late shift only to find your car completely totaled into smithereens. without so much as having some kind of insurance it’d be covered under.

luckily, it’s not you.

with that thought, you shut your tv off. choosing instead to work on some assignments, to work on converting radon mass into mols, to filling out equations that had more symbols than numbers on it. the hours pour over slowly, sun fading away into the shadows as night takes over.

there’s a knock on your window. you live on the third floor, that’s enough to unsettle you as it is. no one could get up here without using the fire escape, and that seemed like too much of a hassle just to rob you. right? another knock followed after the first, forcing you to get up from your spot.

shoving the curtains to the side, you’re met with the sight of spider-man outside your window. his suit’s ripped and tattered, exposing slivers of a blood streaked gash running down his chest. his chest heaves with each ragged and hoarse breath that leaves his lungs, a sharp pain digging through his ribs.

he leans against your windowsill, clutching a hand tightly against his stomach. his other hand reaches up, swiping at the constricting mask concealing his identity. black hair falls in long waves once its freed from its confines, a face you’re too familiar with meeting your gaze.

suguru. he leans his head back, a smear of blood marking his cheek. he’s never looked as hot as he did now—bleeding out and groaning at your windowsill. “hey, nice to see you again,” he lets out a breathy chuckle, “room looks cozy.”

there’s about a million questions bubbling in your head. how’d he manage to go to school and be the city’s hero? how’d he deal with the burden placed on his shoulders? still, there’s no time for you to be surprised. you have to act quick before he loses any more blood.

easing him into your bed, you get out your suturing kit with 140 pieces inside. pulling on a pair of gloves, you’re quick to get out what you need. a nylon needle, a silk piece of thread, some alcohol pads, and an advil just in case. “why’d you come to me?” you bring yourself to ask, pulling away at the sopping latex fabric.

it falls to your bedroom floor with an unceremonious plop, blood smearing onto your hardwood floors. you’d clean it up later. for now, you focus on evaluating the wound. the slash cut deep enough where stitches were necessary, but it seemed straight forward for the most part.

“you’re the only one in our program i trust not to drive a needle through a vein and stab me half to death,” he responds after a bit, his breathing labored as your hands squish the wound together. trying to make some sense of the ragged edges you’re trying to line up, of where you needed to poke the needle through.

“high praise,” you murmur, blood seeping and dripping from the rag you were delicately rubbing against his skin. cleaning him up as gently as possible, trying to avoid hurting the gash any more than necessary. any more than you needed to before the next step.

silence settles over your room as you draw the needle through his skin, piercing just deep enough to ensure it’d be sealed properly. forcing your trembling hands to steady, you get to work. sliding the needle through his skin, tightening the thread against each edge of the gash with each knot you do. it’s not perfect—you know that much, but it’s enough for right now.

“are you okay?” you’re the first one to break the silence tonight, gently wiping away at the streaks of crimson marring his scarred skin. blood dribbles and pours from the gash, quiet winces leaving his lips when you happen to press too hard.

a disgruntled, frustrated sigh leaves his lips, “no. the lizard escaped from me at last minute and i have no idea how to start looking for him.” taking your gloves off, you’re now faced with an incredibly hard decision. figuring out what suguru was going to wear.

you’re sure he’s bound to get questions if he walks out in a spider-man costume, digging through your cabinets to find something. an old pair of sweats that’s been too big and an oversized shirt. that’s good enough. “thanks.” suguru takes the clothes from you, quickly sliding them on.

“i’m sure you’ll find him. you’re nothing if not persistent,” you reassure, swiping away at a hair that covered his face. lightly, you dragged a clean rag through his cheeks, wiping away ruby colored streaks in three swipes. his gaze goes to your lips, your breath catches in your throat.

you’re too close. you should pull away, should tell him to leave and go back to studying. instead, you lean into the kiss. slowly and tentatively pressing your lips against his own, one of your hands coming to rest on his shoulder.

bruised hands settle on your waist, tugging you closer against his body. his lips brush against yours with all the patience in the world, the taste of him intoxicating up close. nothing else—not the city of new york, not the lizard—mattered. his lips locked against yours like a missing puzzle piece, slotting against yours perfectly.

“is this why you’ve been acting weird towards me?” suguru breathes out when he pulls away, forehead resting against your own. the proximity, of being mere inches apart, has heat rising up your neck, up to your face. everywhere you turned, he was there.

“yes,” your response comes out as a breathless whisper, his fingers drawing small lines against your arms. there’s no rush to the moment, no rush into pulling yourselves apart. a shiver runs down your spine as his touch ghosts even higher, leaving you wanting more.

hinges creak against themselves as soon as your bedroom door’s swung open, your father standing in the doorway. his eyes immediately narrowed at the sight of suguru plopped down on your bed, the two of you too close for comfort. you quickly scooted away, putting on a few inches of distance.

it wasn’t enough to erase his intrigue. with an exasperated huff, he rubbed a hand over his temples, “do you want to tell me why there’s a guy over this late? and with your door closed?” not particularly, but you figured it wasn’t as much as a question as an accusation.

“he…uh…” oh no, you hesitated. your father’s brows merely furrowed while you scrambled to find any reasonable excuse to have suguru geto in your bed at 10 pm. c’mon think think think. he’s getting suspicious.

suguru can practically see the wheels turning in your head, his teeth biting down on his lip to keep himself from snickering. your eyes dart from one corner of your room to the next, to your bed, to your nightstand before you take hold of the shut laptop next to you, blurting out, “he came to work on our project!”

“out!” your father exclaims just as soon as you’ve finished trying to find an excuse, “project my ass, we use the front door in this house for those.” he storms off into the living room, presumably to continue to continue watching his late night soccer game.

suguru let out a quiet laugh, leaning over to press a small kiss on your forehead. it doesn’t feel like enough after your admission, feels too small. but, it’s what you’ll have to make do for now. “for someone so smart, you sure are a bad liar, pretty girl.”

you’re left alone again.

you can’t focus on your project. the blank screen on your monitor burnt into your retinas, blinking cursor on the screen taunting you with each second that passes.

you can’t sleep either. you’ve tried. tossed and turned from one side to the next, throwing your leg over one of your prized plushies to no avail. you try counting sheep, you try listening to calming asmr in attempts it’d still your racing mind. nothing works. frustration boils deep in your gut, your thighs rubbing against one another.

you don’t think about suguru as just the guy you once hated and are now starting to develop a crush on, but you see him as spider-man too. see the responsibility that he takes on to protect the city, to ensure that people feel just a little bit safer walking down the streets while keeping up with school. while still managing to get you your coffee every day without so much as a protest.

the more that you get to know about him, the more that you realize that you’ve already fallen for him. tonight—that kiss—had just cemented the fact, your mind lingering on how soft he’d been. how gentle and reverent he’d treated you, being patient without treating you like you couldn’t handle it.

with a resigned sigh, you slowly began to trail your fingers down your navel. dragging your fingertips against the sensitive flesh, picturing geto’s long, digits as your eyes flutter shut. imagining his soft, plush lips making their way down your body the same you are, with an amount of reverence and tenderness.

you don’t dip your fingers inside your cunt just yet, rubbing yourself through the thin material of your panties, sliding your fingertips against your clothed slit, slowly starting to drip through the thin material. your fingers move up, rubbing at your neglected clit in small little circles.

deep in the back of his mind, suguru knows he’s not supposed to intrude on such a private moment. and yet, he can’t bring himself to leave.

he can hear footsteps up to five miles away, can hear every whispered conversation, and yet all he can focus on is the way your breath picks up, the sound of your cunt squelching around the fingers. on your rapid heartbeat thumping against your chest, on the whisper of his name that you thought left your lips into the dead of night.

wait, what?

“oh, fuck, suguru.” a breathless whisper leaves your lips, his ears perking up underneath the mask. he can practically taste you on his tongue with how intense the scent penetrates through your bedroom walls. his cock throbs in the latex, precum smearing onto the costume. that’s enough to get him sliding the costume down to his mid thighs, leaving him nearly exposed.

anybody could look up and see the city’s hero jerking himself off on the side of a building. that should’ve been enough to stop him, to make him wait until he was in his room. but no, instead, he wraps his hand around his shaft, thumb smearing precum alllll the way down to the base.

you are all that consumes his thoughts, his very being.

pushing your panties to the side, you dip two fingers inside your cunt with a wet little shlickk. all the while picturing suguru’s thick fingers instead of your own, picturing how’d he finger you. he’d start slow—just to tease you. so you decide to slowly start pumping your fingers in and out, slick dripping down to your knuckles.

suguru starts off at the same pace you’re going, timing his own orgasm to your own. soul ties and the such. his fingers wrap tightly around his cock, fist slowly dragging uppp and downn the shaft. he rubs at his swollen cockhead, smearing precum over his fist and his dick.

“o-oh fuck,” a hushed moan leaves your lips, your fingers curling about a inch in. you’re hitting your g-spot with each thrust of your fingertips, back bowed into an arch. would he let you cum? maybe if he was feeling kind enough. you rub at your clit, pushing yourself to reach your peak only to let it slip through your fingers right at the precipice. 

when you do let yourself cum to the thought of it being on suguru’s fingers, of imagining him bringing them up to his mouth, wrapping his lips around them and tasting you fully, you soak your fingers and sheets underneath with a shuddered little moan.

suguru isn’t faring well outside of your window either.

sweat dribbles down from his forehead, heavy load of cum covering his hand and stomach. he leans his head back, listening to your racing heartbeat slowly return back to normal. he wipes his hand off on the side of his costume, zipping it back up before reluctantly heading back home.

so much for hating him.

—

you avoid suguru geto completely after that.

it wasn’t that hard in the grand scheme of things. sure, you were both confined to the same building for most of the day, but you avoided taking any main hallways you were certain to find him in. avoided lingering in the lounge for too long, hiding away in the back stairwell and doing some assignments. it’s quite nice the few times you get lucky and there’s no one making out underneath.

and sure, you had a few classes together, but you avoid being in your usual spots. go up to sit in the back instead of the front, in one of the far right wings of the auditorium where even the professor’s surprised when they take attendance. you don’t linger too much after class either, immediately leaving upon dismissal with your head down.

but even then, you supposed you should’ve accounted for how to avoid him at your own home.

“do i have to keep showing up to your house all bruised and battered for you to spare your friendly neighborhood spider-man five minutes?” suguru pops his head in through your window, sliding his mask off once he was inside.

you raise a brow, leaning in closer to take a look at the ‘wound’ he’s whining and pouting about. it’s a simple cut across his cheek, already starting to heal from his enhanced abilities. “you came over for this?”

“yes. i’m dying, doc,” he deadpans much to your dismay. you gesture for him to take a seat on your bed, watching as he makes himself at home amongst your plushies. taking a hold of your kit, you stand in between his legs to clean up the cut.

that’s not good enough for suguru.

“what the—” his hands take hold of your waist, easing you down onto his lap. your thighs rest upon either side of his own, your ass pressed directly on top of his lap. moving forward slightly, you grind yourself against him, a quiet moan leaving your lips upon feeling the tip against your clit.

how very unprofessional of you.

you force yourself to stay focused, taking his face in your hand. purple eyes glimmer underneath the pale moonlight, meeting your gaze as your fingers brush against the ‘bruise.’ slowly, you dab on a little bit of antibiotic onto the cut before plastering on a hello kitty bandaid on his cheek. “perfect.”

neither one of you moves. suguru’s hands stay splayed against your waist, holding you tightly against his body. trying to keep you there as long as possible. you let him, your fingers ghosting across his face before you reluctantly pull your hand away.

this time, his hand cradles your cheek, “i haven’t been able to stop thinking about your lips since the last time i’ve seen you. thinking about kissing you again.” he didn’t kiss you like he had last time, gentle and patient, no, he kissed you like he was desperate (which he, admittedly, was).

your hips swivel as you grind yourself down on his hardening cock, feeling each ridge against your dripping cunt. heavy breaths leave your lips the faster you start moving against him, the more you feel his tip prodding into your clothed pussy. “this feel good?” he questions, his hands moving up your nightshirt. cupping your breasts in between his hands, rubbing his thumb around your nipples.

“y-yeah, feels good,” you nod, head thrown back and back arched. your nails dig into his shoulders, using that as leverage as you move yourself against him. his lips move down to your neck, leaving kiss after kiss as he trails his way down. he slides your shirt off, tossing it to one corner of your room.

“can i taste you, please?” you nod, expecting him to get down on his knees and get in between your legs. to start slowly kissing his way up your legs before making his way to your cunt. but no, you watch as he crawls up to your ceiling, sticking it it before hanging upside down.

a thin, white string’s clutched between his fingers, keeping him in position. suguru hangs off your roof with relative ease, onyx strands cascading onto your silk sheets. he leans forward, his free hand swiping at the slick dribbling from your puffy folds.

syrupy strings cling onto his gloved fingertips, tongue enveloping around the latex to taste every last drop. “need to taste all of you, spread out for me,” suguru uses his free hand to spread your legs apart, your ass up in the air as you settle into an arch, “there we go. just like that, princess.”

he delves in like a man starving, his tongue swiping across your slit, lapping up every drop of your essence. your fingers tightly wrap around your sheets, hips moving back to meet his eager mouth. he’s unabashed with each swipe, with each lick to your sopping pussy.

suguru takes one of your folds in his mouth, spit slobbering over the sensitive skin to mix with the syrupy slick dripping onto his tongue, starting to make out with your lower pair of lips. “fuck, you’re so good to me, wanna stay here,” he’s already pussydrunk, each babble leaving his lips like water.

while nothing about him is sloppy, the way that he’s making out with your pussy certainly is. he takes note of what makes your heart run faster, what makes you react to adjust what he does. no reaction you make goes unnoticed.

you gushed around his mouth and chin like a running faucet, your essence smeared all over his face. suguru slid his tongue in and outt of your cunt, his nose nudging against your sensitive clit with each push. “so, so good sugu,” you whined against him, eyes rolling back. each swipe of his tongue, the desperate way he ate you out, had you inching closer and closer to your orgasm.

“mm, i know, i know,” he coos, jaw falling slack as he buries his face in between your legs. he alternates between making out with your folds, tracing his tongue across each one, and thrusting his tongue in and out of your hole. suguru licks up a broad stripe up your cunt to your clit, the tip of his tongue drawing a small circle onto the nub.

blood rushes down to his head, almost making him feel high off the taste of your cunt. his lips latch onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the nub. “fuck, fuck, sugu, just like that!” your praise only serves to spur him on, your orgasm the only thing on his mind.

two of his fingers dip inside your cunt, filling you even better than you’d imagined just a few days ago. suguru curls his fingers perfectly, drawing out desperate moans from your lips with each prod against your g-spot. he continues sucking around your clit, pleasure building up deep in your gut.

his fingers spread you open, pearlescent slick dribbling down his gloved fingers. your hips move on their own accord, pushing them even deeper as you chase your orgasm. “gonna cum, gonna cum,” you babble, smearing yourself across his face and fingers. your own couldn’t compare to this, not by a long mile.

“that’s it, come for me, take what you want from me,” suguru’s words unraveled you like a birthday present, your orgasm hitting your body in waves. shudders rack through your body, your legs shaking as your release spurted out of you, coating his mouth, chin, and nose. he’s quick to lap up at the drops lingering on his lips, wrapping his mouth around his fingers. sucking them off completely, a moan leaving his lips at the taste.

suguru made quick work of sliding down the rest of his costume, letting it fall on your floor. his cock slapped against his stomach once released, tan at the base with a couple veins running up the thick shaft, tip a reddish pink and dripping drops of precum. a slight eight inches if you had to go off on estimate.

he moves to his spot behind you, wrapping a hand around his shaft. slowly starting to swipe it up and down your folds, tip nudging against your sensitive clit. “i thought it was fuck me, c’mon sweetheart, tell sugu how much you hate him

“fuck y—” his cock sinks in completely, lips parting into a moan while your walls clench around him, tightly wrapped around his shaft like a vice. suguru doesn’t move just yet, even as you push your hips back for some kind of friction, “come on, finish your sentence. don’t be rude.”

you’re too desperate to form a cohesive thought—blurting out the first thing on your mind, “oh fuck me, please!”

“with pleasure, sweetheart.” he pulls back in one swift motion, hips snapping against your own when he thrusts back in, curve of his cock dizzying as it hit every single spot that had your toes curl. "ah ah ah, fuck, don't stop!" suguru doesn’t start off fast, but he starts off deep—letting you feel every inch he was stuffing inside. your cunt dripped around his shaft, squelching as your slick mixed in with the drops of precum dribbling down.

“like this?” he has the audacity to ask, his hands gripping onto your waist as he fucks into you. your ass jiggles back against him with each shove of his cock, balls smacking against the back of your thighs. he starts to move faster, pounding into your cunt like he wanted to imprint the shape of him into your walls.

“j-just like that!” you respond, head buried into the sheets in front of you. the grip you had on your sheets tightens tenfold, body jerking back and forth. that just won’t do. he raises your head up from its hiding spot, turning your head to kiss you. it’s sloppy, it’s desperate, and it’s more teeth and tongue than anything.

it’s perfect.

“keep your head up, wanna hear every little moan,” he babbles behind you, reveling in every little ah! ah! ah! that left your lips, moans mixing in with the sound of skin slapping against skin. your eyes roll back, drool leaking from your lips with every inch he drags across your cunt.

suguru plants one of his feet up on the bed, the position allowing for him to thrust even deeper. his tip kissed your cervix with each punishing thrust of his hips, each vein and ridge rubbing against your walls deliciously. one of his hands moves down in between your legs, rubbing desperate little circles around your clit.

you clamp down around his shaft, your release quickly building up. suguru feels his own approaching, balls tightening up, but he’s determined. determined to make you gush around his cock before he spills his load. your legs tremble and quake, orgasm hitting you much more intense than last time.

your release dribbles and spurts around his shaft, a creamy ring at the base as he pulls back. his hips stutter while he tries to maintain his pace, abs clenching the longer he tries to prolong his orgasm. “come for me, suguru, fill me up.” that’s enough to drag a strangled moan from his lips, a thick load of cum painting your walls white.

suguru remains still for a second before gently pulling his softening cock out, watching as you all but collapse face down onto your bed. “where do you keep your rags?” he moves across your bedroom, heading over to the bathroom.

“second cabinet on the right.” he grabs a few, making sure to get one wet enough to clean up between your legs. he takes the opportunity that your parents aren’t home to leave your bedroom, going over to grab a water bottle.

“here, take a sip.” he holds it up against your mouth, your hands reaching out to take hold of it. a moment of stillness, calm settles over your bedroom as he lightly rubs the rag against your skin, wiping away the milky trails of cum dribbling down your cunt and thighs. you close off the bottle, setting it aside on your nightstand.

“my photography class is making me submit my portfolio for my final, wanted to know if you’d be my model for tomorrow,” he speaks up, settling next to you. he wipes the sweat away from your forehead with a clean rag, just as gently as he’d done before. your body feels sluggish and limp, melting into his embrace as he wraps a hand around your stomach.

“that sounds nice. i’ll show up around three,” you whisper before succumbing to sleep, one of your own arms wrapped around his chest. even if suguru wanted to move (which he didn’t), he couldn’t move with how tightly you were holding onto him. it was the nicest sleep you’ve had thus far, the most relaxed you’ve allowed yourself to be.

the walk over to his apartment was quiet, the city still with each step you took. the trees rustled with each light breeze that passed, birds chirped a melody in the distance. for once, there weren’t any police sirens or honking cars out on the street.

maybe that should’ve been your first sign something was wrong.

—

the quiet before the storm never seems to last for very long, does it?

you never made it to his apartment. never sent a text message saying you couldn’t make it, no kind of explanation. suguru had been waiting for hours now, unwilling to accept the fact he’d simply been ghosted out of the blue. sure, you’d done that before, but his gut told him otherwise.

turning his tv on, he was greeted by the sight of the lizard. he’d regenerated faster than expected, all the effort that suguru put into fighting him the first time diminished into nothing but cheap headlines. but that’s not all that he sees. when the camera pans in, focusing on the lizard’s scaly hand, his heart drops to his ass.

“come out, come out if you want to see your girlfriend again, spider.” each taunt only makes his blood boil, watching helplessly as the lizard dangled your limp body from side to side. dropping you, gasps erupting from the public watching, before his tail wrapped around your body. “you know where to find me.”

pulling the mask on to defend the city had always felt like an obligation, some kind of punishment for sneaking out during a field trip and getting himself bit by a radioactive spider. but this time, it felt more like necessity. adrenaline pumped through his veins, pushing him through each building he swung and pulled himself off of.

of course, the lizard couldn’t have made things easy enough for him. sneaking through the clock tower, he came across a machine set to go off in thirty minutes, containing a vial full of lizard dna. if the average person would so much as inhale even a speck of air when it went off, they’d immediately face the effects.

effects that their body wasn’t suited to take, effects that their body would reject until their untimely demise. the countdown ticked, 30… 29… 28… and right at the same time spider-man made his appearance, the lizard decided to give him a choice. the city of new york or you.

spider-man was a hero revered for his ability to think fast on his feet, for his ability to swing into action with the best possible solution.

but suguru was fucking scared.

he could hear his heart thumping in his ears, his breaths coming out in short little wisps. even one little second was too much to waste, a second that could’ve to save you. to save the city of new york. the machine doesn’t take long to deactivate, only needing the vial to be removed. green smoke evaporated into nothingness, the machine’s countdown coming to a halt.

he couldn’t afford to hesitate now. suguru tossed himself off the clocktower’s peak, diving straight towards where you were helplessly flailing around. your hands clawed at pure air, reaching out for a final salvation to no avail. his wrist flicked forward, a silken web extending out to your chest.

four strings extended from the original web, a hand reaching out towards your body. you flailed helplessly in mid air, hearing people gasp and scream right behind you. you couldn’t focus on them, couldn’t focus on anything but suguru. the air feels cold, too loud in your ears, your vision blurry. the ground seems so close, and yet so far away. like you’re falling in slow motion.

suguru was so close, he was nearly there. his fingertips grazed against your skin, reaching out to take hold of your hand. just as soon as he thought he’d assured a tight grip over your body, you slipped away from his fingers. the web connected to your body, a second too late.

the memories behind your eyelids weren’t ones about your academic achievements, about a party you skipped to get your pre-sat score higher. no, you got painful reminders of everything you didn’t get to do. that you didn’t get to go out on a date with suguru, that you didn’t get the chance to get to know him better, that you’d die and no one would know you as anything other than the girl with a tight stick up her ass. you’d never be able to do those things, either.

never get to feel the warmth of the sun against your face again, never get to feel the softness and tenderness from suguru’s touch. that one, you think, hurts the most.

CRACK.

he felt it before he heard it. felt the moment your heart went silent, the moment that spider-man failed you. still, he persisted. there must be something he could still do, anything at all.

he can’t afford to lose you, he just can’t.

his hands hooked underneath your legs when he got close enough, cradling you close to his chest. “hey,” his voice cracks, tears welling underneath his mask. “open your eyes, please. talk to me. say you hate me, say you love me, say anything.

just… come back to me. please.” guilt seeps in through the open wound with a vengeance, a reminder you wouldn’t have been in this predicament if he wasn’t so careless. if spider-man hadn’t allowed himself to feel a smidge of happiness, you’d still be alive.

you had many dreams in the world. and that’s all they would be, just dreams.

the world moves on without you, just the same as it had while you were in it. there’s quiet whispers in the halls, your seat in each class available almost out of respect? out of fear of a ghost? whatever the case may be—parties are still thrown, tests are still being held, and yet… suguru remains stagnant. haunted by the memory of you, your touch burning into his hand. he could’ve reached you, should’ve tried to catch you instead of throwing a web aimlessly.

you don’t leave his mind. every waking moment, he’s reminded of you in everything he does. how you’d be pissed off he’s letting his gpa fall to the gutter because he can’t bring himself to open up stupid canvas. how he’d never get to have anything with you that wasn’t banter or a night of sex. maybe it would’ve been better if he never approached you at all. if he didn’t ruin your life as spider-man.

internships he’d signed up for the sole purpose of getting on your last nerve are given to him on a silver platter, achievements that you’ve worked hard to earn given to him as if nothing happened in the first place. as if he could ever come close to being as deserving as you were. he hits decline on each and every single offer, not even bothering to give a polite email in response. the project’s only finished because it felt wrong to leave it as it was, and even then, suguru knows it’s not the best it could’ve been.

crime still runs rampant through the streets of new york—stolen bicycles, snatched purses, robberies gone awry, and yet, suguru doesn’t put on the suit. knows that he wouldn’t be able to hold his punches otherwise. and as much as he tries to keep moving forward, forcing himself to show up to classes he’d paid half a fortune for, you weren’t the only one who died that day.

—

WHERE IS SPIDER-MAN?!

article published by the daily bugle, 2026

spider-man. the man we seek out to solve most of our problems throughout the city whether it be the simplest of bank robberies or a giant lizard wrecking havoc amongst the city.

he has shown up time and time again in our time of need, in times where everything was once thought of as a lost cause. but one has to wonder, how good is this dependence?

the webbed vigilante has left us to our own devices, having gone missing for months now. we are completely helpless, doubting our finest officers that put their lives on the line to keep us safe. this sick hero’s been working on his own merit, on his own accord without any policing, to ‘protect’ the city.

Extensive amounts of scrawled notes had fluttered to the floor, formulas and highlighted sections lost to the carpet as he scrambled to yank his sweats down. You’d laughed, already shamelessly wet and ready for him.

“Jesus, Toru-“ you’d giggled as your spine hit the sheets with a soft whump! noise, “why didn’t you just study normally with me earlier-“

Between hasty kisses, Satoru had answered. “I can’t focus when you’re sat there, you know that,” he’d panted, rolling his hands over your tits, “you look too pretty when you’re concentrating, and I get-“

He thinks back to the last time you’d tried to organise a study date, cosily shoved into a booth in a local cafe with your laptops and notes while you drank coffee and plodded through an essay. Satoru had to pause halfway through raising an overly sweet pastry to his mouth, buttery flakes crumbling on his fingertips as he stared.

You just looked so… perfect. Completely focused on your essay, fingertips typing softly on your keyboard while your eyebrows furrowed in annoyed concentration. Your lip was caught between your teeth while you mumbled analysis on something he didn’t quite understand under your breath, and Satoru felt dizzy. And- unfortunately- sufficiently aroused enough to lock himself in the bathroom and panic.

His breath stuttered as he slicked himself up, the tip of his cock notching on your clit briefly before dipping back down. “I get hard when you go smart. Like, when you talk about- shit- stuff to me-“

You’d giggled. “You’re so sweet, Toru.” Glancing over at the time, it occurs to you the speed of decline in the time you have left with him. “You have five minutes, remember.”

He’d felt dizzy now just remembering how pretty you looked on your date, but when he had you under him he thought he was about to pass out.

So now, here you were- tangled up messily with your whimpering boyfriend as he fucks into you, shimmering slick pooling between your thighs and across the hair ghosting his base and navel, desperately trying to form words as he smothers you.

“Toru-“ you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair, “-slow down, baby, we have all night-“

“We don’t.” He exhales frustratedly, “we have- hnngh, fuck- like, two minutes-“

“One and a half, actually.” You say breathily, squealing when he stretches your thigh further open to lodge himself even deeper. “Just slow down, I’m not going anywhere!”

Satoru whines low in his throat, wrapping his arms around you tighter. “I know, but-“ he huffs out a breath stuck between a moan and a whimper, “-but I have to.”

Your legs half-heartedly lace together behind his back as he moves, pressing your lips to his and swallowing the sound of surprise he makes. “You really, really don’t-“

Ping!

Satoru looks like he wants to cry as he forces himself to stop moving inside you. “It’s the alarm.” He says miserably, dropping his face to your skin. “I have to do another twenty-five minutes.”

You groan and dig your nails into his back, smiling just a little when he moans and shudders. “No, you don’t. You already know everything,” you rationalise with him- well, about as rational as you can be when your trembling boyfriend is buried to the base inside you- “you’ll be fine.”

“But…” Satoru says, cheeks flushed and lips pouted as he tries to keep his pretty blue eyes firmly on your face instead of where you’re joined together below, “the exam is in a week, sweetheart.”

“Exactly.” You huff, clenching around him deliberately, “so is mine, and you don’t see me neglecting you.”

Excellent point, he thinks vaguely.

You can see him thinking about it in his head; his brows are furrowed behind his foggy lenses, and you think he looks adorable. Weighing up a list of things he needs to study versus how much he needs you right now, he considers it.

Obviously, as always with Satoru, you take priority.

The timer is still quietly humming in the background, even as your boyfriend gives in and starts fucking you properly, groaning in relief when he realises he can take his time now. He melts into your body as you eagerly return the favour, softly scratching your nails along his nape for comfort as Satoru melds your insides to the shape of his cock.

But then the timer just keeps pinging- incessantly, in fact, and a shallow wave of guilt washes over him like ice water. “I have to study.” He announces, pulling out immediately and staring at the floor instead of your incredulous face.

“Are you serious?” You say, “I’m completely naked, in your bed, you were just fucking me and now you’re studying?”

“I’m sorry!” He whines, pulling up his underwear and scrambling for a pen that still has ink. “I’m stressed!”

You don't bother making a cliche 'stress reliever girlfriend' joke. Instead, you groan indignantly and tug the sheets over yourself, loosely flopping onto your side to lazily watch the lean muscles in his back flex as he reaches for the plastic ruler strewn in the far corner of his desk.

“I’ll wait.” You sigh, gazing at him, “but not with enthusiasm.”

Satoru glances over at you then, hand stilling on the sheet of paper he's highlighting. You’re still naked, the cover slipping cosily across the curve of your body under the duvet to reveal just a hint of cleavage and the skin he so, so desperately wants to touch. Hair spills messily over your shoulder from where you didn’t bother fixing it after he pulled out, and he gulps at just how pretty you look.

“Are you studying or not?”

Satoru already knows he isn’t lasting the next twenty-five minutes.

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

a/n: have a lovelyyyy week!!

tags (open):

sigma-chi’s basement is four gaming chairs & a packet of condoms left open on the game box. suguru’s leaning back against the wall now, lashes low, breath heavy, palms on your hips when you step between his thighs.

& suddenly you’re shy—when it comes to geto you always are—because he’s got a gaze that’s thick like honey & spoils in the heat.

“you look tired,” you murmur, but your voice comes out too soft.

his thumb draws circles on your hip. “i was,” he hums. “not anymore, though.”

“i missed you.”

his lips quirk quick but you don’t miss it. his palm slides up your waist, brushes your nipple once before sliding away.

“yeah? was touching you the whole time, angel.”

his voice is warm. it always is when it comes to you. even now geto is limp boned & bleary-eyed, but his palm still climbs up to meet your cheek.

“could feel it, y’know,” his breath fans your lip. “you were so soaked. you’re always so soaked.”

you frown. “not true.”

maybe you shouldn’t lie to suguru. or maybe you should do it more often instead because his fingers crawl under your skirt to grope between your thighs. you squeeze involuntarily. he gives you a look & you part them immediately.

his finger circles your clit. you shiver. “suguru,”

“shhh,”

he’s in your ear now, voice mocking & humming through his chest. he tugs you closer so your tits smush against him. the friction shocks your nipples & they bud hard.

suguru slides your panties out of the way. & god you’re soaked, so soaked, & geto’s thumb rubbing eager against your clit has you hot & wet & sticky.

“so pretty,” he murmurs, love drunk & bleary-eyed. “you’re so pretty. do i tell you that enough ?”

you gasp, “yes—yes you do, sugu,”

“mm,” he’s got a finger dipping into your glossy folds, then two, then three—simply because he likes how your pussy squelches & sputters around him. so much. he likes it so much.

“i know i do,” he hums, “does satoru, though?”

you wish he wouldn’t bring up your boyfriend. not when his lip’s on your throat & he’s three fingers too deep.

he pumps in & out—slow, painfully slow, because he knows if you whine out for more the words will come out too loud & you know not to risk it. you know very well not to risk it.

so you fall limp against his shoulder. raise your hand to grope your own tits & moan into his neck while he plays with your sticky clit. geto suguru is mean & won’t give your perky nipples any attention. not unless you ask him to. not until you beg for it.

you won’t beg, you never do. at least, you try not to.

he’s knuckles deep when he kisses you. “so pretty,” he sighs into your lips. “my pretty, naughty girl.”

“suguru? you down there, man?”

you squeak. gojo’s voice blares loud & tone heavy. you can tell he’s drunk by how he slurs geto’s name, & you wonder how you missed the creak of sigma-chi’s basement door.

geto only smiles at you. “i’m here, toru.” he keeps a finger brushing at your clit, lips tugging as your thighs ache around him. “you need something ?”

satoru leans against the door. “nah, just looking for my girl, bro.” he clicks his tongue. “you seen pairin earlier?” he has a wistful tone. it makes your stomach hurt. “her tits looked nice. real nice.”

geto hums, pinches your nipple when your gaze flits towards the stairs. “you gonna try to score one with her?”

“i dunno,” gojo shrugs. “maybe. hopefully.”

“good luck.” geto hums.

“thanks, buddy—what are you even doing down there ?”

suguru brushes a thumb across your lip. he tugs on it as you hide in his neck & it bounces back up & he sighs. “just clearing out some stuff. go away, toru.”

“liar,” gojo licks his canines. “you’re fucking some bitch, aren’t you?”

suguru smiles at your pout. “mm, not a bitch,” he cups your face, strokes with his thumb. “but i’m about to. can you go away?”

“lemme have a turn with her next.”

“go to hell, satoru.”

gojo laughs as the door creaks shut. geto smiles as he kisses your cheek.

can you keep a secret ?

© HEARTKAJI do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.

The bag hardly has time to settle between movements. A quick, sharp jab comes first to mark distance, followed immediately by a cross that lands with a dull, solid thud, pushing the bag back on its chain. He steps in with it, transferring his weight cleanly through his hips, and before the swing can pull the bag away, he closes the gap, briefly bracing his forearm against it as his knee drives upward. The impact is tight and heavy, not wide, but carried through his entire body.

There’s no pause after. His foot comes down already shifting, pivoting for the next movement as his torso turns in sync. A short combination follows, tighter and with less time between strikes. The punches dig in rather than snap out, gloved knuckles driving into the dense surface in a rhythm that builds and breaks. Sweat starts to bead, catching the low light as it runs over muscles that flex with every movement. His breathing grows louder, each exhale landing with the strike, each inhale quick and controlled before the next one.

This time, the bag swings wider, with the chain rattling faintly overhead. Instead of stopping it, he allows it to sway, adjusting his steps to match its movement, reading the rhythm without effort. His guard briefly lifts, then his weight shifts again, his standing foot pivoting smoothly into the floor as his hips turn sharply, the motion driving cleanly from his core.

The kick comes fast. His leg rises and cuts through the air with full commitment and no restraint, striking mid-level with a heavy, resonant impact that sends the bag snapping back, the chain above jolting with a sharper metallic sound. His right hand moves forward with the rotation to keep his balance, his left staying in guard.

Sukuna doesn’t pause; as soon as his foot touches the ground, he’s already closing the distance before the bag can swing out of reach. His hands come up, shoulders rolling into the next set of strikes as if the kick never broke the flow. There’s no hesitation, no reset, just constant motion and pressure, maintained without strain. His body adapts instinctively to the moving target, adjusting angles and shortening or extending distance when needed.

Time feels different when he trains like this. There are no rounds, no clock to check, nothing external setting the pace. Everything comes from him, driven by a steady, demanding pressure that doesn’t ease, even as his muscles burn and his breath grows heavier. He only stops when he decides he’s had enough, and that point comes late.

Another combination lands, his gloves striking in rapid succession. He shifts again, his foot sliding against the mat to set the angle for the next move. The bag swings back toward him, and instead of retreating, he steps into it, bracing his arm briefly against it as his knee drives up again, higher and sharper, followed by a subtle adjustment of his stance as he shifts his weight back to create space.

From where you stand, your attention stays on him, even in the brief pauses between strikes. Every muscle is engaged, not just defined, but constantly tightening and releasing under his skin. The dim warehouse light catches the sweat gathering on his broad shoulders as they move. His muscular, veined arms hang loose for a split second before snapping tight again, while his thighs flex with heavy, unmistakable power each time he sets his weight for a kick.

The tattoos stand out no matter what he wears, but when he trains, the ink sharpens and stretches over the working muscle until it almost looks like it moves with him. Under the sweat, it’s darker, more defined, and nearly glowing against his skin. His pink hair’s soaked, clinging in uneven strands, some stuck lightly to his forehead, others pushed back. 

His jaw is clenched, his expression locked in focus. Sweat gathers along the line of it, tracing the black ink before dripping from his chin. It runs down the bridge of his nose, cutting across the horizontal mark, then past the extra eyes on his cheeks that seem to watch you even when his real ones stay fixed on the target.

You’ve seen him like this more times than you can count, with years of it burned into your memory in fragments of movement and sound. Still, it never becomes so familiar that it can be ignored, because there's always that moment where your body reacts before your mind does. 

It’s not just that he looks strong or even dangerous; it’s how everything comes together in motion that feels almost overwhelming up close, like you’re seeing him exactly as he is without anything held back.

Even now, your pulse falters low and uneven as you watch him strip himself down to nothing but motion and power, and it feels like a quiet betrayal that never learns, no matter how many nights he’s come home bruised, bloody, and beautiful in that same brutal way.

In moments like this, no part of him belongs to the outside world. There’s no trace of the man who talks to you, goes through daily routines, or exists anywhere beyond this space. Here, he sharpens, everything in him focused, every muscle working with intent, and each breath fueling the next move. 

You can’t look away as his body commits fully to each strike, force, and precision, carrying through with a quiet brutality that doesn’t need to be exaggerated to be felt.

You don’t intentionally choose to walk closer so much as your body does it for you, drawn in by that same helpless awe that takes over when he’s this far gone inside himself. That intense, magnetic rhythm of his training pulls you in, close enough to feel the space around him shift with each impact instead of watching from afar. You gravitate toward him, closing the distance without stopping to consider what that really means.

His focus is unwavering, locked into the movement, into the pattern his body follows without thought. You move closer anyway, captivated by the swinging bag, his instinctive adjustments, and relentless pace pull everything into a rhythm, even as you step into a space not meant for you.

The sound of his rough breathing and low grunts fills the air, matching the rhythm of his strikes, while the heavy impacts against the bag swallow everything that doesn’t fall into that same violent beat. So he doesn’t notice at first.

Sukuna shifts his weight, adjusting his stance for the next strike. You’re already too close when his hips turn, fully committing to a fierce combination: a quick jab to mark distance, a heavy left hook to draw an imaginary opponent into over-blocking on the left and opening a blind spot on the right. He pivots, hips snapping open as his entire body rotates into the middle kick with every kilogram of his two-meter frame driving through it.

His shin whips forward in a clean arc, carrying all the force he’s been putting into each movement since you walked in, full power, no hesitation, no restraint, the strike cutting through the air as it drives toward the scarred leather of the bag.

His peripheral suddenly catches something at the edge, where there shouldn't be anything, and his entire world fractures instantly. Instinct snaps in before conscious thought can catch up, before the kick can complete the way it was meant to.

Stopping it abruptly like that is violent in a different way.

Everything that has already committed locks all at once, with his core tightening hard enough to halt the movement, as his balance fights against the momentum that’s screaming to carry through and pulling him forward. Every thick band of muscle in his thigh and obliques strains and hurts against the impossible demand to stop. 

The kick doesn’t gradually slow or ease off; it shudders to a stop just centimeters from your face, so close that the displacement of air lifts strands of your hair and cools the skin it nearly crushes. The gap between impact and restraint is almost nonexistent, with his leg held there in tension that locks through his entire body.

The bag keeps swinging from the previous hit, chains clanging overhead, but he stays completely still, balanced precariously between completing the action and freezing. Sweat drips from his jaw as his chest rapidly heaves, the only movement left in him.

It had been full force. 

There’s no doubt about that—his hips remained turned into the strike, his shoulders aligned, and his hand, already moving to follow through, was perfectly positioned. Everything about him was locked into a motion that, if it had landed, would have gone through your skull.

Sukuna glares down at you with a mix of rage and terror, knowing exactly how close that had been. Had he been just half a second slower, the light could have gone out of your eyes right here on these mats, with him as the one to put it out. 

His breath comes heavy through flared nostrils, his jaw clenched tight, fury burning hard behind his eyes. His leg stays beside your head for another long second, muscles trembling with restraint, before he slowly lowers it to the ground, but the tension doesn’t ease.

The velcro tears through the silence as he rips off the gloves and drops them onto the mat, and one of his hands shoots up before you fully realize it’s moved. Rough, sweaty boxing wraps bite into your skin as he grabs your jaw, making your teeth click together. The grip instantly feels too tight to ignore, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough that you’re not sure if it’ll leave marks or not.

During his workouts or sparring, he rarely looks at you, always focused so intently on the bag or whoever’s in front of him, that the rest of the world barely exists. But in those rare moments when his focus breaks, and his eyes find you, they burn with a heat that makes your heart skip. Every single time it happens, it makes you feel like you’re the center of his world.

But now, this isn’t that. When he tilts your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze, there’s nothing in his eyes but raw, unfiltered rage.

“Are you fucking stupid?” 

The words rip out of him in a low, guttural snarl, his voice raw and rough from exertion, dragged through breath that hasn’t evened out yet. His chest continues to rise and fall harder than when he was working the bag because this is different. 

Fingers tremble slightly from the razor-thin edge he’s balancing on, digging in a little deeper, nails pressing crescent moons into the soft skin of your jaw, leaving no doubt about the tension in him. His grip hasn’t fully caught up to the fact that you're not someone he needs to control or overpower, and he struggles to unclench, unable to trust himself to loosen his hold even now.

He's aware of how close the margin was, how one mis-timed heartbeat could have turned this warehouse into a grave.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

You should be startled and step back, but you don’t. All you can see, all you can think about, is that the force was there and suddenly it wasn’t, how he stopped it, and how his body resisted every instinct to finish that motion, showing gut-wrenching control to freeze that much momentum a breath away from your face. The shudder that ran through his massive thigh as it slammed into restraint—it hits you hard and deep. 

So instead of fear or panic, your eyes widen, and your lips part softly as awe floods through you like heat. Your gaze traces the tense line of his jaw, the sweat still dripping from his cheekbone, the chest tattoos flexing with each furious breath, and you think, stupidly, that it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. 

Sukuna senses it. Hell, he sees it. The change in your expression and that look in your eyes hit him like a slap, and his grip tightens again in anger. His fingers press harder into your skin as his eyes narrow, a dark flicker passing through them in response to the way you’re staring at him.

“…You think that’s hot?”

There’s no teasing or humor in it. It comes out vicious, almost disgusted, because your reaction is wrong, and you’ve completely missed the point, which irritates him more than the mistake that led to it.

“Do you have any idea—”

He cuts himself off before the sentence finishes as the scene flashes behind his eyes: your head whipping back, the sickening crack of bone hitting shin, and your body crumpling lifeless onto the mats… if he had been even just a fraction of a second slower or unable to stop the momentum.

What bothers him isn’t only that you stepped into range, but that you’re staring at him like what you saw was exciting and that control matters more than the risk that came with it. That’s what breaks him hardest—not the near-miss or the danger, but that you looked at death brushing your cheek, felt a thrill, and found it impressive.

And the truth is, speed and control were only part of it. The rest was luck—a split-second catch at the corner of his eye, something that could just as easily not have happened at all. And if it hadn’t, his body would have finished what it started, and at that speed, there wouldn't have been anything left to control. The physics of a kill don't care about intentions.

Pure fucking luck.

He dismisses the thought with a blink, then refocuses on you, leaning in until his shadow swallows you whole.

“You would’ve dropped right here.” 

His voice becomes dangerously calm, too controlled for the fury boiling underneath, while his fingers still hold your jaw in place.

“Head snaps back. Lights out.” 

A single sharp breath fans across your face. You feel the pressure of his grip as he speaks, his thumb pressing against your skin, like he’s anchoring the words in place, making sure you don’t look away or dismiss them.

“And if it lands wrong?” 

There’s a pause, long enough for the image to fully form in your mind and the weight of it to sink in before he finishes. 

“Your brain hits bone. It swells. It crushes itself.” He swallows hard, his throat muscles tightening visibly. “And you don’t wake up. Ever.”

He doesn’t soften it or try to make it easier to hear, because that isn’t the point. He keeps his gaze locked on yours with an almost suffocating intensity, forcing the truth into you, whether you want it or not—how one careless step could have taken you from him forever.

“…and you’re standing there looking at me like it’s fucking impressive.”

The last word grinds out rough and bitter, scraping past clenched teeth as though saying it tastes like ash. He still hasn’t fully unwound since the moment he stopped the kick, like he hasn’t decided whether he’s more angry at you for stepping in or at himself for how close it came.

Sukuna lets go of your jaw sharply, fingers uncurling almost like the contact painfully scorches him, and he steps back immediately, creating space between you like it isn’t a choice but a necessity. 

His palm drags roughly across his mouth, wiping away sweat or maybe just the taste of fury still lingering on his tongue. The heel of it presses briefly against his lips before sliding down, his jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscles tighten beneath the lines of his tattoos.

“Move,” he rasps, knowing exactly what his body is still capable of right now. It isn’t loud, but it leaves no room for hesitation or interpretation. “Go sit down. Somewhere far away from me.”

Something in the way he says it makes it clear this isn’t the right moment to argue or ask questions, making your body respond before your mind can question it. Whatever’s still running through him hasn’t settled or been forced back into the usual calm, controlled version of your boyfriend. You understand, without needing to be spelled out, that staying close would be a mistake, so you step back, crossing the mat until you reach the wall. 

The moment you’re no longer in front of him, he picks up his gloves and pulls them on, and his attention snaps back to the bag. The adrenaline from the near-hit, still replaying behind his eyes in vivid, looping flashes, floods through him in waves. His shoulders twitch sharply, like something inside him is trying to tear its way out. 

You lower yourself onto the bench at the edge of the mat, still feeling where his grip was, the pressure refusing to fade, and just watch him.

Sukuna turns, adjusts his stance, and unleashes. 

The first strike lands with a deep, muffled thud that echoes through the warehouse, louder than anything before, and the bag jerks violently on its chain as his glove drives into it with no attempt to control the force behind it. He immediately follows with a right hook, left uppercut, and elbow smashing into the leather, then steps back and launches into a double backfist.

He pivots sharply on his lead foot, rotating his body and whipping his hand around, slamming the back of it into the bag with a harsh, bone-jarring crack. Then he spins in the opposite direction, returning to his stance, and, at the same time, lands a second backfist with the other hand, a heavy, snapping blow that halts the bag’s swing and sends a vibration rattling up the chain to the rafters.

From that point, each strike gets faster, heavier, uglier, and more brutal than the last. 

There’s still skill in it, precision buried under the movement, but it’s no longer what leads him. There’s no pacing, no setup, no careful distance reading—just impact after impact as his body drives forward, fighting to completely exhaust what’s running through him. The rhythm is gone, and the control that defined his earlier movements goes with it, leaving only pure fury and a frantic, heavy-handed mauling.

His guard is shifting not out of habit but because his body demands it. It’s still in that state where everything is reacting instead of choosing. His breathing turns ragged and animalistic, no longer controlled, as he exhales harsh, guttural snarls through clenched teeth. Each inhale is sharp and quick, barely enough before the next strike follows. 

He lunges in with a cross-hook-uppercut combination that doesn't just snap out; each strike is a full-body lurch, his shoulders bunching as he drives his gloves into the leather like he’s trying to punch a hole through to the other side. He doesn't reset. He pivots on a dime, his balance hitching as he throws a backfist that carries far too much momentum, the crack of the impact echoing like a gunshot. 

Before the bag can swing away, Sukuna’s already launching his massive frame into the air for a tornado kick with a heavy rotation, leading with one knee to pull his body upward before his other leg whips around like a scythe, his shin slamming into the bag with a sickening, thunderous thud. There’s no grace in the landing; he hits the mat hard, his feet scuffing as he immediately throws himself back into the fray.

The bag lurches back, and he lunges into a scissor kick. Left leg strikes low against the leather, but before it can even peel away, he’s already airborne. He uses that brief point of contact to spring upward and switch his legs mid-air, then his right shin snaps into the bag with the force of a closing trap, striking the opposite side high up. The impact is loud, and he nearly stumbles as he lands, his breath coming in broken snarls. 

He’s crowding the bag now, almost pressing his chest against it as he catches it in a clinch, holding it into a flurry of driving knees. Each strike is a jagged, desperate explosion, as Sukuna isn’t just hitting it anymore; he’s trying to punch straight through it.

At first, the sheer violence of it all steals your breath, his massive body moving with such unrestrained destruction, the ugly sounds he makes, and how the heavy bag recoils as if trying to escape him. Then you start to see the intentional brutality as he forces every bit of leftover adrenaline into the leather. 

But this isn’t just anger. This is the nasty, grinding reality of him clawing control back, forcing it, trying to bleed out a rage that’s too big for his body to contain so that when he finally turns toward you again, he won’t still be a live wire.

Sukuna never knew how to come down gently. Fighting is the only language he trusts to quiet the storm inside, and now he’s speaking it in harsh, ugly sentences—punching until his arms ache and kicking until his thigh muscles tremble from holding nothing back. 

That’s when you realise that what you saw before wasn’t just strength or skill, but control held tight, kept in check with effort, ready to break loose when it’s pushed too far.

The bag swings wide, but he doesn’t adjust smoothly this time; he forces it back, stepping in hard and closing the distance as his elbow slams into it to stop its motion, followed immediately by his knee driving upward. His foot hits the ground, and he pivots again, his hips turning into another kick that lands with a force reverberating through the chain above, metal clattering in protest.

Everything about him looks different, even though nothing has physically changed. The same broad shoulders, the same sweat-slicked skin, the same body built for power, but the sight of him no longer settles comfortably in your chest. There’s a new sharpness to him, an edge that isn’t contained anymore, that feels less like a workout and more like a frenzied dismantling. 

He’s overextending, his shoulders bunching with frantic, desperate energy that makes his movements look jagged and broken. Every strike is followed by a harsh, wet gasp for air that he rips from his lungs, his chest heaving so hard it looks painful. 

Then, he no longer resets his stance and starts firing kicks in rapid succession, over and over in a relentless, blurring cycle of his right shin slamming into the leather. The standing foot never lifts off the floor; it just grinds into the mat, his heel snapping out and whipping back just as quickly to set up the next kick.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

The sound of heavy thuds echoes like gunshots through the warehouse. He’s swinging his entire body into every strike, his hips snapping with force that looks like it’s trying to tear the bag from its chains, his right arm flying forward and back, and sweat sprays from his hair with each rotation.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

There’s no pace to it, only desperate, driving speed that ignores the way his left leg is beginning to tremble or how his lungs are scraping for air.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

Sometimes, he uses this exercise to check his progress by counting how many middle kicks he can do in half a minute. But this… this is carnage. He isn’t counting or timing himself. He’s just kicking until the room feels too thin to breathe and his muscles scream at him to stop, and then he kicks ten times harder.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

He doesn’t look controlled anymore; he looks feral, like a beast spilling rage through every pore because anything less would make him shake, twitch, and snap at the wrong thing—and the only wrong thing here is you.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

The rhythm becomes frantic, then ragged, slowly breaking apart as exhaustion finally creeps in. Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. His strikes lose a fraction of their vicious snap; his breathing deepens into something closer to gasps. Thud. Thud. Yet, he doesn’t stop until the twitching in his shoulders eases, the fire in his veins calms, and he can trust himself enough to even think about crossing the room again.

The last kick lands harder than the rest, sending the bag swinging wide before the motion cuts off completely. Thud. That one is a heavy, exhausted collision that leaves his leg hanging against the leather for two seconds before it drops back to the mat without any attempt to follow through, as his body has decided all at once that it’s done.

The warehouse is suddenly, violently quiet, filled only with the erratic, metallic clanging of the chains and the sound of him finally allowing himself to go still where he stands.

For a moment, he just breathes. It’s rough at first, uneven, dragging in and out of him like his lungs are still trying to keep up with a pace that’s already gone, his chest rising sharply, shoulders tight, every part of him still carrying the echo of the movement he’d been forcing through himself seconds ago. 

Then, slowly, he leans forward until his forehead presses hard against the worn leather of the heavy bag. His arms drape loosely around it, his crimson gloves hanging limp on the other side, wrists crossed, as he clings to it just to stay upright. 

Sukuna’s a wreck of heaving lungs and trembling muscles. Sweat pours off him in sheets, dripping from the soaked tips of his pink hair, his chin, and the tip of his nose, tracing paths down the black ink across his pecs and abs before dropping onto the mat beneath him.

He stays like that, eyes closed, for a long time—minutes when the only thing moving is the frantic rise and fall of his tattooed back as his breathing calms, painfully slowly.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he pushes off the bag and moves like his body is weighed down, crossing to the side to snatch a two-liter water bottle. He rips the cap off and tilts his head back, draining the entire thing in long, desperate gulps. Water spills from the corners of his mouth, runs down his chin, mixing with sweat as it follows the same paths down, but he doesn't seem to care. 

When he lowers it, he exhales slowly through his nose, more controlled now, and grabs a towel. He drags it over his face, down the back of his neck, then through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead and scrubbing roughly until strands stand up in wet disarray. He throws it over his shoulder and just… stands there, giving the last of his rage one last minute to leave the room as his chest finally slows to a steady, heavy rhythm. 

From the bench, you watch every second of it, your heart steadying in sync with his breathing, but not fully. When his eyes meet yours across the warehouse, hard and unnervingly steady, he doesn’t look quite like your boyfriend. And you know it because before he became yours, you knew him as the man who earns his living breaking people down to build them back up.

“Get up.”

It’s not a request. There’s no edge to it now, no sharpness like before, but no softness either. You rise without protest, and he simply points to the space in front of a different heavy bag that doesn’t hang over the wet mat.

Sukuna walks over, gesturing toward the bag with a tilt of his chin.

“Try.” His voice now echoes the coach from a few years ago, the one who just decided on a very difficult lesson. “Middle kick. Full force. Stop it right beside the bag. Freeze the momentum.” 

This isn’t new to you; none of it is—neither the distance, the mechanics, nor the motion itself. You’ve thrown this kick hundreds of times under his watch, drilled it into muscle memory until it felt natural, reliable, and something you trust without thinking. You understand the basics better than most, so surely, stopping a kick you initiate can’t be that hard.

You take a breath and decide to try it without the bag first, kicking into empty air to feel the physics of the movement. Pivot, rotate the hips, and the leg slices upward and to the side. You tense your muscles to try to stop the strike, but the momentum is a relentless force you can’t bargain with, and… instead of stopping cleanly, your leg overshoots, dragging your body around in a clumsy circle until your foot lands heavily on the mat.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath.

“Again. Slow it down,” he commands, his voice flat.

You try once more: you pivot, throw your leg into the air, and tighten your core earlier this time, but there’s nothing for your muscles to grab onto. The momentum of your leg becomes a weight pulling you along, whether you want it to or not, forcing you to follow the motion, your standing foot slipping as you’re pulled into another awkward spin. You end up facing the opposite wall, your leg dropping heavily to the mat with a dull, frustrating sound.

Exhaling sharply through your nose, you reset your stance. This isn’t a rookie mistake; you know better. It’s just... not enough.

After dozens of tries, the air in the gym feels thicker, and your own sweat begins to sting your eyes. Sukuna decided you should move to the bag, hoping that having an actual, physical target in front of you—a reason to stop—might help anchor the movement.

“Don’t rush it.” 

You focus intently on your standing foot, trying to mimic how his foot grinds into the mat every time, just like it did when he was doing the speed kicks earlier. 

He’s right behind you now, his body radiating heat from damp skin. You breathe heavily, commit to the rotation, hips swinging open with force, and throw all your power into stopping it. Your core tenses in a painful, cramping effort, but it’s not enough, and momentum wins. Instead of freezing inches from the leather, your leg snaps forward, striking the heavy bag with a dull, disappointing thwack. You didn’t stop it—the bag did.

“Again. Don't let the bag catch you.”

Standing just out of range, with his arms crossed over his chest, he watches the alignment of your hips with the coach’s unforgiving eye. You take a ragged breath, the exhaustion pressing down on you, and quickly snap your shin toward the leather, trying to lock your thigh and tense just before contact. You can’t. The kinetic energy continues unimpeded, passing through your knee and smashing against the bag. Smack.

“You’re leaning too much.” 

His tone holds no frustration or impatience, which somehow makes it worse, and you grit your teeth slightly before nodding once and stepping back into position. You understand what he means; you’ve heard it before in different contexts. But doing it here, at this speed, with this much force behind the movement, is something else entirely. It requires a physical contradiction: full commitment followed by an instant, complete restraint.

Your quads start to shake, and sweat beads on your brow make it hard to stay focused. Even as you try to snap the kick with everything you have left, biting the air to force the halt, your leg feels like a heavy weight flung from a catapult. There’s no stopping it. Your shin slams into the bag again, the impact vibrating through your bones and up to your hip. 

“Again.”

You exhale through your nose, more irritated than anything else—not at him, but at your own body. This is something that should be within reach, a matter of technique and strength, yet it refuses to settle into a functional movement. You reset once more, slower and more deliberate, but it doesn’t make a difference.

Again.

And again.

Each attempt feels close enough to seem possible, but never close enough to actually hold on to the control.

“I can’t,” you breathe out, the words tasting like copper and defeat. 

“One more.”

This time, you put every bit of remaining strength into the pivot. Your hips turn, your leg whips around, and you slow it down, more aware of the exact moment the motion needs to stop, tightening your core earlier, trying to anticipate it instead of chasing it.

For a split second, you think you have it—you feel the painful tension in your stomach as you try to control the movement. But the ‘stop’ is too violent for your body. Your standing ankle slightly twists under the force, and to keep from falling, you let the leg hit the bag with a loud thud, lacking the grace you saw from him earlier. 

Your leg drops for the last time in frustration, your shin throbbing from where the leather rubbed it for the hundredth time, and you’re left leaning against the bag, your breath uneven now, chest rising and falling faster, the failure feeling heavier than you expected it to.

You can’t do it. Physics is against you—your body simply doesn’t have the brakes or the instantaneous strength to stop that kind of force, even if that force is entirely your own.

As you glance at Sukuna, he’s already watching you, the remnants of his earlier exertion etched onto his tired face. His hand reaches out, gripping your chin to lift your face, making sure you’re looking at him instead of the floor, the bag, or anywhere else. There’s no rage left in his eyes—only a cold, sharp clarity that makes your pulse falter.

“…Now you get it?” he asks, his voice husky and low, carrying a gravelly rasp. His thumb presses against your jaw, not roughly like earlier, but firmly, insistently, to keep your focus locked.

“You’ve watched me for years and thought stopping that was easy?” He exhales sharply through his nose, not quite a laugh—more of a harsh, incredulous scoff at your expense. “It wasn’t. Every muscle in my body fought to keep you from becoming a stain on the mat.”

He leans in closer, and the strong, sharp smell of sweat, leather, and something uniquely his is almost overwhelming.

“That’s why you don’t pull shit like that again,” he says, his grip tightening for a brief, silent warning, his eyes narrowing, the crimson of his irises fading to slivers. “Because next time?”

He pauses, blinking a few times, as if trying to physically rid himself of the image of what might have happened. “I might not catch it in time.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice catching slightly on the dryness in your throat, your lungs tight with guilt. “I know. That was stupid.”

“Stupid doesn’t cover it, woman,” he scoffs and holds your gaze a moment longer, the intensity of his stare burning into you before shaking his head slightly.

“You’re mistaking what I did for control.” His jaw tightens completely, the muscles bunching under his skin in hard knots. “I saw you just in time. If I didn’t, that kick lands. That’s luck.”

Sukuna spits the word like it’s poison, like something he’s spent his life never needing or trusting. He doesn't look away, but his eyes darken with hatred that luck had any part in it at all.

“I won’t always be this lucky.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with him even though it would be infinitely easier to look down and hide.

“I know, Kuna… I shouldn’t have come that close,” you exhale shakily, your voice barely above a breath, but you keep looking into his eyes. “I didn’t think about the follow-through... I didn’t think,” you repeat, shaking your head, trying to convince yourself as much as him, your breath catching harder. “…I didn’t think about what would’ve happened to you if that landed.”

Sukuna’s grip on your jaw flinches, and that tiny tremor gives him away. The thought of hurting you, of him failing to stop, pierces through him before his expression hardens into complete, unyielding refusal.

“No.” The word comes out low, almost shutting you down completely. His grip subtly adjusts on your jaw. “Don’t twist it. It’s not about me.” He exhales quietly through his nose, controlled, but you can still sense the weight behind it, and he leans down so that both of your eyes are on the same level. “You could’ve died.”

“I’m sorry!” you breathe out. “Okay? I’m sorry!”

The silence that follows is heavy, and he looks at you as if he’s still seeing the version of you that died in his mind earlier. Suddenly, the rigid, demanding distance he kept between you for the last two hours snaps, completely and utterly.

His palm slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling roughly in your damp hair as he hooks his other arm around your waist and hauls you against him. It’s not a soft hug by any means; it’s a desperate, grounding collision. He buries his face in your hair, his skin still radiating a feverish heat, while his heart pounds a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

He needs this. He needs to feel the pulse in your throat against his fingers and the weight of your body in his arms to physically overwrite that one image. Because unleashing on the bag helped bleed out the fury at your stupidity and the terror of what he almost did, but it didn’t quiet the what-if. It didn’t stop the image of you lying broken on the mat from playing on a loop behind his eyes. Only this can stop it.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he mutters into your hair, his voice thick and raw. He holds you so tightly it’s hard to breathe, crushing you until the only sound in the gym is the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing against his. Finally, his large frame begins to lose the last, jagged pieces of that tension. “…Idiot.”

For a long time, he doesn’t move, and neither do you. The frantic heat radiating off his skin begins to even out, but the weight of him is still immense, like a solid, grounding pressure. You can feel the exact moment his muscles finally give up their fight; his forehead drops to rest heavily against yours, your noses brushing as he exhales a long, shuddering breath he’s been holding for hours.

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

You hadn’t realized it until he said it. Your legs feel like water, but it’s not just from failing to stop those kicks. It’s the delayed rush of adrenaline from watching him go completely berserk earlier. You’ve seen him in the cage, going feral with a smirk, always the one in control of the carnage. But today, there was no smirk or taunting. Today, your recklessness had broken the one thing he trusted most: his own complete sense of control. 

And you saw the hell he just put himself through to get it back. This wasn’t the typical, calculated violence of his matches; this was the single “almost” that was enough to turn his world upside down. He’d nearly torn his own muscles apart trying not to hurt you, physically shredding his own momentum to stop that kick, then beating himself into exhaustion against the bag just to make sure the rage didn’t spill into his hands.

He felt it the moment when his grip went too far, and the pressure crossed a line it shouldn’t have. That alone was enough to lock everything back into place instantly. He almost broke just to keep you safe.

You nod against his chest, and he shifts to hold you even tighter. You don’t need an apology for the lecture, and he isn’t offering one. But as he shields the back of your head with his hand, there’s a quiet acknowledgment of how much that what-if nearly destroyed him.

"I've got you," he murmurs, and it’s the only reassurance you need. "Just... stay still."

He stays exactly like that, anchored to you, using your steady heartbeat to finally drown out the image of the mat that the heavy bag couldn't erase.

notes: first things first—the tornado kick sukuna did while he went berserk is basically what gojo did to miguel, just without that mid-air pause.

now for the important part: if you ever meet someone who knows how to kick, let this be your lesson—don’t get close when they’re training or fighting. ever. i’m not saying a kick like that will kill you every time, but if it lands wrong? it absolutely can.

and sukuna’s reaction here also comes from that. if reader had turned their head and that kick landed on the neck or the back of the head… those are not places you walk away from easily.

if i even try to picture taking a full-force kick to the head from my coach, who’s around 184cm… yeah. i’d be lucky if i woke up.

and if you watch ufc, k1, or muay thai, you know a single clean high kick or even something like a backfist can knock someone out instantly. and those are trained fighters, in the same weight class, who expect it. now imagine that kind of force outside of that context.

yeah, it’s hot when someone knows martial arts. it looks clean, controlled, almost like art. i could watch my coach for hours, because he’s bulky af and still moves like a fawn when he’s training, fr.

but it’s also violent. it’s a sport where you can clinch someone, pull their head down, and drive your knee into their face over and over. (though in k1, which is my main combat sport, you’re only allowed one knee per clinch)

in professional fights you have rules, you have a referee, so someone is there to stop it. but even then, there are plenty of cases where fighters keep hitting someone after they’re already out because the ref wasn’t fast enough.

now imagine there isn’t one. imagine strikes to the back of the head, the spine, the neck—all the things that are banned in professional fights for a reason. and that’s basically the reality of sukuna’s matches.

When Sukuna walks into the kitchen, you’re still standing in the same spot, holding the note between your fingers as if it might burn you. He pauses immediately, sensing the change in the atmosphere, then leans against the fridge, and his massive body suddenly makes the kitchen feel small. His arms are crossed, his eyes fixed not on you, but on the piece of paper in your hand, like he’s waiting for it to spontaneously burst into flames.

He doesn’t ask where you found it, and, luckily for him, doesn’t try to insult your intelligence by pretending it could be anything else.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You let out a short breath, caught between disbelief and irritation, and lift the paper slightly. “No shit.”

Sukuna steps closer slowly, like approaching a problem he already understands but hasn’t decided how to handle yet. There’s no guilt in him, only awareness that something inevitable has finally happened. He tries to take it from your hands, but you pull it back just out of reach.

“It’s not for you.” His tone is flat and almost bored, as if that should be enough to end the conversation.

You shake your head, fold the paper once, then again just to keep your hands busy. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is,” he replies, and now there’s a slight, undeniable edge to his voice, something firmer beneath the calm. “That place isn’t a gym. It’s a hole where people go to get broken for the entertainment of losers who can’t throw a punch of their own. The reason you’re not a part of that world is because I keep it that way.”

There’s no softness or attempt to sugarcoat his words. Ironically, you’re sure he isn’t trying to scare you; he simply states what he knows to be an undeniable truth of his life.

"I thought you were a coach, Sukuna.” You have no idea how you manage it, but your voice is much steadier than the frantic, panicked pounding of your heart right now. “I thought you were just training people, not... not this.”

"I am a coach. This is just how I pay for the gym." He finally looks directly at you, his gaze heavy and unrelenting, stripping away any last sliver of pretense you might have held onto. "And it’s exactly why you’re staying home."

“I’m going.” The words leave your mouth before you can second-guess them.

Sukuna lets out a dark, humorless laugh. "You aren't going anywhere. You don't have the stomach for a place like that.”

“I’m going,” you repeat, louder this time, refusing to let the intimidation work.

His eyes narrow slightly, clearly assessing not just your stubbornness but how deep and serious you are about this. For a moment, he doesn’t answer at all, and the silence stretches long enough to seem intentional.

“No,” he says finally.

You swallow, and as the frustration rises sharper now, you shake your head again. “That’s not your decision to make.”

“It is when it comes to you,” his voice drops to make the words land harder. “You don’t belong there.”

“And you do?” you shoot back, louder than you intended, before you can stop yourself.

His expression doesn’t change, but the tension in the room rises, subtle and immediate.

“That’s exactly my point.”

You exhale through your nose, forcing your grip on the paper to loosen before it crumples completely. “If you don’t take me, I’ll go anyway.”

That gets his attention in a different way. It’s not anger or surprise, but a calm, menacing silence as he observes you intently, as if reassessing everything he thought this conversation would be.

“You don’t even know where that is.”

“I know enough, Sukuna.” You lift the paper, just enough, and step closer, refusing to let his size intimidate you now. “You can either take me with you and keep an eye on me, or I’ll get a cab and meet you there, having absolutely no idea what I’m walking into. But I’m absolutely not sitting here wondering what no gloves means for you.”

There’s another pause, and this one is shorter and more definitive. Sukuna reaches out, snatching the paper from your hand this time. When he looks at you again, there’s no softness left in his gaze.

“You really want to see it?”

“Yes.”

He studies your face, searching for any sign that you’ll back down, that this is just impulse or curiosity that’ll fade if he pushes hard enough. You meet his gaze, unwavering, and don't give him the satisfaction of a single flicker of doubt.

"Fine," he spits sharply before heading to the door to grab his gym bag. He pauses at the threshold, glancing back at you with a look that feels like a silent warning. “But you stay where I put you, don’t move unless I say so, and stay completely out of everyone’s goddamn way.”

You nod immediately, a mix of relief and something sharper tightening in your chest, though he doesn’t seem to notice or respond to it.

When he glances at you one final time, there’s something new in his eyes—something you’ve never noticed before, not during training, not in the apartment, and not in any of the fights you’ve watched from a safe distance. 

—

The moment you step inside, you know this isn’t anything like the places you’ve seen him train.

The air inside the warehouse feels heavy. It’s thick with a suffocating stench of stale copper, sweat, and the cheap liniment that irritates the throat with every breath. There are no bright stadium lights, polished surfaces, or choreographed entrances here. Instead, industrial fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly, jaundiced glow that blankets the crowd and casts deep, uneven shadows across the metal walls.

The floor is uneven in places, with patches of old tape marking boundaries that don’t seem to matter much to anyone. It’s loud, full of constant noise, overlapping voices, boisterous laughter, someone shouting odds behind you, and another voice responding with something you can’t quite hear.

The cage sits at the center. Its steel panels are scuffed and dented, and the mat inside bears dark stains that haven’t been fully cleaned, no matter how much someone might have tried.

The crowd isn’t what you expected. It isn’t just locals or drunk men looking for a fight. There are people here who don’t belong in a place like this, men in tailored coats that look too clean against the rusted metal, expensive watches catching the low light as they lean over the barricades with cash already in their hands. They don’t shout like the others, but their attention is just as sharp, just as focused on what’s happening inside the cage, like they’re watching something they paid to see up close.

Others are rougher, louder, smelling of tobacco, shoulders pressed together as they push for a better view, voices rising and falling with every hit. The two groups don’t clash the way you expect. They stand side by side, watching the same thing, drawn in by it in different ways. Once the first punch lands, whatever separates them outside this place stops mattering entirely.

They crowd around the cage in loose circles, standing shoulder to shoulder with drinks, their attention fixed forward with a restless hunger. There’s a frantic, ugly energy to their cheering that quickly tells you they aren’t here for the sport. They’re here for the carnage. 

It instinctively keeps you close to Sukuna, who doesn’t stop moving once you’re inside. He cuts through the space with confidence, making others step back without thinking. Some glance his way, recognition flickers briefly, but no one tries to stop him or speak to him. He doesn’t glance at you as he leads you around the edge of the crowd, heading deeper into a back area where the noise dulls slightly.

“Stay here,” he says, low enough that it doesn’t carry, finally turning toward you.

He gestures to a spot near a stack of crates and a makeshift bench, far enough from the cage that you’re not pressed into the crowd. You nod before you can second-guess it, then move closer to where he pointed, trying to make yourself as small as possible. You feel completely out of place, an outsider in a room full of predators.

The fight inside the cage is ending. You didn’t see most of it, but you’re close enough to hear the wet, sickening thud of a final blow from the cage, followed by a sound from the crowd that isn't a cheer—it’s a howl that vibrates in your teeth. As your eyes drift past Sukuna, you see one of the men inside fall hard.

A few people push forward, craning their necks for a better look, but you stay put, your fingers curling slightly against your palm as you try to piece together what you just saw from the fragments that made it through.

You watch, paralyzed, as the loser is hauled out without a medical team, a stretcher, or even a sign of professional concern. Two burly men grip him under the arms and haul him away, his head lolling back and his heels dragging lifelessly across the concrete. They don’t check his pulse; instead, they tug him behind a heavy black curtain in the corner, as if he’s a sack of grain. 

It doesn’t click. Your brain registers the movement, but it feels distant, like a scene from a movie your mind refuses to translate into the reality of the man seated two steps away from you.

You turn to look at Sukuna, desperate for a shred of the man who makes you coffee in the morning, but he isn't there. 

His head is slightly lowered, eyes fixed forward through the open space toward the cage, tracking the movements of a man with a dirty rag who is currently swiping at the fresh blood on the mat, simultaneously wrapping his knuckles. He didn't even look up when the other fighter was dragged past. 

When he finishes and pulls the last loop of fabric tight around his wrist, he sits for a moment, elbows resting loosely on his thighs, head tilted as if listening to something only he can hear. The surrounding noise ebbs and flows in irregular waves, the crowd shifting, voices rising and falling, yet none of it seems to affect him the way it does you.

“When I’m in there, you don’t move from this spot. Understood?” he asks sharply, not even glancing your way.

You only nod, as your throat is too tight to offer more than a muffled sound of agreement. He doesn’t wait for it anyway. He stands, and the wooden bench creaks under his weight. The movement is unhurried, almost lazy, as if he has all the time in the world, even though the energy in the warehouse says otherwise. He rolls his shoulders once, testing his back, then tilts his head side to side until his neck lets out a faint crack. 

Only then does he start walking. People part for him, creating a ripple through the crowd that feels instinctive rather than polite. Some recognize him; their expressions shift and their voices change, with a few sharper calls cutting through the noise as his name is passed around.

“Ryomen—” “—that’s him—” “—shit, he’s up next—”

He doesn’t react to any of it, pausing at the edge of the cage to roll his wrists once more, flexing his fingers as if reminding his hands what they’re for.

You step back, pressing against the stack of crates behind you, the wood rough and uneven under your palm as you steady yourself. From here, the view isn’t clean; people still block parts of the cage, shoulders and backs shifting in and out of your line of sight as they lean forward, drawn in by the rising energy. Something in your chest tightens as you realize that if you stay where he put you, you’ll miss too much, so you move, but wisely, not toward him. You move up.

The crates are stacked just high enough to give you an angle if you climb them, their edges worn smooth in places, splintered in others. You test your weight once, then pull yourself up carefully, your shoes scraping lightly against the wood as you settle on top, balancing just enough to see over the shifting heads in front of you. 

From here, the view opens, and you look at the cage just in time to see Sukuna duck through the open gate without hesitation. The metal rattles faintly behind him as the gate shuts, but the sound is almost immediately swallowed by the crowd pressing closer.

Inside, he looks… different, not physically but in demeanor—more focused, with every part of him signaling purpose rather than ease. His posture shifts the moment his feet hit the mat, settling onto the balls of his feet, knees loose, shoulders relaxed but ready. 

Right away, his gaze locks onto the man across from him as if the rest of the world has already vanished.

The opponent isn’t small, and he’s definitely not someone to underestimate. He has broad shoulders, a thick torso, and muscular arms. His stance is grounded and steady, showing he knows exactly what he’s doing. He paces once around the cage’s edge, testing his footing, his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed on Sukuna with a focus that feels anything but careless.

For a second, your stomach tightens when you watch Ishida, but then Sukuna smiles. It’s not wide or exaggerated, just a slow pull at the corner of his mouth, quiet and almost amused, like he’s already seen how this ends and finds it mildly entertaining.

Suddenly, the fight begins. There’s no signal you catch or a clear starting point; just both of them move at the same time.

Sukuna circles first, light on his feet despite his size, shoulders barely moving, hands held dangerously low. He’s inviting disaster. The other man mirrors him, cautious, trying to read him the same way, but there’s already a slight difference in the rhythm, as if they’re not quite playing the same game.

Ishida lunges first, throwing a kick to test the waters, aiming for Sukuna’s lead thigh. You expect a flinch, a check, something—but Sukuna pivots, rotating his hips and letting the kick whistle harmlessly past. The momentum leaves Ishida overextended, and Sukuna’s right hand flashes out, punishing the opponent for being slow.

Snap.

A jab snaps out, tapping against the guard with a dull thud before retracting just as quickly. It’s not meant to do damage but to set the distance, and the second jab follows almost immediately, slipping past the guard to brush against the side of Ishida’s face.

Before Ishida can even react, the cross lands. It’s heavier, turning the man’s head slightly as Sukuna steps in with it, shifting his weight smoothly through his hips to close the gap. A short hook follows, thudding against the guard, then he dips just enough to avoid the counter, the punch slicing through the air where his head had been a second earlier.

A low kick snaps out, his shin cracking against the outside of the opponent’s thigh, followed by another jab, then a feint that makes the man flinch just enough for Sukuna to step in again, crowding him and forcing him back.

The next cross from Sukuna connects flush with Ishida’s nose, and the sound is sharp, like a dry branch snapping under a boot. Blood sprays instantly, and a fine mist catches the flickering light from the overhead strips before hitting the mat. Sukuna doesn’t back off. 

Ishida swings a wild, looping overhand right, pouring every ounce of his weight into it. Sukuna ducks, and the wind from the wrapped hand ruffles his hair, then counters with a three-punch combination.

Thud-thud-crack.

A left hook to the liver makes Ishida’s breath hitch in a ragged, wet wheeze. A straight right to the solar plexus follows. Then a rising uppercut snaps Ishida’s head back so violently that his teeth clack together over the roar of the crowd.

Sukuna’s smirking now, a jagged, terrifying baring of teeth, savoring the copper scent in the air. He isn’t just fighting; he’s dissecting.

“That’s all you got?” His deep, mocking voice cuts through the noise.

He drops his hands entirely, standing defenseless before a man who, by now, wants to kill him. It’s a taunt so blatant it makes your stomach flip as Ishida rushes in again, unleashing a flurry of desperate hooks. Sukuna slips them all. Left, right, duck, pivot. He’s dancing on the edge of a knife, his eyes locked on Ishida’s chest, reading every muscle before the man even knows he’s about to swing.

Sukuna catches Ishida in a clinch, holding the back of his head with a Thai plum, then drives a knee directly into his ribs, causing Ishida’s eyes to widen and his face to turn pale as the air is forced out of him in a pained whistle.

Right after, he shoves Ishida off as if he’s bored with the contact. The man stumbles back against the chain-link, which rattles and groans under his weight. The crowd roars and screams, slapping their hands against the cage, but Sukuna doesn’t even seem to notice. His focus is fixed on the blood dripping from Ishida’s shattered nose and spreading across his chest.

You watch it happen in real time, still tense as your mind catches up to what you’re seeing. He’s not struggling. He’s not even close. 

There’s control in every movement, with a rhythm that belongs entirely to him. He sets it, breaks it, then resets it at will. His strikes are sharp and controlled, seeming almost intentional in their restraint, as if he’s purposefully holding back from ending it. His breathing stays steady, matching each exhale with the impact of his punches. His shoulders and his stance are relaxed, making everything look easier than it is.

He’s clearly enjoying it. You can tell by the way his mouth tilts after a clean hit and by how he steps back to give the other man a chance instead of attacking again. He ducks under another swing, pivots quickly, drives another knee into the man’s stomach, folding him forward, then pushes him back, resetting the distance.

Sukuna moves in for the finish, or what looks like it. He’s faster now, the adrenaline finally catching up to his arrogance. He lands a stinging roundhouse kick to Ishida’s ribs, follows up with another kick, then a spinning backfist that hits Ishida in the temple, sending sweat spraying into the front row.

Ishida’s legs are like jelly, wobbling as he tries to find his balance. Sukuna could end it with a straight shot to the chin, which would put Ishida out cold, but he chooses not to. He backs off, sharply and mockingly gesturing for Ishida to come closer with a flick of his wrist. He wants more—he wants to feel the struggle.

The crowd reacts to it, louder now, feeding off his control, clean hits, and effortless movement throughout the fight, never seeming truly threatened. And slowly, without realizing it, you start to react with them, hearing yourself scream his name, your voice lost in the warehouse’s guttural chant.

The fear that was choking you ten minutes ago has been drowned out by a soaring, dangerous pride. Every second that passes without him taking a clean hit makes your shoulders relax and your breathing even out as the tension in your chest unwinds. 

Sukuna drops into a deep stance, catches Ishida’s desperate, slow kick, holding the man’s ankle for a heartbeat just to look him in the eyes and laugh in a raspy sound that cuts through the noise. Then he sweeps Ishida’s standing leg out from under him with a brutal, low kick.

The man hits the mat with a sound that makes you jolt. He’s flat on his back, gasping, his face a blurred mess of red and purple. Sukuna stands over him, chest heaving, glistening with sweat and the fine spray of his opponent’s blood.

Stepping back, Sukuna gives Ishida room to crawl back up. He’s enjoying the performance and the fact that everyone is watching him dismantle another human being as easily as a man peels fruit.

And you’re smiling, breathless, believing he’s won, that the fight is over, and the rest is just a formality.

For a moment, it doesn’t seem dangerous. It feels like watching something he was made for. Standing there, balanced on the crates, with your eyes fixed on him as he moves, it’s easy to believe that nothing inside that cage can touch him.

And that’s when Ishida, driven by a primal, ugly desperation, lunges from the floor. He doesn’t go for a strike. He dives straight for Sukuna’s lead leg, his shoulder slamming into it just below the knee with a sickening thunk you feel more than hear.

The impact breaks the rhythm Sukuna’d been holding so effortlessly. Caught in the middle of an arrogant exhale, he has his base swept out from under him. For a fraction of a second, the shift of weight is subtle, his foot tries to adjust and fails, and then it isn’t subtle at all.

Sukuna’s leg gives way under him, and his body follows; his weight is pulled down and forward as Ishida clings to him, dragging him to the mat. A bone-shaking thud rattles your own teeth as his back hits the canvas. The air is forced from his lungs, which you can’t hear but somehow still understand, and your chest seizes up instantly.

Then the world goes mute. One second, the noise is there, loud and constant, pressing in on you from all sides. The next, it’s gone, leaving a hollow, suffocating silence that doesn’t belong in a place like this.

It’s as if a heavy curtain has been dropped over your head, smothering the crowd’s guttural roars and the frantic pounding of hands against the chain-link. You see the men in front of you screaming, their mouths stretched wide, spit flying from their lips, but you hear nothing. The only sound left in the universe is the frantic thump of your own heart, hammering against your ribs. 

All you see is him flat on his back.

Ishida swings his leg over, straddling Sukuna’s waist, planting his weight hard enough to keep Sukuna pinned. His hands come up just as fast, fists clenched, and then they come down.

One. Ishida’s knuckles connect with the side of Sukuna’s face, turning his head slightly against the mat.

Two. A heavy, downward elbow intended to cave in his orbital bone.

You don’t breathe. You’ve forgotten how.

Three. This one is messier, glancing off as Sukuna’s head shifts.

But the fourth lands clean again, and the fifth, and the sixth, each one coming faster than the last as Ishida finds a rhythm of his own, frantic and ugly, with nothing to do with technique anymore.

His head snaps back. Again. And again. Each impact sends a jolt through his body. His shoulders press into the mat. His arms aren’t where they should be, not up, not blocking, not—

Not moving. For a second, he doesn’t move. 

It doesn’t feel like a second. It feels like something tearing open inside your chest, slow, wide, and impossible to stop, your vision narrowing until the edges blur and darken. Everything outside the cage fades away, leaving only the shape of him on the ground and the man on top of him, hitting him, and hitting him, and hitting him.

You don’t hear the punches; you see them. Ishida’s shoulders tense and relax with each strike, elbows bend and extend, and fists rise and fall in a relentless, mechanical rhythm that never slows, hesitates, or stops, caring about nothing but continuing. Sukuna’s head turns from the force of it, the line of his jaw shifting, his mouth parting slightly as a strike lands too clean and too direct.

There’s blood. One moment, his skin is just flushed and damp with sweat, and the next, red streaks across his cheek, catching on Ishida’s knuckles, marking each punch with something that twists your stomach.

Your knees tremble so much you nearly fall off the crate, and you have no idea how you didn’t. Your vision is a suffocating tunnel, and everything outside that small radius of violence blurs into a dull, insignificant streak. You watch the man who kisses you like the world beyond you doesn’t exist, have his face systematically torn apart.

The man acting as a referee today, who’s, in your head, supposed to be the line between sport and murder, just… stands there. He leans forward, resting his hands on his knees, eyes wide, watching each impact, but he doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t check if Sukuna is conscious or pull Ishida away; he waits for the finish, for the moment when Sukuna’s eyes roll back and stay that way.

If he doesn’t get up—

If he doesn’t find a way out of this, the men who dragged the last loser out by his armpits will come for him next. A cold, paralyzing dread grips you, turning your blood to slush, as you realize that if Ishida kills him here, the room will cheer for the winner.

Get up.

You try to scream his name, but your throat is a desert, your vocal cords seized by a terror so absolute it has physical weight. You feel a strange, hot dampness trailing down your cheeks, dripping off your chin and onto your shirt, though you don’t even realize you’re crying.

Sukuna’s hands are raised, but they look heavy and sluggish. His eyes, usually so sharp and mocking, go glazed for a heartbeat as another punch hits his jaw, snapping his head to the side. You see blood pooling in his ear, a dark, shimmering lake on the gray mat.

Get up, Sukuna.

Another punch lands. His head snaps to the side, the motion sharp enough to make your stomach lurch violently. Your entire body reacts before your mind can catch up, a flinch that travels through you like an electric shock.

And for a moment that stretches so far it feels like it might never end, you believe it. You absolutely hate it, but you believe he won’t, and that this is it. This is how it ends, right there on that mat, with no one coming to stop it.

Please—get up!

One second. Two. Three. Four. It feels like an hour. It feels like a lifetime. You watch him die in five seconds of stretched-out, agonizing detail. You see Ishida’s muscles bunch in his back as he prepares for the next strike, sweat dripping off his nose and mixing with the blood on Sukuna’s chest. You see the crowd’s indifference.

Ishida keeps hitting him, and his rhythm doesn’t break or falter. His fists keep rising and falling in that same frantic cycle, shoulders burning, breath already ragged as he pours everything into the opening he believes he’s found. The punches still land, snapping Sukuna’s head against the mat and striking bone and flesh with enough force to end it.

Then, through the suffocating silence of your own terror, a sound breaks through. It’s a subtle, rough, almost inaudible exhale beneath the noise of the crowd returning to life around you, but it’s there. It’s controlled, measured, as if settling back into place. 

As the next strike lands, Sukuna’s head turns with it, but now there’s a hint of resistance, a slight tightening in his jaw, a shift in the line of his neck that wasn’t there a moment ago. The impact no longer completely overcomes him; he’s meeting it.

Ishida doesn’t notice at first. He’s too far into it, convinced he’s broken through something irreversible. His fist comes down again, heavier and more desperate to stay in control, to not give him a chance to—

Sukuna laughs.

It’s wrong—low, raspy, and ugly sound of something wet and jagged. It starts as a vibration in his chest, a dark, bubbling sound that sprays blood from his mouth onto Ishida’s face. It doesn’t fit with anything happening in front of you, making your chest tighten for a completely different reason than before. 

The laugh of a masochist who has finally found the struggle he craved. He tastes copper in his mouth, feels the throb of his swollen orbital bone, and loves it.

Sukuna’s eyes, which had looked glazed and distant just a second ago, suddenly snap into focus. Even from where you are, it’s clear as day that they’re dark and brimming with sudden, violent clarity.

Ishida sees it too. He hesitates, his fist stalling for a heartbeat that breaks his rhythm. That moment is all Sukuna needs. His hand moves. It doesn’t snap up as quickly as it did earlier in the fight, but the fingers close around Ishida’s wrist mid-swing, halting the punch before it lands. 

The motion stutters as the force behind it breaks apart under Sukuna’s grip before it can fully land. Ishida reacts instinctively, trying to pull back and free his arm, but the grip is firm and unyielding. His other hand comes up immediately to compensate and continue the assault—only to be caught as well.

Both of Ishida’s wrists are forced up and out of clean striking range, caught and redirected above Sukuna’s chest. For a second, the frantic pounding breaks apart, losing its rhythm. Ishida leans forward, trying to drive his weight down harder to break free, his muscles visibly straining as he attempts to overpower Sukuna, but the position has already shifted in a way he cannot correct.

Blood is smeared across Sukuna’s cheek and mouth, catching in his tattoos, but he doesn’t seem strained. If anything, his expression has sharpened, and that tight, amused curve at his mouth has settled into a colder look.

“Thought that was it?” he rasps, and the sound of his voice makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

A surge of anger and effort floods Ishida as he tries to drive forward again, to reassert control and not lose the position he fought so hard to secure. That’s when Sukuna moves. He doesn’t just push Ishida off; he bucks his hips with raw force, sending the other man flying backward. Ishida hits the mat and scrambles to regain his footing.

Without wiping the blood from his face, Sukuna rises slowly. He lets it drip, staining his collarbone. His chest heaves in a steady rhythm, and when he rolls his shoulders, the joints pop like dry wood snapping.

"My turn.”

As he closes the distance quickly, Ishida throws a desperate right jab, but Sukuna doesn’t slip it—he parries with his left hand, knocking it aside and immediately counters with a horizontal elbow that catches Ishida on the bridge of his nose.

Ishida staggers, pulling his guard closer to his face, but Sukuna doesn’t give him a second to breathe. He steps in deep, clinching the other man’s head, driving a knee into Ishida’s midsection—thud—then another—thud—until Ishida is doubled over, wheezing for air that won’t come.

Sukuna releases him, only to land a spinning back kick that sends Ishida careening into the chain-link. The cage groans as the metal wire stretches and rattles under the impact. Sukuna follows him there, pinning him against the fence. He begins raining down punches, but they aren’t like Ishida’s blunt hammers; they’re far more surgical, each strike aimed at a soft spot, a nerve, or a fresh cut.

Left. Right. Hook. Uppercut.

Ishida tries to cover, raising his arms in a delayed, uncoordinated attempt to block, but the strikes don’t stop. Sukuna adjusts his angle, yanking one of Ishida’s arms out of position with a sharp tug before driving his fist into the opening it creates.

The wet, rhythmic slapping of Sukuna’s knuckles against Ishida’s face becomes the only cadence in the room. You see Ishida’s head bouncing off the metal mesh, with arcs of blood spraying across the wire.

There’s no smirk on Sukuna’s face anymore; his expression is a cold, concentrated malice. He’s enjoying how the man breaks under his hands, savoring the room’s vibration and the crowd’s bloodlust, now a hushed, terrified awe. He watches Ishida’s legs shake and hands rise in a desperate, trembling guard. The man’s barely conscious, his breathing a wet, rattling whistle. 

Sukuna chambers his lead leg, snapping his hip outward as he fakes a low kick at Ishida’s already bruised thigh. Ishida, reacting on pure survival instinct, drops his guard to block the phantom impact and to protect his legs. But Sukuna’s leg doesn’t follow through with the low kick. Mid-air, he sharply rolls his hip over, bending his leg the other way and redirecting the momentum upward as he switches to a high roundhouse kick.

CRACK.

The sound of his shin connecting with the side of Ishida’s skull echoes through the warehouse. The man’s head snaps to the side with a whiplash force that looks like it should have severed his spine. His eyes go vacant instantly, the light behind them snuffed out before his body even knows the fight is over.

Ishida crumples, his limbs folding beneath him into a heap of dead weight at the base of the chain-link. The cage groans one last time as his shoulder slumps against the wire, then everything goes still.

The moment the fight ends, the energy in the warehouse spikes, loud and feral, pressing in from all sides. Voices crash over one another, hands slam against the cage, and bodies surge forward to get a better look at what’s left inside.

Sukuna barely reacts to any of it. He steps back from Ishida’s limp body, his chest rising and falling more quickly as adrenaline still courses through him. Blood streaks across his face, catching at the corner of his mouth where his lip split earlier. His chest and knuckles are slick with it, though not all of it is his. He rolls his shoulders once, as if testing them, flexes his fingers, and for a second, his gaze drifts over the cage and the heap of meat that used to be a man.

The cage door screeches open, and he ducks out without waiting for anyone to clear the way, pushing past the metal frame as it rattles behind him. His body is still keyed up, every nerve lit, the fight not yet fully finished inside him. The world beyond the cage feels half a step slower than it should, as if it hasn’t caught up to him. 

People move around him, some clapping him on the shoulder as he passes, others stepping aside quickly, their eyes lingering on the blood across his skin. He doesn’t stop, cutting through the crowd, heading straight back to where he left you.

At first, he doesn’t notice anything wrong. You’re where he put you, perched on those crates, exactly in his line of sight, where you were supposed to be. That registers first, quick and automatic, a confirmation that at least one thing hasn’t changed. However, his gaze lingers for a moment, and something in that stillness feels off. You haven’t moved or climbed down. You aren’t reacting to the noise around you, leaning forward with the crowd, or moving with the energy like everyone else—you’re just… still.

Without even realizing it, he slows, his steps losing some of their earlier drive as his gaze sharpens and the edges of the world come back into focus around that one point. He takes in the details, one by one, each hitting harder than the last. 

Your hands grip the wood as if you need it to keep you upright; the tension in your shoulders hasn’t eased even after the fight is over; the color has drained so completely from your face that you look like a ghost under the flickering industrial lights, your skin a sickly porcelain gray.

And then your eyes—blown wide, locked on him, but not really seeing him, with the wet tracks of tears on your cheeks.

He stops. It isn’t dramatic enough to draw attention, just a break in motion that feels jarring only to him, like something inside him stutters and then realigns all at once. The noise of the warehouse is still there, loud and relentless, but it no longer fills the space the same way. It pulls back, giving him a small space to think, to register what he’s looking at without the fight still hanging over everything.

You don’t look disgusted or overwhelmed by what he did to Ishida. You look like you've just watched him not get back up. The realization hits instantly and clearly, piercing through whatever remains of that lingering high. There’s no need for him to question it. He’s aware of how long he was down, how it looks like from the outside, and how those seconds feel when you’re not the one on the mat.

You thought he was gone.

The “I told you so” he had ready in his mind dies a violent death. His chest tightens, and the way he looks at you changes. His focus narrows, becoming more intense and grounded. He steps forward again, this time faster, closing the gap. 

When he reaches you, he doesn’t pause to consider how he looks, the blood or the sweat, or the fact that he’s still breathing as if he just walked out of something most people don’t come back from.

His hands are on you immediately. One comes up to your jaw, fingers closing around it just enough to tilt your face toward him, firm and insistent, forcing your gaze to stop drifting past him. The other rests against your side, anchoring you before you even realize you’ve shifted, your balance less solid than you thought.

“Hey.” His voice is raspy and guttural, stripped of warmth and still carrying that rough edge from the fight. “Look at me.”

It’s a command, the same tone he uses when he expects to be obeyed without question. For a second, it cuts through the haze, sharpening your focus. He waits, his thumbs pressing into the line of your jaw, until your eyes finally meet his. 

Up close, he looks worse, the damage clearer now that there’s no distance to soften it. Blood is drying on his skin, the swelling already starting under one eye, his lip split open enough that every breath pulls at it.

It all makes you sway slightly, your knees almost buckling for a moment. It’s something you’d normally correct easily, but now, it’s enough to concern him. His grip reflexively tightens, and a hand wraps around your waist as he pulls you down from the crates before you lose your balance completely. Suddenly, you’re pressed against him, and your feet hit the ground unevenly as he steadies you quickly, giving you no chance to protest or pull away.

One arm wraps around you, drawing you close, your chest pressed against his, your weight entirely dependent on his frame. His other hand goes to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he presses your face into the hollow of his neck, shielding you from the sight of the cage.

"I'm right here," he grunts against your temple, fighting the adrenaline to sound steady, but it still comes out rough and jagged. It’s less an attempt to soothe than a way for him to make sure it registers, whether you want it or not.

You’re shaking so hard that he can feel your heart hammering against his ribs, so he holds you tighter, and his grip is almost bruising, as if he could crush the terror out of you.

"I'm okay. You hear me? I’m okay."

For a long moment, he doesn’t let you go. His grip doesn’t loosen or ease, even as his breathing starts to settle and the last of that sharp edge in him fades into something more controlled. He stays like that long enough to feel your weight stabilize, your balance returning in small increments, and your breathing evening out just enough that you’re no longer on the verge of dropping into his arms. Then he finally steps into his boots, grabs his bag with his free hand, and moves. 

The crowd shifts around him, bodies pressing in, voices still loud and overlapping, some calling his name, others reaching out as he passes, drawn to the aftermath still etched across his skin. His arm stays firm around you, practically carrying you as he walks toward the exit. 

Someone steps into his path. It happens fast, just a figure cutting in from the side, close enough that Sukuna has to adjust his stride by half a step, angling his body slightly to keep you behind him, away from whoever it is. The man says something, but the words are lost in the noise. His hand is already coming up, with a thick wad of cash clutched tight between his fingers.

The money is shoved into Sukuna’s hand mid-step, and his hand closes around it on reflex, born of repetition rather than thought. There’s no pause to count it, glance down to check, or even acknowledge it beyond the movement itself. His grip tightens to keep it from slipping, and then his arm drops again, the cash already forgotten.

The man says something else, louder this time, trying to hold him there for a second longer, but Sukuna's already past him, his focus never leaving you. By the time the noise behind you swallows the exchange, it’s as if it never happened at all.

The air outside is colder and cleaner, cutting through the lingering heat and the smell that clung to your skin inside. It helps, but not enough to fully shake what’s sitting heavy in your chest. He notices that too, the way you inhale a little too sharply, the way your body doesn’t relax the way it should once you’re out of that space.

The walk to the car is shorter than it feels. Your steps are uneven at first, then you find a rhythm under the direction of his grip, which never loosens enough for you to stumble without him catching you.

He fumbles with the keys, his swollen knuckles making the motion clumsy, then shoves the passenger door open. He almost lifts you into the seat, bracing his other hand briefly against the frame to make sure you’re seated properly. His eyes scan your face once more, checking your pupils and breathing, making sure the paleness is starting to recede.

A second later, he’s on the other side, pulling a hoodie and sweats from his bag and quickly putting them on before sliding into the driver’s seat with way less care for himself. The door slams shut behind him as he leans back, quickly unwrapping the bloody straps from his hands and dropping them into the duffel.

The silence inside the car is heavy, filled with the echo of everything that just happened, the steady sound of his breathing as it finally slows, and the quiet, undeniable presence of him right beside you. Alive and close enough that you no longer have to question it.

Sukuna glances at you once more in the dim light of the dashboard, taking in how you still haven’t fully come down, how your shoulders remain tense, your hands curled slightly in your lap. Your hands still shake faintly, the remnants of that earlier panic refusing to fade. There’s blood all over your jaw and collar where he grabbed you, and even more on your hoodie. His jaw tightens briefly.

It hits him that he was right in the worst possible way: he told you that you weren’t built for this place, but he never realized that the reason was that you loved him too much to watch him almost die.

“You’re fine,” he says at last, his voice low, rough but steadier than before.

Then he turns the key and reaches over, his hand finding yours. His grip is firm as he laces his fingers through yours, grounding you again in a different way, less forceful now but just as certain.

He doesn’t let go until you’re at your place.

notes: the kick sukuna used to knock out ishida is called a question mark kick. you can see here how easily it is to ko someone with it (first kick in the video) and here my fav coach in the internet, trevor hannant, is doing it from a better angle. anddddd that's my favourite kick <3

also, i really wanted to how that, in the end, sukuna is a mess—he walks out of that warehouse in nothing but his shorts and boots because his brain is still in the cage. normally, he’d probably sit there on the bench for ten minutes just to stop the room from spinning, but the moment he realizes how badly he just traumatized his girl, that all goes out the window.

the part where he waits to put on his hoodie/sweats only once he's at the car happens exactly because of that. he’s crashing hard and his knuckles are killing him, but he’s basically in emergency mode because of reader. he doesn't even take a second for himself; he just wants her out of there, in the seat, with the door shut. he’s still got that tiny bit of brain left to think "don't ruin the upholstery" (or rather "she'll kill you if you ruin the upholstery") while he’s frantically checking to see if she's still in shock, but the only reason he’s moving that fast is because he saw her face.

he's a menace, but he's your menace.

hope you guys liked the fight!