Gigi

shoko raises her eyebrows back at you, fishing a cigarette out of her pocket and flicking a lighter once, twice before it catches. "sure you do. and i’m the prime minister of japan."

for a long second, the only sounds are the soft exhale of smoke from her lips and the idle, bustling sounds of the restaurant you’re sitting in. eventually, you peek at her from in between your fingers. "shoko, do you have any hot friends?"

"yeah. why?" when your eyes light up, she snorts and shakes her head, taking a drag from the lit cigarette. "oh, please. nobody wants to be the rebound after the 6'3 rockstar boyfriend. i wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy." she laughs when you groan and drop your face back in your hands. 

after a long second, you mumble, "6'3 and a half."

- 

when you get home, it's around midnight, and god, are you horny.

all that talk about your famous, rich, big ex-boyfriend has you pulling out your phone and opening up his instagram. it’s blocked, a souvenir of when you had more self-restraint. right now, though, you barely hesitate before unblocking him.

his page is littered with pictures and videos of him on tour, and it's like a feast for hungry eyes. him on his knees in a leather jacket, him practically moaning into a microphone, him holding a guitar above his head, and fuck, you can tell he knows he looks good. but no matter how big his dick is, it'll never get even close to the size of his ego.

you hate yourself for slipping one of your hands down and under your somehow-already-soaked panties, and you shudder at the feeling of your fingers over your clit. if he ever finds out how soaked you've gotten just from seeing a video of him dragging a mic stand across stage, he'd never let you hear the end of it. 

two of your fingers circle your clit, and you let out a half-suppressed moan as you feel a growing sensation of pleasure in your core. you slip a finger inside your pussy, trying to draw out any feeling you can, but all you can really think about is how much better it felt when gojo did it.

you remember his fingers like they’re your own (which, unfortunately, they are not)—long and slender, slightly calloused from years of playing the guitar. you’ve seen them knuckle-deep inside of your pussy, soaked and sticky from drawing out multiple orgasms out of you, and you’ve licked them clean more times than you can count.

a drawn-out, slightly exaggerated gasp leaves your lips as your own smaller fingers work over your clit, as if to compensate for your hands being a sorry substitute for gojo's. you watch as his fingers expertly strum a guitar on your phone screen, and fuck, you’ve never been more jealous of an instrument in your life. 

after minutes of manually forcing it out with aching, sticky fingers, your orgasm isn't satisfying in the slightest. none of them have been for the past three months. that's the bad part about ex-boyfriends like gojo. they spoil you stupid, making you feel like heaven on earth. and when they're gone, you can never really forget how good the high felt. why’d you break up with him again?

your head drops back onto your pillow as you let out a long exhale, eyes fluttering close and sore fingers stilling over your soaked entrance. after a second, you open an eye to the still-playing video of him on your phone.

oh, shit.

you scramble to unlike the video, which, somehow, had ended up liked, probably from your finger slipping while you were pathetically trying to cum to it. the red heart quickly disappears, and your heart rate increases (more than it did while you were fingering yourself, actually) as you pray he didn’t see the notification.

thirty seconds pass. he'd have to be a realllll loser to notice you liking and unliking the post in amidst his never-ending flood of notifications.

…but unfortunately for you, your ex is just as pathetic as you are. right as you start to relax, you get a notification from a contact named DO NOT ANSWER.

like what you see?

you can picture him smirking at his phone like the lowlife, good-for-nothing loser you know he is. he's probably pushing his dyed-white hair back (who dyes their hair white anyways?), since you remember it'd always get in the way of his eyes. god, he had eyes you'll never forget. ice-blue and, truthfully, a little terrifying, but the way they'd look at you while you rode him on a saturday night after a show will forever be tattooed in your heart.

you groan and click on the notification, staring at it with a mix of self-hatred and...gojo-hatred, i guess? his contact name stares back at you, a stark, bold warning set against the backdrop of your old messages with the only ex-boyfriend who could convince you to run it back, especially like this, with your fingers still on your soaked, needy entrance that’s practically aching for him inside of it.

two minutes pass with you just staring at his message. then, a second one appears.

don't be shy. i miss you too.

as if that wasn't bad enough, a third message comes soon after.

want me to come over?

since obviously you have dignity and self-control, you type out a reply you’d be proud of—no. go fuck yourself. don't text me ever again—but when you hit send, your text looks...well, a little different. gojo replies in a second.

that's what i thought. see you in 15. wear something cute for me, yeah?

-

you forgot how good he was at turning you on.

that's a lie. you didn't forget. in fact, it's all you've been thinking about since you told him you two were over. most 6'3 guys don't know how to handle all that, and think that just because they're big and tall, they're automatically good at sex (which, by the way, isn't true!), but, for lack of better wording, gojo knows his shit.

that's why you're currently getting fingered by him in your own bed, moaning his name like you weren't the one who dumped him. it's infuriating how good he is at this. two of his fingers are inside you, moving back and forth as his thumb rubs maddeningly slow circles over your clit.

and barely sixty seconds in, and you’re already ten times as loud and desperate than when it was your fingers.

"shitttt, oh, yeah, you feel so good," he groans, staring down at the way you clench around his fingers with every pump of them inside you. his pupils are blown wide, fixed on where he’s knuckle-deep inside your dripping pussy.

he groans again, unable to tear his eyes away. it feels good, so much better than whatever sorry substitute you've been trying to give yourself for the past three months. his fingers, calloused and rough, feel achingly familiar, and you have to fight to keep yourself from cumming barely a minute in. 

you swallow back what was about to be an embarassingly loud moan, and barely force yourself to talk in a somewhat-steady voice. "why do you sound like that?" you manage to get out. you're only talking to distract from the fact that you're pathetically close to squirting all over his six-inch fingers.

"fuck you mean, why do i sound like that? like what?" he responds, raising an eyebrow. his eyes briefly flit to meet yours. his tongue skates over his lips, wetting them slightly, before he bites his bottom lip and presses his thumb a little harder over your swollen clit.

"ngh, fuuuck— i dunno, like, raspy,” you barely manage to get out. “have you been smoking?" it's a stupid question. you know why his voice is raspy. it's not uncommon for his voice to be like this the night after a show, and you had always said it was hot back when you were still together.

gojo knows you know, too, and that you're just asking to give your mouth something to do besides moan his name. he widens his eyes at you patronizingly. "my job requires that i fuck up my throat every other night. i get paid to sound like this," he says, emphasizing his words by spreading his fingers inside of you, pushing and stretching your walls and forcing out a lewd moan from your lips. "why do you sound like that?"

you bite your lip in a failed attempt to stop yourself from gasping as his fingers prod even deeper inside of you. "like what?"

he snorts. "like a fuckin' pornstar. swear i used to have to work harder for this," he says, curling his fingers up inside of you and drawing out a loud, breathy moan from your lips. "jesus, have you not gotten laid since we broke up?"

silence.

when you don't answer, he grins like a kid in a candy store. "y'know, i was gonna call you a slut 'cause you're sooo wet sooo fast, but turns out, you're the opposite. someone's been missing her ex, hasn't she?"

you hate him. you hate his cocky smile, the one that's his trademark as a rockstar. you hate his stupid eyes, which are annoyingly easy to get lost in. you hate that he spoiled you so bad that nothing else can turn you on quite like he could. and god, you hate that you can't think of anything but him and his long, slender fingers stretching your gummy walls wiiiide open.

"don't be shy, angel. look at me." with his free hand, he tilts your chin towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes. he holds your gaze for a couple seconds, lips quirking up into a smile as he studies your face. "won't lie, i got around in the past couple months. lots of pretty girls..." he says casually, and he suddenly pulls his fingers out of your soaked pussy, leaving you clenching around nothing.

he lifts his hand to his lips, licking his fingers clean of your slick, and you almost moan out loud from the sight. his voice drops, a hint of authenticity bleeding through the ego. "...but, shit, baby. it's just not the same. think we know each other too well."

well, fuck. you can tell he's being serious, despite the lingering amusement in his eyes as he watches you stare. you don't answer immediately, unsure what to say to that. when it's clear he's not going to do anything until you respond, you exhale softly and mumble, "i guess."

"yeah, you can't relate, you fuckin' priest," he mutters, dipping his head and spitting a wad of saliva on your glistening pussy. he drags his index finger over your entrance, pushing his spit inside of you. when your breath hitches, his lips twitch with a smile. "how long were you planning to go without getting fucked, pretty girl? your whole life?"

you choke on a gasp as he pushes a finger back inside of you, mixing his saliva with your slick. "a-are you gonna actually fuck me or do i have to call someone else?" you ask, stuttering against your will. his fingers feel good, so good, but you feel like you’ll die if you don’t get his dick inside of you.

"oh, now she wants to call up her roster," gojo deadpans, curling the single finger he has inside of you upwards and grinning as he feels your dripping pussy practically suck him in. "who's next in line, sweetheart? is it that fossil i hate, toji fishy…whatever?"

"fushiguro," you correct automatically, and gojo rolls his eyes, not caring what his name is. all he cares is that it's not him. "and no," you confirm a second later. he nods approvingly, adding in another finger, as if to reward you for giving him the answer he wants to hear.

"good. wait, fuck, is it that pink-haired freak?" he groans, thinking of someone else. his two fingers inside of you pulse in and out of your wet, slick-soaked walls, flexing and pushing you apart as he interrogates you on a roster that doesn't exist. "the one with the tattoos. what's his name? suck-a-nut or something?"

you gawk at him, momentarily snapping out of the sex-crazed haze his fingers have induced from you. "are you serious?"

gojo mimicks your facial expression back at you, and pulls his fingers out with a soft pop. he lifts his fingers to your lips this time, coaxing your mouth open and letting you taste a mix of yourself and him. "if you're gonna fuck someone else, they better not be unemployed or have lame tattoos. now shut up and roll over."

- 

"relaaax. you're too pretty to be this fuckin' tense."

easier said than done. it's impossible for you to relax when he's pushing your face into the pillow with one hand and aligning his dick with your gushing pussy with the other. he teasingly drags his flushed, heavy tip over your wet entrance, cracking a smile when your breath audibly hitches.

your mouth drops open when he gets bored of teasing and actually pushes inside, and you remember exactly why it was so insanely hard to break up with him. you moan his name as he eases his way inside, slowly giving you inch after inch. it takes all of his willpower to not just force it all in at once, since you're all warm and sticky and so, so wet. but, for your sake, he’s determined to take his time.

"yeah, you like that, don't ya?" he grits out, biting back a low groan of his own at how you're stretched out underneath him. he has a view to die for, and he has to swallow to stop himself from drooling at the sight of all of you bent over for him, giving him the perfect view of your back, waist, and ass. he reaches over to the nightstand and fumbles with his phone for a second, opening the camera app and taking a photo from his eye-level.

you look back at him over your shoulder at the sound of the camera shutter. he cracks a lopsided smile down at you, taking another, this time with your face in it. "view's sooo nice from here, baby. had to take a pic."

he turns the phone so you can see what you look like to him. if you didn't know that was you, you could've sworn it was a screenshot of some porno.

your eyes are half-rolled back in your head, and your lips are parted slightly, glistening with the lingering traces of your slick and his saliva. from that angle, the arch in your back looks heavenly, and his camera's somehow captured all of that and the plush curve of your ass around his dick.

"pretty girl. i'm saving that for later," he says, giving the photo one last glance before shutting off his phone and tossing it back on the nightstand. "ah, shit, where were we?"

he suddenly moves his hips forward, and you moan reactively. "fuuuck, satoru," you whine, burying your face back in the pillow to muffle the embarrassing amount of high-pitched sounds that threaten to come out of your lips.

the feeling of him stretching you open is unreal. you're so full, and he's not even all the way inside. there's still a couple inches to go, and you're already a stuttering mess underneath him, mewling his name like it's the only word you know.

"jus' a little more, you got it," he groans, self-inflicted tension holding his limbs tight as he fights to not just shove himself in the rest of the way. you'd probably snap in half, and that's a lot less fun that what he has planned for you.

he pushes in the last one or two inches, now buried to the hilt inside of your sticky, gummy walls. "you feel s'good," he grits out, voice tight with restraint. "shiiiit. you good, angel?"

your face is still buried in the pillows, eyes shut as you fight to suppress the sweet, high-pitched gasps that every movement from him elicits. "y-yeah," you manage to get out, although it's more a moan than a word.

gojo laughs breathily and gives your ass a slap, just hard enough to sting. he gives the same spot a squeeze, massaging your skin before starting to move back and forward inside you, dragging his flushed length against your gummy walls.

fuck, he’s big. even though his lengthy fingers flexed you wide open before this, you still let out muffled, high-pitched whimpers against the white fabric of the pillow as he rocks back and forth, sliding in and out of your stretched-out pussy. you’re wet and so, so welcoming, fitting his length like a glove, all snug and perfect for him.

“so fuckin’ whiny,” gojo groans, hand moving to the back of your neck and sliding into your hair. he lifts your head a little, drawing your mouth away from the pillow. “don’t hide from me, baby. ‘s been three months, don’t torture me any longer.”

without the pillow to hide behind, your moans might as well come through a megaphone from how loud and how lewd they are. you haven’t been properly fucked in months, and now, you’re suddenly getting the best dick of your life. 

you bite your lip as he continues ramming into you from the back, making you wobble with every thrust. “ohhhmygod,” you moan out, biting your lip to try and suppress the embarrassingly loud whimpers that keep escaping your lips. it does nothing to quiet them down, though, especially as gojo shifts the angle to push into you even deeper. “feels s’good, right there,” you gasp deleriously, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

your lips are swollen from how hard you’ve bitten them, and as he continues stuffing you full and deep, you bounce back against him, letting your pussy do the thinking.

one gojo’s hands rests on your ass while the other one remains wrapped around your hair, preventing you from burying your face in the pillow. he gives it a tug, groaning your name like a prayer when it makes you moan. 

“fuuuuck, baby, taking it so well,” he grits out, and he shifts his grip on your hair and pushes your face down into the pillow as his thrusts start to become less controlled and more erratic. “‘s like you were made for me,” he says breathlessly, a half-laugh slipping out of his lips as he gets sloppier with his movements.

you hear him swallow, and although your face is currently stuffed into the pillow, you can imagine how he must look. cheeks all red and flushed, eyelashes fluttering, and his white hair’s probably slicked with sweat and sticking to his forehead. he lets out a sound that you swear is a whimper as he continues fucking you, but your lips are too occupied with making loud, high-pitched sounds of your own to point it out.

he can’t tear his eyes away from you, and the way you’re so willingly bent over and arched for him, as if you hadn’t been the one to tell him you two were over. “bet you missed this, yeah?” he says, a hint of the familiar cockiness you’ve grown to love and hate in his voice. your only reply is a lewd moan into the pillows, which he takes as a yes. “attagirl. that’s what i thought.”

the hand that’s been gripping your ass squeezes tighter as he fucks you harder and deeper, chasing the high that he remembers came from making you all dumb and pliant underneath him. you’re practically being plowed into the mattress, but you’re so inviting, legs spread wide open for him, that he can’t bring himself to care about anything but the wet hole in front of him.

you’re just as single-minded as he is, unable to form a single thought that isn’t just about him. the never-ending stream of gasps and moans from your swollen lips are like music to gojo’s ears, and as your eyes flutter shut and you fully give up any last claim you had to dignity, all you can wonder is god, how did you go without this for three whole months?

“p-please, just like that,” you whine, not caring that you’re stuttering in a way he’ll definitely make fun of you for later. you’re so stuffed full of him, core tightening as you feel a wave of pleasure coming your way in the form of the first satisfying orgasm you’ll have had in months. “‘m close, ngh—”

“yeah, baby?” he asks, feeling you tighten around him as your hands kittenishly grasp at the sheets. his dick slides back and forth against your slick walls as he fucks you into the mattress, making the springs squeal with every movement. “fuck, me too,” he groans, giving your ass another slap and watching it recoil as his thrusts become even sloppier than before.

“wait, shit, you still on the pill?” he asks, momentarily loosening his grip on your hair to let you turn your head. when you nod, his hand tightens again, and he pushes your face back into the pillow, a low groan slipping out of his lips as he continues rolling his hips again you, using your wet, sloppy mess of a pussy to chase his release.

when he pulls out an orgasm from you, it’s downright filthy. “ohhhmygod—” you moan, gasping for air and pushing back onto his length as he coaxes out your release.

the second the tension in your stomach snaps, your limbs stop working and you go limp beneath him, reduced to nothing but a pretty doll as your brain shutters off too. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, nothing in your skull but the waves of pleasure that he’s drawn out of you. even as he continues fucking you through your orgasm, moaning into the pillow, you can’t help think that you don’t care what he does, his dick’s too good to let go of again. 

you haven’t came that hard in three months, and it looks like he hasn’t either.

he whines your name when he cums inside of you just seconds later. it’s hot and floods your insides as his hips continue their jerky motions, burying his white, sticky release deep inside of you. high-pitched sounds that almost sound like whimpers slip out of his lips as his eyes roll into the back of his head, lost in the pleasure that is your pretty pussy.

eventually, he stops rutting against you, chest heaving as he just stays buried inside of you for a moment longer, feeling how your gummy walls clench around his still-hard dick. his breathing is noticeably shakier than normal, and for once in his life, it seems like he doesn’t have any words to say. 

after a long second of silence, where there isn’t any sounds except for your synchronized, heavy breaths, he speaks. “good girl. don’t think i coulda pulled out anyways,” he mumbles as he pulls out of your limp body and maneuvers you onto your back. 

his lips are curved into a cheeky, satisfied smile as he observes your face, drinking in your fluttering eyelashes and slightly-parted lips. he looks just as sex-crazed, ears bright red and lips wet with his own saliva. he pushes your knees apart, licking his lips as he hungrily stares down at his cum dripping out of your pussy.

“we’re doing that again.” his eyes flick from the wet, sticky entrance in between your thighs to your face. after a second, he leans down, eyes fluttering closed as his lips meet yours in a sloppy kiss, tongue slipping into your mouth and pushing against yours. he moans against your lips, and when he pulls away, a string of saliva connects your mouths. 

“n’ this time, i wanna see your face while i’m inside you.”

-

when he finally collapses on top of you, cheeks coated with a red blush and eyes half-lidded, your whole body’s sore beyond belief. somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wonder if you’ll have to call off from work tomorrow…or is it today? you have no idea how long you’ve been under him.

"ya know, you don't have to get off to my fuckin’ instagram feed," gojo says, rolling off of you and shooting you a lopsided grin. he pushes his sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead, chest heaving. "text me anytime. hell, just show up at my door. you're not the only one always thinking about their hot ex." 

you limply lift your hand and run your fingers over your collarbone, feeling the indents of a bite mark he had left on your skin, that’ll no doubt leave a dark bruise for you to hide. “m’kay,” is all you say in response, as you close your eyes exhaustedly. after a second, you mumble, “you staying the night?”

your eyes remain closed, but you can hear gojo shake his head. "nah. i got a show today," he says with a sigh, sitting up and groaning. “if i stay with you, i’ll probably miss it.”

“wouldn’t be the first time,” you mutter, and you swear you can hear the slightest laugh slip out of his lips as his weight lifts off the mattress. it’s true. back when you two were dating, incidents like this had definitely caused him to be late to a couple shows. he never seemed all that guilty about it, though.

there’s a soft rustle of fabric, presumably from gojo slipping back into his clothes as he starts to head out. “take care, angel,” is the last thing you hear from him before the door shuts and his footsteps fade away, and with it, your consciousness. 

-

later that night, your phone buzzes.

You weren’t complaining, your life was simple and you didn’t have to worry about your livelihood. The money from your office job paid rent, utilities and groceries. What more could you want?

Well, seems like you were complaining about the boring lifestyle and you found yourself in a game store on a random Wednesday. God, the last time you even touched a videogame was when you were in middle school.

A sparkly cover drew you in. It was a game box, tucked away in some corner of the shop. It was covered in hot men and luring phrases. It advertised itself for women who liked being evil. You weren’t really sure if it applied to you, it still made you want to get your hands on it.

The jjk-verse

It was cheap too. You bought the one and only copy they had and went home. The game stayed on your desk for a few nights, being too exhausted to try playing it during work days.

But it was the weekend now.

Once you sat down at your desk, laptop turned on and feline curled up in your lap… you were gone.

It was so immersive, so addicting. You forgot to eat or sleep, still having enough consciousness to feed and give water to your pet though when she meowed.

Your favourite character was the court jester, he made you giggle and smile, the animated man on screen fumbled and stumbled around, trying to entertain you. Unlike real men who just used use you or didn’t even attempt at anything similar to courting…

You really weren’t sure how or when, but you had finished the game. And an overwhelming tiredness washed over you. Even your kitty was yawning.

THUMP went your head on the desk.

You awoke in silken sheets, softest pillows with trimmed lace. A nightgown people on Pinterest would fawn over for being vintage.

Your eyes shot open, stumbling to sit up. A lump of soft, white fur meowed in annoyance beside you.

Your damn cat was here too. She mreowed and started to stretch, digging her nails into the luxurious fabrics, not giving a flying shit about tearing it up.

You touched your face, pinching at your cheeks while looking around the lush room. The windows were tall, with dark curtains draped over them, dark mahogany wood furniture. What looked like doors to a bathroom and walk in closet, a study desk and vanity with a silver mirror tucked in nooks.

Was this some sort of lucid dream?

You felt your own nails pinching your skin and the way your cat, Kitty, yes, her name is Kitty, rolled around seemed real as hell.

You scampered up from the bed and padded across the wood floor to the vanity to go check in the mirror.

You sure looked the same. So, what was this?

The door creaked open, a timid looking young woman, probably a maid or servant, peeked in. When your eyes met hers, she squeaked and bowed her head, fully walking in. A few other scared looking servants filed in.

“Your highness, you are up early… we deeply apologise for not getting you your morning bath prepared in time. You may take one of our heads, as punishment.’’

What? Take someone’s head?

You stood up, hands lightly gripping into your night gown. “Uhh… that won’t be necessary…could someone, please, tell me where I am?”

The servants let out shocked gasps. Their queen had never given such mercy, and at such an early time in the morning. They had been used to their ruler to be grumpy in the mornings, it seemed.

“Your majesty, are you feeling alright? Should we call the healers to come look?” One of the women asked, daring to slightly lift her head.

You raised your hand, intending to check your own forehead but the group flinched, as if they were ready to be struck.

You furrowed your eyebrows and rubbed the fingers against your skin. “I’m fine. Can someone explain where I am, what is this place and who are you-” You ask, obviously confused about this whole ordeal.

“Your castle, your highness. Castle Hellfort in the Northern Bloodlands.”

Well didn’t that just sound peachy and sweet?

“My castle?”

“Yes, your castle. Your highness.”

You could see two servants whisper to one another. “Has she hit her head?” “Must be.”

You wanted to defend yourself and say that you were perfectly fine but an older servant woman screamed and pointed at your white furball on the bed.

“Animal! Wild animal!”

“Stop shouting, it’s my cat.” You groaned, padding back over to go pick Kitty up.

The servants looked shocked at your bravery, holding such a beast.

“Our Queen is fearless, praise!”

“Praise!” the others spoke in unison, bowing their heads in honour.

You could feel a headache forming from this.

The women ushered you into a hot bath, water scalding hot. Apparently how you liked it. And when you told them to make it cooler, they looked at you as if they had seen a ghost.

Next came the outfit. You picked out what looked comfortable from the wardrobe. Crimson and black dresses of plenty. Most of them had iron or silver detailing, little spikes here and there for flare.

How… evil.

The ladies helped you get dressed, you agreed to the undergarments and underskirts, stockings and lace, even allowed the corset to be tightened- not too much, much to the servants dismay. Garters and straps underneath looked like they could hide a dagger or two.

You had your boots tied up. Now sat in front of the vanity as the women took the time to style your hair in a loose updo, a few braids added.

You thought they were done but noooo, now came silver jewellery and hair accessories.

How tiresome.

Who knew falling asleep at your desk at home could lead to you playing dress up with some ancient, luxurious clothes and trinkets?

The dutiful maids even got Kitty dressed up, a loose, dark red leather collar around her neck. The cat didn’t care much about it, just cuddling up in the pillows on the overly large bed. You asked the staff to feed her later.

They lead you out of your chamber, walking down a grand hallway. You had to admit, the gothic and dark aesthetics of this place were veryyy nice. Whoever was the architect, knew ball. Especially the stained-glass windows and shades of bloody reds.

You kept looking around as if you'd never been here before, and you hadn't. The maids looked concerned, you were acting differently but didn't comment, afraid for their lives.

The decorations on the walls were beautiful, though the materials used for the intricate designs looked a lot like bones... human... bones.

You shook your head, focusing on the grand dining hall doors opening.

A breakfast feast was already there, silver dishes with cooked meats and even a cake. Luxuries at this time period.

What you didn't expect to greet you was a jester.

In a white and royal blue, striped and frilly outfit, a rather cute hat with three droopy points with iron bells.

His bright blue eyes and white, fluffy hair matching the look. A wide. toothy grin spread across his handsome face and he clapped his hands together. It looked like he was about to jump for joy.

"The early bird has flown in! How dear! Your majesty, i do hope you've slept well! Your sweet 'toru has prepared an awfully humorous gig for your daylights start, the kind you love!" His boisterous voice rang trough the otherwise silent hall.

You paused in the middle of the large doorframe.

No way.

Hold on.

It was all coming together.

That stupid game... you were in it! Or something like that- that man, that was Gojo! Satoru Gojo! The little animated jester on your computer screen you last saw in the real world.

Your face was doing something between a frown and a look of disbelief.

He noticed the odd look and pouted, quickly bouncing over and taking your hand in his strong one. "My Queen! You've never given me such a look before!"

You let out a shaky sigh, blinking a few times before giving him a small smile.

It was like an arrow had been shot through Satoru’s heart! He pretended to grab at his chest with his free hand, a pained whimper leaving him. I mean, it kind of was his job to be dramatic.

"YOU'VE NEVER SMILED AT ME! WHAT A MONUMENTAL DAY!"

Your eye twitched.

He allowed you to sit down at the head of the table in an unnecessarily grand chair. You picked out some things to set on your silver plate and began eating.

Satoru, overly giddy now, couldn’t hold it in and just HAD to show you his exciting breakfast act.

Since he had the whole jester getup, you assumed that he’d start juggling or showing you some stupid magic trick.

AGAIN, what you didn’t expect was a chained-up man being shoved in by what looked like two armoured knights.

 You kept eating, silently watching. Maybe the man was some sort of criminal and he would just get teased at.

The man started begging for his life…

Why?

You paused the spoon in your mouth as the desperate guy pleaded.

“Your grace! Please! I’d rather get hung than this! Oh, dear god… please!”

Satoru just laughed, a hand on his belly while giggling about the words of the chained man. “Your highness, do you hear him? They always do say such funny things!”

Huh? Your brows furrowed, unsure what to even say in this situation. “What’s going on?”

“Why, you’re morning show!” He turned to give you an innocent smile. Whatever was happening, it seemed like this was routine.

The criminal got pushed down to his knees by the knights.

Satoru bounced over, bells jingling as jolly as ever from his hat and he leaned down, hands suddenly grabbing the poor bastards face.

A sharp cry left the man, his body shuddering and arms chained behind his back started to spasm.

A wet squelch. A disgusting pop and twist.

Satoru had gouged out one of his eyes, blood running down his fingertips while squishing the orb like organ around. The crimson started squirting out of the kneeling man’s eye socket.

The colour drained out of your face; the spoon clattered down onto the table. A sick, churning sensation flooded your stomach.

Satoru, thinking that nothing was amiss, waved the eyeball around in front of the chained victim, making fun of him. "Lookie, lookie! I just stole your vision!"

The kneeling, bleeding guy let out a cry, the lasting eye watering from the pure pain, face contorting in an expression you had never seen.

You were positive that bile was building up in your throat, the saliva in your mouth starting to produce more and more.

The giddy jester tried to shove the pulled-out eyeball back in, the poor man groaning in agony, the wet sound of it mushing against the bloody cavern made you stand up, unable to take it anymore.

"STOP...!" You got out, but opening your mouth was a mistake. Vomiting spilling out with no warning.

Thankfully none of it got on your gown, just on the bear pelt rug. Nothing huge.

The knights behind the kneeling man were the first to act, one of them grabbing the chains and dragging him away, as if he had been the cause of their queen’s discomfort. The prisoner was probably happy he got to live... with minor injuries. While the other rushed out to get a healer or some maid to help for you.

Satoru? Oh, poor Satoru. He was distraught.

You tried to stumble to the window, not wanting to look at the puddle of red on the floor OR your sick near your feet.

"Your Highness! Your Highness! Are you alright?" he ran over, a pout on his pretty lips, white eyelashes fluttering as he crouched down to try and peer at your face. You spared him a look- and the vision of his still bloodied fingers trying to reach for your hand made you feel sick all over again.

You shoved a hand in his face, not wanting the jester to come near, turning away again to try and look out the window. But outside the fucking window you large gallows and a row of human heads speared up on sharp wood sticks further in the courtyard. Like some grotesque show of power.

Where the hell were you??

You covered your mouth with both of your hands, turning to start hurrying back the way you knew the bedroom you had woken in was, leaving the dining hall and running down the dark hallways, trying now to knock over anything on your way.

Satoru followed along, the bells softly jingling after each step. “Your majesty? Are you alright? This is unlike you! Did I do it wrong? Should I have started with the teeth? Oh, my Queen, please speak to me!” He pleaded, easily catching up to you. He was fully upset, looking like a kicked puppy.

You got to the heavy doors of your chambers and slipped in, shutting the worried jester out.

Kitty, who had been fed and groomed, was lounging on the plush vanity chair, living the best life a cat could. Not even caring about your distressed look and pale, sweaty face.

You flopped into the silk bedsheets, tears welling up in your eyes while trying to calm down. But the flash of watching those pale fingers sink deeply into a man’s skull- the acidic taste was trying to climb its way back up. “Wake up…wake up…cmon… take me back.” You pleaded, eyes shutting, hands clawing into the sheets in the pure effort of trying to force your brain to do something.

A short knock on the door and the castles healer had arrived, Shoko.

You glanced over your shoulder, cold sweat running down your temple, the woman walking in, in a looser fit, comfortable outfit fit for a medic, with a few bags with her, clearly, she had assumed the worst.

She bowed and set the heavy things down. “Your majesty, I have been informed that you are feeling sick.”

“I am fine! I just…I why… I cannot stomach whatever that jester did at breakfast!”

Shoko stood back up straight and gave you an odd look “But… you’ve never had problems with that. Are you perhaps pregnant?”

“No! I don’t know where I am, who any of you are and what I’m doing here!” You screamed back, pushing yourself up to sit, fingers grabbing into the dress you had on, the tears rolling down your cheeks.

The healer looked even more stunned. “Your highness, have you hit your head? Have you lost your memories?”

You sniffled, shaking your head. “No…”

“Oh dear… Surely you know that you are these lands ruler and your favourite pastimes are watching the unworthy get mutilated, yes?”

She diagnosed you with memory loss.

You, not even sure how you could explain you’re from a different universe, just played along and agreed to have forgotten everything. It was too much work to try and explain, and the panic in your gut made you too breathless to even explain why seeing gore like that would make you sick.

As your solution… Shoko prescribed that the jester be with you at all times. As he knew you the best. What a great doctor.

Great.

You were sat in some ominous throne room now, your favourite place, he said. The throne was from iron and dark wood, cold as you sat. The afternoons sun high in the sky.

The court jester was in front of you, a wide smile on his face. “It seems my dearest queen is in need of proper healing, and I, the brave Satoru, shall be the one to save you!”

You sighed, leaning back and placing your hands on your lap. “Could you just… start from the beginning… and explain who I am?”

Satoru’s eyes got brighter, getting giddy, flexing his fingers. “Of course! For story telling is my forte!”

“You see, you were the king’s daughter, the princess! Tall and short, big and small…princes and noblemen wanted you! And your father wanted to wed you to one.” He pranced around, using his arms and hands to show the descriptions.

“But you! Never did want any of them…” he pretended to droop, folding down. But then popped right back up.

“So, you came up with the wisest plan! Stab-stab-stabbing your father on your eighteenth birthday! No more men would try to court you, he would not force you to marry no longer!”

You blinked and looked down at your hands. You hadn’t done any of that… but why did the sudden feeling of guilt seep in.

“It was a joyous day! You became queen, took over the lands! The first taste of blood made you go mad! I had been just a lowly foolish man in the court, but you, my grace, took me in and held me close!’’ He grinned, proudly pointing at himself. “For I can and will do anything that pleases the queen! My duty is to make you happy!”

You frowned at that, eyes lifting to meet his bright ones. “How is... torturing others something that makes me happy, how is what happened this morning… something I like?”

He clapped his hands together and tilted his head. “Truthfully, I do not know! But you seemed the most at ease then. That is why you’d like to have some entertainment in the mornings, making your days start off well!”

You tried not to grimace, remembering the scene again.

Satoru pouted, stepping closer and dropping down to his knees in front of your throne, eyes going doe while giving you a pitiful look. “I was very sad when you didn’t like my gig at breakfast, I hoped I hadn’t done anything wrong.” He laid his head down on your dresses thick skirt, face mushed into the fabric while looking up at you. Satoru’s hat almost slipping off. For some reason you liked seeing him so pathetic. You weren’t some sadist... just a regular woman, is what you told yourself.

Then he pushed himself up and spread his arms widely, a happy expression now on. “But now I feel much better! Knowing my sweet queen is just a bit sick and she had forgotten. I’m honoured to help her get back into shape!”

You spent rest of the day wandering around the castle, Satoru tagging along and yapping about the things you’ve allegedly done in each hall and corner.

“Here is where you sliced a man’s arm off and slapped him with it.” He commented about some study room.

“Here we held a ball and the prince from the southlands tried to ask your hand for a dance but you sliced his throat!” The grand ballroom.

“Here you kept someone nailed to the wall!” The lounge.

“This is my favourite, in the kitchen where you practiced throwing cleavers at severed heads!”

The more you walked, the more you heard. The image of the lady you were embodying now was a cruel one. A villainise. At least she hadn’t eaten anyone… right?

“Have I ever… cannibalized someone?”

“No! Not that I can remember… Is that something you desire to try, my queen?” Satoru grinned, eyes sparkling, as if your question was a sign your memories were coming back.

“Not really...” You murmured, looking at a large painting you passed by. Nothing but gore depicted on it.

A cold shiver ran down your spine. The stories he told made your arms feel heavier, as if the burden of all of those lives and cruel acts were taking form as calluses on your skin and consciousness.

The sun fell and the moon came out.

You had found something that resembled a garden, but all the flowers and plants in it were either thorny or toxic to touch.

A stone bench was near a pond and roses. You found some peace and quiet, finally. Satoru’s ramblings had made you start to spiral a bit.

The stars were pretty, you didn’t recognize any of the constellations. The nights sky was different here too. How strange.

“Ah… you look as lovely as ever, sitting in the moonlight, my queen.”

You let out a small groan, eyes staying focused on the twinkling dots. “Leave me be.”

“But Shoko told me to always be with you, no matter what! It’s prescribbeddd!” His voice chirped back. Those damn soft bells again.

Satoru stood behind you, leaning over to look down at your face, covering the sky. Those bright eyes looked unnaturally bright.

“Would I have slit someone’s throat if they got this close in my personal space?” You scoffed, hand already reaching up to try and shove at him… you would never push someone, you weren’t mean. Why did you have the urge to do something like that? Must just be the stress.

“Of course! But not me, you did love me!” He gave you a cocky grin before his body twisted and he plopped down beside you, an arm around your shoulders, fingers already subtly rubbing your clothed arm.

You just rolled your eyes and looked down into the pond. Nothing was swimming around in it.

“If the queen- sorry, me, if I was so cruel, why have you stayed with me? Do I not scare you?” You asked, eyes not leaving the still water.

Satoru giggled, squeezing you a bit closer to him, face turned to watch your side profile. “I told you! I was just some jester in a court where nobody liked my humour… you did though! I knew the first time I made you have that look in your eyes, I was meant to be yours! Made me your official court fool. I am forever thankful.”

That didn’t really explain much but you just gave a short nod.

Y’know, you had assumed that the rule of Satoru being near you at all times to help ‘make you gain your memories back’ would only apply during the day.

Not in your damn quarters. When you were trying to sleep.

On one side of the bed, you had your purring Kitty, that traitor loving life here, and on the other side…

A bare, messy haired and bright blue-eyed jester. Not an ounce of sleep in his face.

You sandwiched in the middle of the two annoying shits.

“Did you really have to be naked?” You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes.

You had on a lovely nightgown.

“Your majesty, I sleep best with no clothes!”

“Stop sounding so excited all the time.”

“Aww... you don’t mean that!” He reached under the duvet, trying to tickle your side.

The arm from your face quickly moved and smacked him right across the face.

Smack!

The room went silent.

You glanced over to him. Satoru was making a surprised expression, lips forming a small o and eyes wider, if that was somehow possible.

You panicked, pulling your hand back and sitting up. “Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, does it hurt?”

A grin broke his shocked expression, matching you and bouncing up, hands grabbing onto your arms. The bedsheet pooled around his hips, a lean, yet muscular and rather inviting chest and body being shown to you.

“Hit me again! Your grace! It is you; I knew you’d start being yourself again!” He looked happy, hand trying to grab yours, bringing it to his stinging cheek.

You gave him an odd look, contemplating If you wanted to shove him out of your bed or just turn around and pretend he wasn’t there.

But your hand pulled back and lightly gave him another smack. What was coming over you?

Satoru let out a small whimper, leaning forward and using both hands to hold your wrist, nuzzling into the palm of your hand, lips about to start placing kisses.

You felt a hot blush creep up your neck and ears, pulling your arm away and flopping back down, pulling the covers over your face. “Goodnight.”

Kitty glanced over to you two before yawning and curling back up again.

Time surely had passed. Maybe a week? Maybe more? Who knew.

The role you were given started to grow on you.

Doing your royal duties, getting used to the servants at your beck and call. Your subjects were terrified of you, even If you did try to be nice when someone would come for advice.

The morning “show” was actually starting to get entertaining. Watching some wrongdoer get cut, ripped, burnt… it really did have you start out your day right. Satoru was only happy to see you grow to like such things once again.

Whatever was happening to you, you liked it. Maybe it was your body and soul finally accepting the evil queen’s mind. Maybe it was your deepest whims surfacing. That damn office job had you acting normal, here? Oh, here, you could do whatever and get away with it.

And having a stupid jester around wasn’t too bad, he did often say silly things or act cute to get you to crack a smile... or smack him, he liked that too.

You were at the gallows in the courtyard today. But not to hang anyone.

A group of bandits had tried to rob some local shoe maker and cobbler, killing the old man in the process.

You stood in front of the four young men, an axe in hand. A gorgeous black gown and lace gloves matching the handle.

The audience was full, from the castle servants to some farmers joining, wanting to witness the first beheading in a while.

Truthfully, you had never tried to chop anyone’s heads off with the means of a heavy axe but we all have to experience everything once, right?

Swing!

You missed the first mans throat… and the blade got stuck in the side of his face.

The scream he let out made you wince, the onlookers gasping and the other three in line started to panic.

“Oops… sorry.” You gave a nervous smile before pulling the heavy weapon back up, the deep gash from the guy’s face started to pour out blood, it seeping trough the wooden boards and pooling underneath the platform.

“Stay still…” You whispered, arms lifting the axe up high again.

Swing!

This time you got it, a clean shop, some would say.

The head went rolling off and some knights were already preparing a spear to shove it on.

Chop!

Swing!

Crack!

Went rolling the other three, meeting their friend.

Satoru, standing nearby on the platforms edge started to clap, bouncing around and shouting praises for your strength and justice. Even if you gave them probably painful deaths by your lack of inexperience.

The crowd did so too, but more in a terrified way, not wanting to displease you.

Everywhere you went, you felt the fear and respect. It made you all giddy inside. Was this how your boss felt?

Damn, had a month passed already? You weren’t mad about it.

You especially weren’t mad about how close you had gotten with the court jester too. Satoru still stayed with you everywhere you went, slept in your room. On the floor, if he annoyed you too much. Though nothing sexual had happened… besides him hugging or tickling you to be a cunt. Kissed your hand and kneeled before you. The things every silly fool did.

Sometimes you trying to use modern vocabulary didn’t land well. Especially about sex or genitalia. They sure were prudes…

“And so, I told this man, if he ever tries to cheat on me ever again, I’ll rip off his dick and shove it down his throat.” You were casually conversing with Satoru at dinner once, talking about some bad relationship you had, trying not to mention the world you came from too much, but you assumed that issues like cheating were still happening here.

But your words made him blankly stare at you, mouth full but pausing its chewing. “Is that... supposed to be humour or are you telling the truth, my queen?”

“A joke, I guess. I thought it was funny.”

“A joke too far, my lady…”

You sat in your throne, Kitty in your lap. You slowly stroked her back while peasants and common folk came to ask for advice. Satoru, ever the loyal jester stayed beside you, playing around with some bones that were laying around, juggling them or throwing one or two at a guest you didn’t like. How sweet.

How boring. But since you had the mentality of someone from the 21st century and not… whoever knows this era, you gave them answers they had never heard before.

Example.

“Your grace… My husband and I wish to have children, but we can’t conceive. What shall we do?”

“Adopt one, easy.” You waved your hand around.

“A..adopt? What is that?”

“You know… take someone else’s child as your own. Next!” You didn’t mention taking one that needed a home and not kidnaping one, but yknow, details.

Or…

“Your majesty, how do I teach my child how to read and write if I do not know how to?”

“Send them to school.”

“What is school?”

“Education.”

“But isn’t that just for church or royalty?”

“I shall build a school for everyone. Next!”

See, you weren’t bad at your job. And you had a heart.

After the long line was finally done, you stretched, letting Kitty off of your lap to go wander around. Probably just to her room. Yes, she had a room. All for her fluffy butt.

Satoru took the opportunity to lean down to you, bells jingling and a hand reached to pet your styled hair. “My goodness. Watching you at work sure is exciting.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” you scoffed, smacking his hand away. You looked up at him, still that same white and royal blue outfit on, the lacy cuffs and collar making him look extra pretty, maybe even handsome. Fuckable. Huh? Who said that? You just shook your head, getting the thought to leave.

“My queen! Of course not.” Satoru gave you a teasing grin, folding back up and placing his hands on his hips. “We should have a feast, in honour of your memories coming back!” He suddenly announced.

Oh yeah, you forgot you were still trying to ‘regain’ these memories, but it seemed you had a hang of this evil lady thing so they deemed you were back to normal.

You weren’t a lightweight by any means, but this damn wine was making you a bit too tipsy too fast.

Blame it on the alcohol really, and damn Satoru for being so hot… that stupid clown getup… his eyelashes… you wanted to tie him down and use him. Where did this thought even come from?

You weren’t questioning your actions once you were back in your chambers, nails digging into the sides of his face while having an open mouth, drooly make out session, tongues slow and heavy but needy.

You both had stumbled here together, or well… you had dragged him here. But Satoru really wasn't complaining.

His own hands were on your sides, your hips, trying to grope at your ass and thighs. That stupidly thick dress not giving him any access. You only noticed how filthy it was once you both hit the bed and you fell on top of him, the drool from your chin dripping down onto his. “Toru…mn… you taste so sweet…” You drunkenly babbled into his upper lip.

You could hear him breathlessly laugh, trying to mumble something back. “The wiinnee… youmnn… my lady… taste even better.”

You definitely weren't questioning anything when his hands fumbled with your corset and the laces holding your gown together.

His jester hat went flying across the bedroom, it rattling for a bit.

Next you tore at his clothes. It got to the point where his upper half was out and Satorus greedy fingers had managed to tug down the collar of your dress, tits spilling out.

Obviously he had to start sucking on a nipple while his hands tried to pry the overly complex dress off of you. His hungry mouth nipping and lapping at the hardening bud.

Your hands gripped into his shoulders, not doing jack to help the poor guy. Too busy moaning about your boob being eaten.

Eventually he did get it open, you pushed him away to take everything else off yourself, the corset, the gown, the underskirt, the underclothes and stockings. Allll gone and pooling on the dark wood floor. Except one thing. The laces from your corset.

You climbed back on top of him, head spinning a bit but you had a clear goal.

Satoru gave you a goofy grin, spreading his legs while sliding the last of his outfit down too, proudly letting his girthy cock free. Where was all of that hiding in his jester outfit- you had no time to question it.

Before you reached your goal you needed to have a quick tase, dropping your head down too start licking hot, wet stripes uppp from the base to the leaky tip. Gobs of precum being swallowed up by your drunken tongue.

"Y..your majesty!" he moaned out, bordering on a whimper. His hands holding on to the sheets, doing their best to hold on to the bedsheets and not grip onto your hair.

You slurped on it a bit more until you could feel his hips try to fuck up into your throat. "Be still… tooruuu… ah… gimme your hands…" You slurred out, getting back up on your knees and reaching for his wrists.

He was obedient to his Queen, of course.

You somehow tied a perfect bow. his hands were up together, tied to the headboard, behind his back.

Satoru whimpered, eyes making a pleading look while his cock twitched. "Will you…will…"

"Shhhuhhhss…" You giggled, crawling on top of him again, placing wet kisses on his jaw before shifting and squatting over his needy, pink tipped dick.

He watched with a hungry, drunken expression. Satorus eyes zeroing in on the sight of your puffy pussy lips… "My queen… can i…"

"I said, shut up!" you groaned, giving his face a quick slap. Enough to make him snap out of it. That familiar, toothy grin showing up again.

"My ladyyyy… again..!"

You rolled your eyes, bringing your own hand up to your mouth, licking at the fingers.

Satoru's bottom lip got caught between his teeth, trying not to moan while watching you bring that same hand down to give your drooly pussy a few weettt slaps.

His hips twitched up… your cunt being right about his dick. Oh how desperate Toru was watching you start rubbing your clit, watching you start to breathe heavier, watching you start nudging a finger inside.

Oh how he gasped the same time you sank it to the knuckle.

You fingered yourself, the mess you were making was starting to drip down on top of his poor cock. The sound Satoru made was like heaven to your ears.

You gave him some mercy and sat down on it, not inside but just on it, starting to slide back and forth.

You shoved the pussy juice covered fingers in his mouth, watching hims suck and lick on them with glee.

You helped the tip slip inside your wet hole, a pleased sound leaving your throat once it was comfortably inside.

Satoru thought you were going to be the one riding him but then you pushed yourself back up, squatting over him and leaning down, tits in his face.

The tip was still inside, his hips lifting to follow it, to follow the gooey walls squeezing it. "Mmnmm… my lady…"

You smiled. Pulling the hand back and cupping your face with both hands, making a point of you not putting in effort anymore. "Go on then, work for it, you pathetic fool." You bounced your hips a bit to encourage him.

Satoru whined, pushing his legs up and using his knees to lift up his hips, starting to thrust up into you, bound hands straining. "Ahhm… My…my… your majesty… you feel so good… so soso good… " he slurred back, hips faltering and his knees gave in, sliding his feet and laying flat down again, tip about to slip out too. "A..ahhhm… msorry… so sorry…i…hn!"

smack!

You gave him another slap, a bit harder this time. "Keep going, cmon, you can do better than that."

Satoru's white eyelashes fluttered, face flushed from the slap, chest rising and falling before he did his best and hoisted his hips up in the air again, this time using all of his strength to fuck up into your cunt.

The sounds were animalistic and wet, heavy balls slapping up against your ass.

He was putting in so much effort you had to lean over to grab into the headboard for balance.

"My lady…mhss…shit… oh…!" he moaned out, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. "May i… may i…c..cum?"

You weren't any better, lowering your hips a bit to help his cock reach up deeper.

You slurred out some sort of confirmation. "Yesyesyesyes! Yes Satoru!"

With one last final thrust and a grind from your hips he shot a hot, goopy load up into you, covering your walls with thick cum.

You fully sat down, gasping for air while keeping the cock buried to the hilt down, giving it a few more bounces to reach your own orgasm.

So glad Kitty wasn't around to witness this.

You stayed like that for a while with him, releasing his bound wrists and hugging. The cum was slowly beading out of you.

The alcohol made you feel all fuzzy and hot, even after the high. You decided to just rest your eyes for a moment, cuddled up with the court jester.

A sleepy sensation flooded your senses, yawning…. and you went limp, face smushed into his warm, comfortable chest.

BZZ BZZ BZZ..

The sound of an alarm clock buzzing woke you up. You hadn't heard that in so long… shit.

Shit.

SHIT.

Your eyes snapped open.

You were in your bed, naked and sore- but you were back in your home. Even Kitty looked pissed, growling as he woke up nearby.

Aw man.

Guess you had to go to work.

Yoon's notes: this took way too fucking long, i reread it and hate all of it . HOPE U LIKE IT THO this was for my loves @liliklei COLLLABB EVENTT I LOVE UU

This will be one of my last fics i do before i go in full writing hiatus, req and pt2s and ideas i have planned will get written but a lotttt slower or in a few months </3 i will still be here to reblog, reply and talk to my mooties <33 and prolly will drop shorter fics/stuff so bewaree (exam season)

ALSO MY BDAY IS LIKE. IN A DAY SOOO

masterlist

By week four you knew: underneath the sunglasses he wore indoors "for the bit," underneath the easy charm and the way he called everyone "sweetheart" like it cost him nothing, Gojo was the single biggest nerd you had ever met in your life. He annotated his textbooks in four colors. He had a ranked opinion on which university library floor had the best "ambient silence." He once spent twenty minutes explaining the Fermi paradox to a girl at a party who had asked him, literally, where the bathroom was.

And somehow, against every instinct you had about self-preservation, you'd fallen for him anyway.

The problem was that Gojo Satoru was completely, catastrophically oblivious to the fact that you liked him. Not because he was dumb— the man had a 4.0 and could recite pi to sixty digits when he was nervous— but because emotional self-awareness was, apparently, the one subject he'd never taken.

So you did what any reasonable person would do. You made a list.

Not a real list, not at first— just something you texted your roommate at 1 a.m. after he'd walked you back to your dorm and then said "anyway, goodnight, study buddy!" like a golden retriever who'd just learned the word "goodnight." But it grew. Item by item, week by week, you built yourself a plan. A syllabus, if you wanted to be annoying about it. A plan for how to make a nerd— your nerd, if you had anything to say about it– fall for you back.

Here's what the list looked like, three weeks later, mostly executed and slightly out of order:

1. Ask him to explain something you already understand

Not because you need it explained. Because Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree the second someone asks him a real question, and there is nothing in this world cuter than a six-foot-three man drawing a diagram of quantum entanglement on a napkin at 9 p.m. because you asked "wait, but how does that actually work?" He'll talk for eleven minutes straight. You will not understand half of it. You will not care.

2. Bring him coffee exactly the way he takes it, without asking.

Oat milk, two sugars, and— this is important— he needs it slightly too hot, because he likes complaining that it burned his tongue and then drinking it anyway. The first time you showed up to your study session with his order memorized, he stared at the cup for a solid five seconds like you'd handed him a diamond instead of a four-dollar latte.

"You remembered," he said, and for once he didn't sound like he was performing anything.

"It's not that hard, Satoru."

"No," he agreed, still staring at the cup. "I guess it's not."

3. Steal his hoodie and never give it back.

This one is less a strategy and more just theft, but the effect is the same. You took it during a group project when the library air conditioning decided finals week was a personal vendetta, and you simply forgot to return it. He noticed. He did not ask for it back. He instead started "accidentally" leaving other sweaters at your dorm, like he was building a small collection of hostages in reverse.

4. Beat him at something. Anything.

Gojo has never lost gracefully in his life. He is aggressively, hilariously competitive about things that do not matter, like Mario Kart, or who can name more moons of Saturn, or whose flashcards are better organized. Beat him once— just once— and watch a switch flip behind his eyes. He will demand a rematch. He will demand several rematches. He will, three rematches later, forget that he is supposed to be trying to win and just start trying to make you laugh instead.

5. Notice the thing he's insecure about, and don't make a big deal of it.

Underneath the confidence, Gojo has Opinions about his own eyes— the pale blue, the way people stare, the way strangers sometimes ask invasive questions like he's a museum exhibit. You noticed early that the sunglasses weren't entirely a bit. So you never once commented on his eyes unless it was in passing, the same way you'd mention someone's nice handwriting. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just a fact about him, not a headline.

He clocked that you'd clocked it. He didn't say anything. But he started taking the glasses off around you more.

6. Let him info-dump. Then remember what he said.

Two weeks after the Fermi paradox incident, you asked him— out of nowhere, mid-lecture— "okay but statistically, if the paradox holds, doesn't that actually support the idea that we're early, not alone?" He turned to look at you like you'd grown a second head. A good second head.

"You remembered that?"

"You explained it for twenty minutes to a stranger looking for the bathroom. Of course I remembered."

7. Make him carry something heavy for you.

Not because you need the help. Because there is a specific, devastating satisfaction in watching Gojo Satoru— who could probably bench-press the entire physics department— insist on carrying your grocery bags, your laundry basket, your six textbooks, all at once, while pretending it's nothing, while very obviously flexing about it.

8. Show up to his study group uninvited and stay anyway.

He runs a Tuesday night study group that is, allegedly, "for anyone who wants to come," but somehow the same three terrified freshmen show up every week and leave within the hour because Gojo cannot resist turning every session into a TED talk. You started showing up too. You did not leave within the hour. By the third week, he'd started saving you a seat next to him without being asked— the one by the outlet, because he'd noticed your laptop charger was fraying.

9. Text him something dumb at 2 a.m. and let him overthink his reply.

You know this one works because your roommate is somehow also friends with his roommate, and the intel came back within the hour: Gojo spent eleven minutes composing a response to your "ok but if a vending machine gains sentience is it a philosophical zombie or just annoying" text. Eleven minutes. For a joke. He sent back four different drafts before landing on one, and it was still unhinged.

10. Compliment his handwriting, not his face

He gets told he's hot approximately nine times a day, by everyone, including strangers on the bus. It means nothing to him anymore— it's just weather. But tell him his lecture notes are genuinely, freakishly beautiful— every equation boxed, every margin annotated in four colors like he's illuminating a medieval manuscript— and watch him go quiet in a way he never does when someone calls him pretty.

11. Let him see you fail at something.

Gojo doesn't actually want a girl who has it together 100% of the time— he wants someone real, though it took you a while to realize that. The night you completely bombed a presentation and cried a little in the stairwell after, he didn't try to fix it or hype you up with empty noise. He just sat down on the concrete step next to you in his very expensive jeans and said, "okay, worst professor you've ever had, go," and let you complain until you'd laughed the tears away.

12. Ask about his family. Actually listen.

He deflects hard whenever anyone brings up the Gojo name, the money, the expectations. Most people either fawn over it or pretend it doesn't exist. You did neither— you just asked, once, gently, "is it heavy? Carrying all that?" and let the silence sit instead of filling it. He didn't answer for a full minute. Then he told you more than he'd told anyone all semester. He told you about his twin.

13. Give him a nickname that isn't about how he looks.

Everyone calls him "Six Eyes" as some ironic school-wide joke about how much he supposedly sees. You started calling him "Professor" instead, low and teasing, every time he got insufferable about a fact nobody asked for. He complained about it constantly. He also, notably, never asked you to stop.

14. Show up to his dumb extracurricular thing

He's in the university's astronomy club, which meets on the roof of the science building at ungodly hours to look at things you cannot see because of light pollution. You went once, mostly out of curiosity, and ended up going every month after, wrapped in his stolen hoodie (see: item 3), while he pointed at smudges in the sky and insisted, with total conviction, that one of them was definitely Saturn.

"That's a plane, Satoru."

"It's Saturn, and I won't be taking questions."

15. Get jealous. Badly. On purpose.

You are not proud of this one, but it worked, so it's staying on the list. A guy from your seminar started sitting suspiciously close to you during group work, and Gojo— usually the most chill, unbothered person alive— suddenly developed a burning need to sit in on your seminar "for fun." He is not enrolled in your seminar. He does not need to be there. He was there anyway, arms crossed, radiating an aura your professor mistook for academic passion.

16. Take care of him when he forgets to take care of himself.

For someone so smart, Gojo is disastrous at remembering to eat during midterms. You started leaving snacks in his backpack without telling him— protein bars, the specific brand of gum he chews when he's anxious, a note sometimes. He never mentioned it directly. He just started leaving you snacks back, an unspoken little economy of care neither of you would put a name to yet.

17. Let him walk you home even when you don't need it.

It's fifteen minutes out of his way. He does it every time anyway, sunglasses off, hands in his pockets, talking the entire walk about nothing and everything, and you've started timing your goodnights to be a little longer than they need to be.

18. Catch him staring, and don't look away first.

It happened in the library, over a stack of shared notes— you looked up and he was already looking, not at your notes, at you, and for once in his entire dramatic life he didn't have a single word ready. You didn't look away. Neither did he. Somebody's highlighter rolled off the table and neither of you moved to catch it.

19. Tell him, out loud, that you like the nerd version of him best.

Not the flirt. Not the golden retriever performing for a crowd. The version that gets quiet and intense over a whiteboard, that memorizes the digits of pi when he's anxious, that lit up over a napkin diagram because someone finally asked him a real question. You told him this on the roof, under his fake Saturn, and he went so still you thought you'd broken him.

20. Kiss him first.

Because he will never, ever make the first move— not out of fear, but because some small, stupid, sincere part of him doesn't believe someone like you would actually want someone like him, underneath all the noise. So you have to be the one. You kiss him on the roof, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, his ridiculous fake constellation still glowing faintly behind him, and he makes a sound against your mouth like every ounce of composure he's ever performed just short-circuited at once.

When you pull back he's staring at you the way he stares at a problem he's finally solved— stunned, delighted, a little smug that he got there at all.

"Say something smart, Professor," you tell him, breathless.

"Give me a second," he says. "You broke my working memory."

Rather soft, filled with a wool of some sort, neatly hidden beneath its tightly sewn skin. Her button eyes, the same colour as yours, looked at you curiously, cheeks painted a peppery red. You brushed her hair, made of soft wool and looked down at the outfit. The same one you wore yesterday, with a yellow raincoat brushing her knees and high boots loose around the calves. A jumper peeked from beneath the jacket, of the same colour as the one currently lying on the chair.

"Why do you look like me, hm?" a soft ask bounced off the doll's eyes, and you tapped on them with your finger. "Where's your owner, sweetie?"

But the doll, of course, didn't say anything. Instead, looked at you with its round irises and pouted lips, as you sighed. The first day in an old Victorian house, and you were already going crazy. Shoko would surely be proud of you.

With no other option, you hugged the doll closer to your chest and, with a light blanket draped over your shoulder, you went downstairs.

The house was eerily quiet, with the squeak of old stairs echoing off the walls hung with portraits and your breathing mingling with the light patter on the centuries-old windows. The woody fragrance still lingered in the living room as you walked past. Your eyes stayed a moment longer on the slightly ajar little doors, as if checking whether the red brick had suddenly disappeared, revealing to you the entrance to the Alice in Wonderland-like realm.

Unfortunately, it was still there.

The kitchen was bathed in darkness when you set the doll on the counter and switched on the lights. Something flickered, something hissed, before the bulb dimmed like a blown-out candle.

"Are you joking?" You groaned, trying to turn the light on again and again.

Hitting the switch madly until the bulb finally came back to life and bathed your kitchen in a faint glow. Well, it's not like you needed full light to eat breakfast.

The fog knocking on your window provided enough glow to let you distinguish the spoons from the forks in the shadowed drawer.

You opened the fridge next, sighing when you saw the meagre groceries you managed to buy yesterday while passing through the town. A few eggs, butter and milk, as you were sure they would last until your car finally arrived.

"What do you think, mini-me?" You asked, peeking your head from behind the fridge doors. "Bread with eggs or eggs with bread?"

For a minute, a few seconds, you wondered whether you had left her in that position. With her head turned your way, gently tilted. Button eyes gazed lovingly, hair brushing her cheeks in an utterly adorable manner. She looked almost curious about your questions, seemingly listening to your soft complaints all this time.

"Bread with eggs it is then," you giggle, closing the door with a thud.

The buttery fragrance swirled over the pan as you cracked two eggs. At the same time, your phone buzzed, lighting the kitchen with a few messages popping one after another.

You peeked at the screen before a deep scowl twisted your forehead.

Dickhead: Where are you? Your mother said you moved the cities.

Dickhead: Can we please talk? I know I was a total asshole, but you can't just cut yourself off after so many years.

Dickhead: Don't block my number or I'll just get the new one.

"Fuck off," you mumbled, peeking towards the doll. Her small head was still facing the fridge, so you turned her towards you. "Mini-me, how about going on a trip today? I've read there's a haunted well somewhere around," her button eyes shimmered under the flickering light bulb, almost as if she wanted to agree.

With a cup of instant coffee and a warm scrambled egg, you sat on the rocking chair waiting on the porch. Rain pattered, plip-plop-plip-plop on the pinky-washed roof, dripping down the bare ground. An earthy, cold smell tried to slip under your thick pyjamas, so you wrapped the blanket more tightly around your shoulders and sat back in the chair.

The fog was slowly falling, unfolding the sad, dark view of the withered garden and big puddles forming beneath the stairs.

You placed the doll on the table, as if she were the only human-like creature you could speak to. But in fact, if someone peeked through your windows, they would see a possessed, lonely woman who spent her days talking to the weird doll and strolling through the forests to find her next concept for a horror story.

The mug warmed your skin, and the coffee burned your throat in an utterly pleasurable way until a soft sigh slipped past your lips. You wondered whether to ask the neighbour about the doll, but Miss Pink and Miss Forcible would surely show other signs of dementia upon seeing a toy that looked just like you.

As for the peculiar neighbour upstairs… he was better off alone.

The rain slowed as the sun peeked out from between the dark clouds. It kissed the drenched windows for a moment before disappearing again, swallowed by the storm swirling over the mystic woods.

After breakfast, you made yourself look half-presentable, changing out of pyjamas into a yellow raincoat and long boots before going outside. The jumper brushed your skin softly, keeping the pinching air from slipping beneath it.

You've never experienced a summer like this one, but the fog tickled your cheeks pleasantly, and a fresh, woody smell swirled in the air, filling your lungs with an earthy taste. Your yellow-booted feet stepped off the porch, immediately sinking into the mud. With a doll in your hand, you started walking towards the woods spreading behind the house.

A hill of sorts loomed over the pinkish eaves, and so you walked up its crooked path, kicking the little stones creeping under your feet. A low melody bounced off the drenched trees, birthing fruits and flowers and simply leaves, with little droplets tap-tap-tapping onto your coat-covered head.

A crow looked high from the branch, coal eyes following your figure jumping over the pools, with hands gripping the lone stick and marking long, writhen paths. Its lone caw-caw-caw tickled your ears, and you smiled under your nose, hugging the mini-you closer to your chest.

The hill ended after fifteen minutes or so, and thus you stood on its top, glancing at the pinkish house hugged by a soft fog. It was slowly, gently falling down, dancing just above the first steps of the porch, as if scared to slip any further.

The well you've read about on some scaryplaces.net and spookyoregon.com should be somewhere here.

On the hill, beneath the old Victorian house, a well was hidden. Where the town's folk and daredevils would slip in silence, disappearing into the hells of the earth itself. It was supposed to be as old as the house, deep in metres unknown.

You looked around the ground, kicking the pebbles and brushing the mud with your dirty, yellow shoes. Mini-you was looking down too, watching the earth with her shimmering, button eyes.

"Where is this cursed well, hm?" You started jumping, and jumping, hearing nothing but the splashing mud. "The site said it should be somewhere he–"

"Jump once again and you will fall right into it."

A strange voice sliced through the air. You didn't understand why, but a shiver ran down your spine as your head shot up. It was rare you felt any dread at all, tempered by all the ghostly and gory stories that slipped from beneath your wicked fingers.

You weren't scared of ghosts, murderers, or spectral creatures of sorts, always more than happy to visit each and every haunted house nearby.

And yet, the sight of a man standing right in front of your eyes tickled your skin in such an unpleasant manner.

"Oh," slipped past your lips as you looked down. The mud indeed covered the large, wooden lid, and you quickly moved to the left. "I haven't noticed it."

The man came closer, with hands tucked into his old trousers and a brown hat resting on sun-kissed hair. His chest was clothed in a woollen jumper, with a white shirt peeking from the cut collar. Straight trousers ended just above his ankles, revealing long white socks and black, elegant shoes, clean of any mud. Sandy hair was slicked slightly back, and chestnut eyes looked down at you with amusement.

He looked as if he'd been plucked straight from the 60s.

"You didn't see a fairy ring here?" His finger pointed at a few mushrooms growing into a circle.

"It seems so, I was distracted," you mumbled shyly, trying to keep the distance between you and the stranger. "Do you know anything about this well?"

He hummed, clasping hands behind his back. "A bit, miss. It is a very wicked creature indeed."

He paced around, brushing the white mushrooms with his shoe, yet not intruding on their peaceful existence. The wooden cover was old, with planks crumbling under the weight of mud itself, and another shiver tickled your spine at the sheer thought of falling into the endless pit.

"A creature?" You asked, one hand poking the planks with a stick, the other gripping the dolly closer. "It's just an old well."

But the man's eyes got lost somewhere on your chest. Or more, somewhere in the deep, button eyes of your new friend, looking up at him with a pouted smile.

His head tilted, and chestnut moved up, to cross with your scaredy stare. "Where did you find her?"

Your fingers curled around the doll a bit tighter. "A present."

"Present?" Something in his voice told you that he knew about your little lie.

Yet you nodded, lying through your teeth. "From the neighbours."

His eyebrows lifted and creamy forehead creased, bending the skin into a single, crooked fold. The gentle rain tapped on hat, shielding his squinted eyes.

"Which neighbours, if I may ask, miss?"

A feeling of doubt bubbled in your chest. Your heart jumped when he took a step closer and bent over the wooden cover. With two hands, he moved it to the side, showing you an endless pit of unfathomable darkness. A musty smell hit your nose, a mixture of long-forgotten secrets and deep waters bubbling somewhere below.

"I don't know where you found it," he sighed, shaking the mud from his hands. "But I would suggest throwing it here."

You froze. Breath hitched, heart suddenly stopped, as you looked at the man whose warm eyes beamed with truth and kindness. But a desperation of sorts, a worry maybe, as he peeked with a furrow at the dolly sitting in your embrace.

"It's just a doll," you laughed, yet his lips stayed flat. "Why would I need to throw her away?"

A minute had passed or so before he sighed and looked towards your pinkish house. "That place is of the most wicked kind. You should stay away from it."

Your ears perked again, in a similar way as yesterday. The little door was a source of utter disappointment, but if the house veiled other secrets unknown, then you were ready to plunge into them all.

"I've just moved there. The main apartment with the porch," you said, pointing somewhere down the hill. "I think this place is rather nice."

"It's cursed," he said harshly, a low tsk slipping past his lips. "You shouldn't be there. No one has been living here since the previous owners disappeared."

And then you remembered about the picture, still warming the back pocket of your jeans. Thank god you wore the same trousers as yesterday!

You put the dolly under your armpit and grabbed the old, crumpled picture.

"Excuse me, sir, do you mean them?" You took a step towards the man and showed him a photo of two young men. "The neighbour ladies told me of them. But maybe, if there's a chance you know something else…"

It was clear he knew them. Quite well at that, as his face suddenly went limp, chestnut eyes bulging like little porcelain plates. Long fingers grabbed the photo, thumb brushing it gently, as if afraid of crumpling it even more.

And then suddenly, his gaze shot towards the well.

A fathomless hole of most peculiar kind, dripping shivers down your fear-kissed spine. You stood outside the fairy ring, two steps away, yet a sinister spell seemed to pull you closer. No creature tugged at your yellow jacket, yet you needed to take another step back, as if afraid the ground between you and the well would crumble.

The man's breath shuddered, and his eyes filled with fear, as if looking at the well brought back memories he long wished to forget. They plagued his mind and ripped his soul, leaving you no choice but to finally ask, "Did they drown here?"

He suddenly looked your way in surprise, as if your very existence had already slipped his mind. "It's impossible to drown in it."

Another wave of dreadful tickling pinched your skin. "But it's a well. It must end somewhere."

The man shook his head, eyes jumping between the picture and the pit.

"Not this one," he whispered before giving you the photo back. "Stay away from it. And stay away from the house. It's not a good place."

You looked over your shoulder, oogling the rosy tiles mingling in the sheepishly peeking rays of sunlight. The dark clouds swirling over the house slowly began to clear, allowing a few golden rays to bounce off the glass-tiled windows.

There was something eerie about this house indeed, but, after all, that was one of the reasons you bought it. And if it truly hid something wicked behind its walls – you wished to be the first to know of it.

"What happened to the previous owners?" You asked, looking over your shoulder.

But the man… was gone.

And so a gasp slipped past your lips. Muffled and shuddered, as you felt the prickling cold finally slip under the warm jumper. Biting your skin till a chill seeped into your bones, forcing another puff from your throat.

You wondered whether your mind was playing tricks on you.

If the man was simply something you had imagined. A spectral creature, maybe, as it would fit the clothes he wore. The flat scent of his body and skin white as snow, looking cold rather than living.

No… he was here.

As the soles of his shoes were still pressed into the squelchy mud and a photograph, ripped in half, lay on the wet ground.

And so another gasp bubbled in your throat as you bent and grabbed two pieces of paper. Teared right in the middle, splitting the two handsome faces.

Oh, what a pity it truly was, and you sighed, pushing the photograph back into your jeans.

As you stood there – alone, with a chill kissing your spine, your eyes dropped towards the well.

Opened, bare, tugging on your curious mind and whispering wickedly. You bit the inside of your cheeks, looking down at your muddy shoes brushing the fairy ring. Small mushrooms stood tall, like a fortress trying to keep you away from the danger.

If the man fell into the well, you would hear it.

Maybe.

Unless the pit had no water indeed, being a sinister portal of sorts, swallowing the lost fools into its unfathomable realm.

"What do you think, mini-me? Should we look inside?"

The dolly looked at you with her round eyes, and with a finger, you helped her shake her little head.

"Yeah, I also think so," you muttered, and kicked the wooden cover towards the well, just to close it safely.

To keep the world here away from it, but more importantly – to lock whatever resided at its bottom.

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Before you went down from the hill, the sky had closed over the house once again. The bits and snippets of warmish rays of sunshine were long gone, drawing another wave of pattering rain from the sky.

The crystal beads dripped from your yellow hood, wetting the dolly's raincoat too.

As you neared the house, you noticed the neighbour from upstairs grabbing a few packages lying under your door. Not only a lunatic, but also a thief!

"Hey!" You shouted, pointing at him with your stick. "Old man, why are you stealing my stuff?"

He looked over his shoulder, dressed in a tattered bathrobe and a white, dirty shirt peeking from beneath it. The same maniacal look painted his face as he squinted his eyes as if it was the first time he saw you.

"That's not your package, miss," He muttered, straightening up. "Here, smell it."

He stretched his hand; a white, neatly packed roundish thing was right under your nose as you took a deep breath.

"Yuck!" you pushed it away, clipping your nostril with fingers. "What is that?"

"A radish, little miss. Good for your health." He pushed one of the small packages into your hands. "Here, take it. You look sick-like, this weather does not do you good."

Your eyes fixed on the smelly package, and you wondered whether its smell would fill every corner of your house. Maybe you could drop it by his house in the evening and politely return.

The neighbour yawned, scratching himself on the chest. He smelt of pungent cheese, so you stepped back, trying to keep yourself away from the funky odour. Was it for his imagined mice?

"Right," he suddenly leaned closer. Long moustache reminding you of kitten whiskers, old robe sniffing of something musty. "The mice say you are a foolish little lady."

Your eyes twinkled like two lanterns, and your head tilted. The dolly in your embrace felt a bit heavier, so you pressed it closer to your chest. "Why is that?"

He looked over his shoulder, visibly uneasy, standing on your porch. His eyes traced the large windows still hugged by fog before he moved even closer. You held your breath, the odour of radish and cheese wrapping around your wet face.

"They say you shouldn't open the little door."

You scoffed. Not this lunatic talk again!

"But there's nothing on the other side. Just a brick wall separating my apartment from the neighbours."

No one lived on the other side, so you thought it was still for sale. But you didn't dare knock on the empty door to see if anyone was there. Was the scratching you heard that night only in your dreams, or was it something coming straight from the house?

The man sighed as he had yesterday and simply stretched. "The mice say, eat radish to not attract demons. Sometimes they are a bit crazy, but they're never wrong," he repeated. "Eat the radish, little lady, and close the door."

Before you could say anything back, he ruffled your hair with his big palm and went towards the stairs.

"I think they meant garlic," you shot behind him, watching the tall men climb up the steps.

"What did you say?"

You sighed deeply. "The demons are scared of garlic."

He looked at you for a second, twirling a thin moustache between his fingers. "Right, little lady. So the mice are wrong."

He took another step, and another, murmuring under his nose the mice are wrong, they were wrong, before you could only hear the thump of his closed door.

Your eyes peeked at the dolly. "Oh, mini-me, we're surrounded by the crazy people."

A growl came from your belly as you entered the house. But your fridge was beaming with emptiness, and a single packet of instant noodles was hidden somewhere in your luggage. You cooked it with a single egg that was still waiting for its turn on the cold fridge shelf, and sat at the little table in the kitchen.

Laptop right in front of you, with the word opened on the new blank page.

The cursor was blinking, click-click-click, as you started writing whatever slipped into your mind. But it was nothing, truly, only some eerie thoughts swirling over your head like a big, stormy cloud, tapping your fingers onto the keys to put a few coherent, but more likely incoherent, words.

Something about the little town mystery. A haunted house, a weird little dolly, with the round buttons constantly fixed on your face. About the unusually cold summer this year and the need to wear scratchy Christmas sweaters and yellow wellingtons that were a bit too big and squelched in the mud.

You didn't know who the main character would be yet. But the atmosphere of the house and the dolly's tilting head made you think of a little girl who would surely love it much more than you did. And the way she would have a hard time connecting with the weird neighbours – adults, who always seemed quite difficult to understand when you were a child yourself.

It was late evening when you finished scribbling the first two pages. Messy and silly, but a sort of pride swelled your heart and a gentle patter of the rain made you believe that this story could work. Something much different from the things you usually wrote. Without the gore and erotica, but rather reminding you of the Lovecraftian stories and macabre poetry by Edgar Allan Poe.

And so you saved a few silly pages as a PDF and sent your editor an email titled: a horror for children – what do we think?

"Well, mini-me, how about we take a ba–"

But the mini-you was nowhere to be found. She suddenly disappeared from the kitchen counter where you had sat her, between the shelf of spices and the slightly stale bread. There was nothing left but a small pool of rain where her yellow coat had been.

You furrowed, looking around the kitchen. Whenever you had a new idea, you would immerse yourself fully in the new world you were trying to build. And so you would forget to eat and drink, sometimes even to live – the world spun around, and you sat by your desk, focused on the blinking cursor. Sometimes you would unconsciously stand up and do something, only to forget about it a minute later.

And so you thought the same thing happened to the mini-you. You moved here somewhere without giving it much thought, only to forget where the poor dolly was waiting for you.

The darkness slipped into the house, casting shadows over the crimson carpets as you walked in fuzzy socks. The old chandelier gleamed weakly with yellow light, looming over you as you walked through the long corridors.

"Mini-me, where are you?" You hummed, opening the bathroom.

Tile walls silently shone, and the rain still tapped on the little window over the bathtub.

You checked the bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, and the kitchen once again before finally slipping into the living room. And when you thought she wasn't there either, the gentle flickering of the fireplace bounced off the button-shaped eyes.

Lying on the floor, slipping into the slightly opened little door.

"What are you doing here?" You giggled, but an unsettling feeling clenched your heart.

The dolly lay half-hidden behind the doors, button eyes the colour of your irises pulling you closer with unimaginable force. You leaned closer, then bent and grabbed it from the floor.

"There's nothing in there, stop sniffin–"

But then, suddenly, something caught your eye.

A light of some sort – warm and bubbly, slipping through the crack of the small door.

You blinked, once, twice, glancing between the dolly and the door.

With your foot, you pushed it open and gasped.

The brick wall was there no more; instead, glowing bluish circles stretched deep into the house, with cocoon-like walls forming a long, mystifying passageway. Your knees hit the carpet as you peeked inside and touched the soft structure of the tunnel. A deep, delicious smell filled the inside, a roast of some sort that made your stomach turn and squeeze in crying hunger.

Just in case, your fingers pinched your forearm, but aside from the soft "Auch" that slipped quietly past your lips, nothing in the room changed. The fireplace crackled with a soft pop-pop-pop, and rain pattered onto the large windows. Mini-you sat on the floor, leaning against the wall with a pouted smile. Button eyes watched your breath drop in a shudder, as you bit the inside of your cheek.

The mice say you are a foolish little lady, suddenly slipped into your mind. They say you shouldn't open the little door.

Did it also mean you shouldn't walk into whatever was on the other side?

Certainly, and yet you made the initial move by crawling into the tunnel. The rings glinted softly beneath your fingertips, blending and shimmering with gentle hues – from purple and pink to blue and black. Each time your hand or knee made contact, the material exploded with colour, as though each step left a magical, purple imprint.

When you got to the middle, a low, sweet hum slipped past the slightly opened door waiting on the other side. The luscious smell was getting stronger, watering your mouth after a whole day of eating nothing but stale bread and instant soups.

Finally, with a gentle push, the door opened.

Letting you right into… your living room?

"Oh," you mumbled, crawling from the tunnel.

The room looked quite the same, with the deep red sofa sitting calmly in front of the crackling fireplace. The darkness cast shadows over the Persian-style carpets, but you noticed the lack of tapering rain.

The house, instead, was filled with warmth, this mouthwatering smell, and someone's hum. Melody that curled around your earlobes with smooching kisses, as you slowly, with a fast beating heart, walked towards the kitchen.

Your nose following the smell, eyes looking around the house, which seemed the same and yet so different. A bit warmer, cleaner, decorated here and there with flowers and crocheted blankets that hugged the sofa and flower pots. Everything was much more colourful, and so you felt a sudden shiver drip down your spine.

Because it was certainly not your house.

And a man sweeping around the kitchen was certainly not your guest.

He stood tall, a pink apron curling around his lean waist, his wide shoulders clad in a light jumper. From behind, you could only notice milky hair, falling short over his creamy neck.

You stood in the doorway, fiddling with the hem of your jumper. A second passed, then a minute, before the man looked over his shoulder with a beaming smile.

"Oh, sweetheart, you're already here? The roast is almost ready," He giggled, cleaning his hands with a small towel.

The breath caught in your throat. Eyes bulged, and lips fell open, as you saw the same man who plagued your dreams and raised questions beneath your tightened chest. The same man who was in the photograph, with a half-covered face and cheerful eyes mingling like little stars.

But this time, they didn't shine as bright.

Because instead of irises, light blue buttons neatly settled in his sockets. Reminding you of a sea, carrying a sense of freshness, wrapping around your warmed face like a gentle breeze.

"Who are you?" you mumbled, almost shy, and ogled his handsome, angelic face, brimming with a smile.

His head tilted, with a few strands of milky hair brushing the soft forehead. "I'm your neighbour, sweetheart."

"No, that's my house."

A low hum slipped past his lips. "Well, if we want to fight over the ownership, that is, in fact, my house. At least in this world, hm?" He peeked inside the oven, letting the delicious, roasty smell fill the warm kitchen. "Sweetheart, can you please call Suguru? He's up to his elbows in the garden."

"But the garden is withered…" You mumbled, still not daring to come inside the kitchen.

As if afraid that passing the doorway would force you to accept the delirious yet bewitching reality you somehow entered.

Was it a dream? Did you fall asleep while writing again?

Or was the man, with button eyes and a low melody filling the lusciously smelling kitchen, truly real?

Before you'd noticed it, he came closer. And closer, closer, before his long fingers flicked your forehead. A soft "auch" slipped past your lips, and when they opened, he quickly pressed his finger onto your tongue.

At first, you wanted to bite it.

But then heavenly sweetness spilt all over your taste buds and eyes twinkled.

"Not too sweet?" He asked, and the fact that he slipped the same fingers into his lips didn't go unnoticed by your flushed cheeks.

"It's delicious."

He hummed, nodding his head. "Go and tell him the dinner's ready. I know you're starving, so the sooner you go, the better."

You didn't ask him how he knew that. Instead, pressed your palm to the reddened forehead and went outside, towards the garden.

And when your feet stepped from the porch, a loud, surprised gasp once again escaped your throat. The night never looked as beautiful as then, with the dark sky peppered with mingling stars and a large moon, bending and curving as if touched by a wicked spell. It shone almost unnaturally, with a yellow, tale-like light, casting long shadows over the big, lush garden.

The warm illumination hit your cheeks, giggly, as you passed the rusty entrance to the garden and ogled the magical view unfolding right before your eyes. With lanterns hanging heavily off the fruit trees and clean cobblestones leading you further towards the bridge passing over the shallow creek. The flowers were there and birdies and bugs, with bees landing softly on the sweet petals, zzz-bzz-bzz, and drinking the nectar dripping down the watered ground.

There was something utterly enchanting about this place, rather mystical, as the flowery scent smooched your warmed skin, tugging unconsciously on your lips. A giggle slipped past when a little butterfly sat on your stretched finger, its purplish wings flapping with the gentle wind.

And when you crossed the bridge, you saw a man kneeling over the freshly dug earth. His long, raven hair was pinned up in a bun, a few locks falling over his sweating forehead. He hummed a melody of sorts, soft and kind, drawing the little birdies' attention as they sat by him and listened with lidded eyes.

"Um…" you started, swinging on your feet. "The man inside said the dinner's ready."

He glanced over his shoulder and, as you too expected, looked at you with little button-shaped irises. But his were misty purple, deep and mingling, catching the warm flicker of the lanterns.

"Oh, darling, you're early. I still haven't finished planting your flowers," he chuckled and stood up.

You stepped back, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by his height. He seemed as tall as the man back in the house, and yet there was something utterly intimidating about the way he looked at you from above. In a slightly less striking and cheerful way, but with a soft smile tugging on his lips and button eyes staring blankly into your face.

"I didn't know someone else lived in this house," fell awkwardly, as you looked behind him at the few planted flowers. They indeed looked like your most lovely ones. "The little door was bricked."

Suguru chuckled, wiping his hands on the muddy trousers. "I told Satoru to open it a bit later, but he was set on preparing your favourite roast." He left the gardening gloves on the ground before showing you the way to the exit. "And the cake too. I hope you're hungry. He's been cooking all day."

Walking arm in arm, you peeked at Suguru's wickedly beautiful face. His straight, raven eyebrows sat neatly over the purple buttons and sharp jaw, smooth yet slightly dirtied with the mud. Raven locks seemed soft, almost silky, and you needed to curl your hand into a fist so as not to brush a few strands behind his ear.

You didn't need to answer as the sudden growl in your belly was enough to push a soft chuckle past Suguru's lips.

When you walked back into the kitchen, everything was already set.

The table was filled with foaming meats and fruits, a bottle of red wine with three glasses stood in the middle, and Satoru was quickly pushing the strawberry-cream cake to the fridge.

"Please sit down, sweethearts," he said, pulling your chair.

You nodded, sitting down on the soft, cushioned seat. Much more comfortable than the ones you had in your house.

"The weather's pretty fine today, isn't it?" Satoru hummed while putting a piece of warm, honeyed-glazed meat on your plate. With mashed potatoes, vegetables, coating everything in gravy.

The portion was large, but your hunger was even greater, so your fingers gripped the chair's edge in excitement.

"It rained a little, but I almost finished everything," Suguru answered, placing a glass of red wine in front of your plate. "Darling, how was your day?"

Two pairs of button eyes turned to you with a mingled look, and suddenly you felt small. Overwhelmed by the warmth and kindness filling this house, and by the way they turned such simple things, like dinner, into something lovely. It was the same house you lived in, yet it carried a homey cosiness that let your shoulders to roll back and lips lift into a shy smile.

"It was fine. I finally started writing my new book."

Satoru gasped, taking a sip of wine. "What is it about?"

Suguru hummed, also wishing to know more.

The cutlery clicked as you pushed it down and you cleaned your palate with a sip of wine. It dripped down your throat, coating it in a sweet glaze.

"Well, I just finished the first draft. Nothing special, just a children's book," a lie fell from your lips almost naturally.

They didn't have to know that you took inspiration from their eerie house and decided to present it as an unfathomable, wicked spirit. And that whatever, whoever, they were, would surely slip into the furthest pages of your book.

"Talking about children," Suguru chuckled. "Did you like your present?"

Your head tilted, eyes jumped between one and another. "What present?"

The soft crackling of the fireplace coming from the living room tickled your ears.

"The doll, of course," Satoru said, propping his chin on his hand. "Suguru made it especially for you."

The charm of his voice made your head spin, and a surprised gasp escaped your throat. "Ah, she's lovely! Thank you so much, um…" You bit the inside of your cheek. Feeling their blank, soulless button stares felt rather uneasy. "You didn't have to. The dinner too."

Satoru waved his hand. "Oh please, why won't you just join us for dinner every day?"

You took it as a joke, and thus a lovely laugh fell past your lips. But it, in fact, was no fool at all, and so both of their handsome faces looked up from their plates, staring at you with an empty look.

"Satoru is right, darling. We would love to have dinner with you."

And the truth was, you didn't have anything against it. Rather, you felt a mysterious pull towards the two men living in the otherworldly part of your house. The curiosity that killed the cat the moment you slipped through the small door.

You knew, felt, that there was something utterly wicked about it all. Their faces, without a wrinkle, as if they were still in their youth. No more than late twenties, surely, with cheeks smooth and a jaws sharp, as they chatted with you throughout the whole dinner.

A while passed before you untangled yourself from their soft requests to stay. To see the garden, look around the house, get another slice of cake. Satoru joked a lot, while Suguru stayed mostly quiet, simply adding a few questions here and there.

They were kind, almost gentlemanly, and a joyous laugh bubbled in your throat whenever Satoru rolled out another joke, and Suguru shook his head with a sigh. It took a while to get used to their eyes, but after a few glasses of wine, you stopped avoiding their gaze.

And looked instead. Observed the movement of their brows, the bloom coating the smiling cheeks, long lashes casting shadows over the buttoned eyes. At first, you thought it looked similar to contact lenses. But after peering closer, you noticed that those were just their eyeballs – dark like midnight, with big buttons covering them completely. Almost as if they had dug up the previous ones, and–

"You can also stay the night?" He suggested, giving you a slice of cake after dinner.

His finger wiped off the cream from the knife and extended towards your lips. With a quick, uncertain glance at his bluish buttons, you licked it clean, immediately feeling another wave of pleasant sweetness drip down your spine.

"I don't want to sorn…"

"Sweetheart, you're more than welcome to spend your days here."

You wriggled on a soft chair, digging uncomfortably into a cake. "Truly, I cannot. I have work too, and need to visit the town…"

"But–"

This time, a low, shuddering voice echoed off the wooden kitchen floor. "Satoru."

It sounded tenderly, yet laced with admonishment too. As if Suguru tried to suggest gently, not to push you any further.

Satoru's lips fell into line before he glanced at the man with the blank expression.

The stillness stretched like a wicked thread as you bit silently into the strawberry cake.

"Right, apologies, sweetheart," he said after a minute, cracking a soft smile. "I forgot that we have all the time in the world."

Instead of saying anything, you simply nodded and hummed sweetly.

They seemed so different, like sun and moon, yet made of the same matter. Their lives were linked in some obscure way, with the past completely unknown and any questions you had about their lives left to blur into the air like fog.

You knew that the moment your feet would land back on your side of the house, they would lead you straight to the laptop.

The search engine opened as you tapped any possible keywords that would show anything about the mysterious men living on the other side of your house.

In a completely different world, where your garden blushed like blooming roses and the moon lurked over your cheeks warmed by the sweetness of red wine.

This evening felt comforting, almost intoxicating, with your belly stuffed full and gentle dizziness already lulling you to slumber.

But you couldn't find anything online. Nothing related to the old secret of the pinkish Victorian house. Nothing about the two young owners, who supposedly disappeared into thin air.

As if nothing ever happened here, in what you simply couldn't believe.

You sighed, scratching your itching palm. A rash of sorts was slowly spreading around it, and a tsk fell past your lips, as you remembered that you didn't have any ointment. That's what you get for grabbing the dirty, muddy sticks.

Rain still pattered on the windows, as if this world and the one behind the doors were of two completly different universes.

The tingling on your spine felt like a bad omen, but the last drops of sweet cream spreading all over your tongue reminded you of the well-spent evening.

The dolly sat by the closed doors, looking at you with the same pouted smile. But also mischievous of sorts, as if unsatisfied that right after coming back here, you immediately locked the door shut.

With the key sitting deep in your jeans pocket and your mind pulsing with the overwhelming experience.

One thing, however, was clear.

You would go back to that house again.

And uncover whatever wicked secret both men tried to hide for the past hundred years.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Actually, I still have a few slots left for the taglist, so it's still open!

art by by K05062688 - twitter button divider by @saradika-graphics

you let satoru do as he pleases, threading your hands through his hair as his hand dips between your inner thighs. he hums into your neck when you scratch his scalp. “suguru,” you breathe, “how’d you two even get here? coach toji’s gonna kill you guys.”

“kiss,” satoru interrupts. you tilt your head towards him, eyes still on suguru as gojo presses his lips to yours.

suguru’s face twists in disgust, but he doesn’t comment. “satoru bribed him. paid him a couple hundreds to see you for five minutes.”

“right—” your voice strains when gojo gropes your ass once again. “and you followed him because?”

geto is already looking away. “he bribed me too.”

you snort, but it turns into a shiver as satoru sucks on your earlobe. he hums, pleased, when your fingers tighten in his hair.

“mmh… got an away match,” he kisses your jaw. “wanted to see my girl first.”

you’re not his girl, you know you’ll never be, but you still laugh when he squeezes your waist & presses hurried kisses to your cheek. you shove him away & his grin is cocky.

“gonna score for you,” he tugs you back, dipping his head to your ear. “and then you’ll treat me, yeah?”

you hum when his arms snake around your hips once again.

“only if you score the winning goal.”

2. POST MATCH SEXCAPADES !

satoru comes back too late.

you’re not sure exactly why—maybe overtime, maybe the team stopped somewhere to celebrate their win—but you don’t let the thought plague you. you’re more concerned about the fact that it’s nearly evening & you can hear a ball kicking against the gym walls. you’re still in your cheer uniform, tiny skirt & sheer top, standing at the metal doors as you watch gojo dribble on his own.

he stops dribbling to catch his breath, wiping sweat off his chin. and then he’s off to sit at the bleachers, letting water slide down his neck as he chugs from a bottle.

you take it as your cue.

you have your hands behind your back, padding all slow, steps soft as you make your way to him. gojo keeps his bottle pressed to his lips but he sees it. how your skirt clings to your thighs. how your breasts ripple under the thin material. he lets out a low hum as you sit yourself on his lap.

you loop your hands around his neck. “hi.”

his lip tugs. “hi,”

he squeezes your waist as you press yourself into him. your tits smush against his chest, nipples hardening, and his fingers are already tracing the hem of your skirt & gliding up your thigh.

“how was the match?” you mumble.

“was good,” he mutters, but his thumb has already found your panties underneath your skirt. he rubs a slow circle over the bud. “you miss me?”

“no,” you sass, but he presses his thumb into your clit & your hips stutter. satoru laughs.

“i know what you like now,” he hums, left hand gliding up your side as the other rubs slow circles over your panties. “know it only takes a little.”

his thumb finds your nipple through your thin shirt. he rubs a circle over the pebbled peak, slow, but then he raises a brow. “no bra?”

you can’t respond. your breath hitches as your head falls into his shoulder.

“so cute,” he murmurs softly. he lets you press against him, leaving your panties to grope your heavy tits in his palm. he squeezes and fondles, pressing light kisses to your cheek as you make pretty noises in his ear. your hips buck into him.

“needy,” he scoffs, but his hands come up to guide your hips as you rut against him. he’s already hard and your panties are soaked thin and you let the material cling between your folds as your clit rubs against him. he flips up your skirt to find you drenched & slobbering. he bites his cheek.

“fuck, baby,” he rasps, sliding your panties over your aching cunt. you’re still humping him. “why’s your pussy so fucking wet?”

you only whimper as he presses his thumb to your sticky clit, rubbing hard circles over the bud. his other hand gropes your hip, guiding you faster over him. your breathing shudders as his thumb circles your clit faster and harder, until your hips are stuttering & he’s cupping your pussy so you cum in his palm.

you whimper, tears pricking at your lashes as you come down from your high. satoru kisses your cheek slow. “mmh, good job, baby.”

he’s still rubbing his palm over your pussy, massaging your warmth all slow & lazy. your eyes drop to his bulge, his cock practically twitching in his shorts. you reach a hand to glide over it, palming him so his hips twitch. he inhales sharply, “fuck—”

“not in my uniform,” he steals your hand, kissing your jaw. “gonna be a nightmare to clean.”

you glare at him through your lashes. “it’s already dirty, idiot.”

he laughs at your pretty face glaring up at him. your cheeks are still flushed, lashes wet, and your lips are in a frown but satoru swears you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. he folds his hand over yours and dips his head to kiss you warm & slow. you gasp as his tongue pushes in, a soft moan leaving your lips as his tongue grazes yours.

“another time,” he murmurs against your lips. “no pouting, yeah?”

you pout anyways, and satoru kisses it off.

3. NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND !

satoru is driving too fast.

his jaw is tight, knuckles white against the steering as you clutch your seatbelt beside him. your heart hammers against your ribs but the engine soon slows, his foot easing down on the breaks as the car comes to a stop at a traffic light.

today’s match went bad, really bad, so bad to the point that afterwards you’d tried to console him and he’d simply walked past. you try not to let it get to you. you know how men are when it comes to losing in sports.

but satoru’s breathing settles beside you, so you try once more.

“you played good today.”

silence.

"i know you're upset," you continue, voice soft. "but it's just one game, and you'll get them next time.”

silence again. his jaw only ticks, face illuminated by the traffic light’s red glow. the seconds seem to stretch into minutes, and you fumble with your skirt.

“you did your best,” you turn to him. “that’s all that matters—“

“can you stop?”

you freeze.

satoru doesn’t look at you. his fingers tap against the steering as he lowers his foot to the gas pedal. he’s not speeding anymore, but the silence stretches & you can feel a lump clawing at your throat.

you bite your lip. and satoru’s mad, yes, but he’s got no right to talk to you like that or take his anger out on you. so you suck in a breath, try to correct him. “i was only trying to help. you don’t have to take it out on me—“

“do you ever get tired of talking?”

“what?”

but satoru continues. “you always have something to say, don’t you? you’re not my fucking girlfriend. and i don’t need your fucking comfort.”

you blink. the words don’t register at first, but soon your throat is closing up, and you’re nodding obediently before you can think any better of it. your skirt bunches in your hands as you try to keep your breathing steady. god forbid you give him a reason to snap at you once again.

“you’re right,” you try for sass but it fails. “and i won’t act like it again.”

but satoru sees you through the rearview mirror. your eyes are on your lap, like you’re still trying to process what just happened, your thumbs fiddling with the hem of your skirt. satoru only swallows, glances away. if he ignores you long enough, you’ll be just fine, right?

your breath hitches beside him and he crumbles immediately.

he’s already pulling over, unbuckling his belt to reach over the console. “no baby, i’m sorry,” he pleads, and maybe he shouldn’t because it only makes tears fall from your eyes. “shh baby don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so fucking sorry.”

he smushes your face into his chest, carding his fingers through your hair. you try to push him away but he takes your hand and presses it to his chest.

“didn’t mean to snap at you,” his breathing is ragged as he cups your face. “don’t cry baby, you know i hate it when you cry.”

you sniffle as he swipes a thumb over your wet lashes. “then what are we?”

satoru doesn’t answer. instead he presses his lips to yours, slow and warm, head tilting to deepen the kiss. “you’re my girl,” kiss. “my baby,” kiss. “my everything,” kiss.

he doesn’t say my girlfriend. but he doesn’t need to, right?

footballer!gojo doesn’t do relationships. and cheerleaders like you don’t make good girlfriends anyway. so you swallow the lump growing in your throat & let him part open your thighs.

SCORE, end

You laughed, slipping under her big umbrella and heading towards the porch. "Not everyone who writes horror is a freak," you murmured, wiping your muddy shoes on the welcome mat, which seemed as old as the house itself. Cute.

"No, but everyone who moves to the place in the middle of the forest and without any signal..." She looked at her phone. "...only to move into a haunted house, certainly is."

"It’s not haunted!" You giggled, opening the white, wooden door. "Oh!"

The inside was as beautiful as you expected. Warmth spilled over the old desks and dark walls, giving the interior an antique soul. The Persian-style carpet under your feet looked as if freshly washed, drawing you towards the centre of the house. Long, dark stairs led to the second floor, while two corridors welcomed you further inside.

Shoko followed you into the kitchen – old and slightly rusty, with rain tapping against the large windows. You hurried to explore other rooms – the living room, a small basement that Shoko refused to enter, and a cosy office with beautiful mosaic windows overlooking the garden. Eventually, your feet carried you upstairs.

The big bedroom, with a baldachin bed and a wide windowsill, seemed an ideal spot for reading in the evening. Shoko grimaced at the old, flowery tapestry covering the walls and the crimson carpet on the floor. 

"Has no one redecorated this house since the nineteenth century?" she murmured, and then her eyes fell on the bedside table. "Oh my gosh, is that a paraffin lamp? Are you kidding me?"

Your eyes fell on the little, yellow lamp and twinkled like little stars. It was indeed a paraffin lamp, and you would surely check whether it was still working.

"Oh, come on, it has a soul!" You tapped your finger against a crying window before turning back to sighing Shoko. "I love it. Just imagine how beautiful it’ll be when the garden blooms again."

Your friend walked to your side, looking out the window. The sky was torn apart over the withered trees and flowers, but she had to admit it indeed had potential. With just a bit of care and patience, the whole place could be turned into a fine summer house, with her and Utahime coming over for the weekends.

"I saw a lake nearby. I guess… we could have a BBQ or something," she muttered, and you bounced on your feet with a squeak. 

Your arms wrapped around her shoulders, and cheek nuzzled against hers. "I told you! I’ll make sure you love this place. And since Utahime also likes gardening, just bring her over at the weekend."

The moving company brought all your things inside, and when you went downstairs, heavy boxes loomed like wicked trees over the living room. The old crimson sofa seemed a bit dusty, so you both sat on a carpet and began to unpack slowly. 

Wind and rain hit the windows, letting the faint tap-tap-tap fill the house. After an hour, you ordered a pizza and stuffed yourself, enjoying the dark, rainy day from the porch. The air smelt earthy, tickling your skin with a gentle chill. A light jumper warmed your goose-bumped arms, and you laughed, thinking how delirious the weather was. 

"So does it look like the place to give you an idea for another story?" Shoko asked, taking another slice. 

A low hum slipped past your lips as the crispness wrapped around your nostrils. "I can already sense another best-selling murder in a little, eerie town. Or a haunted house, maybe?"

She giggled, nodding slowly. "A haunted house would work," she said, her eyes looking up the long stairs to the attic. "I guess you can ask neighbours about any freaky accidents. Aren’t they like a hundred years old?"

"I don’t know, the listing only mentioned that they’re quiet."

"So maybe they’re dead."

A low tsk escaped your lips, and Shoko chuckled. "I’m just joking. But if they really have been living that long, you should ask them some questions." She wrapped a loose jumper around her arms a bit tighter as a chill wind smooched her cheeks. "This place is so fucking old I wouldn’t be surprised if someone had been murdered here."

A minute of comfortable silence stretched between you before Shoko turned your way, a slight frown on her forehead. "I’m serious. This place was crazy cheap, so what if someone died here? In, you know, the most wicked and horrible way."

Shivers washed over your spine at the sheer thought of someone dying in the same living room where you had just unpacked your things. But at the same time, something exciting bubbled in your belly. Something telling you that the writer’s block that had haunted you for the past few months would finally dissolve into thin air.

That, after all, was the whole point of moving hours away from your previous town. Leave family and friends behind, only to get yourself cosy somewhere, nowhere, in the middle of a forest. In a small, unknown town, living in a centuries-old Victorian house that kept the secrets of the most unknown and dreadful kind.

It’s been a while since you wrote something good. Winning the global charts, an immediate bestseller-type of good.

The past few months had truly been nothing but hellish, with a nasty break-up topping it all. You still tried to kick Sukuna’s body, hunched over some blonde slut, on your shared sofa in your shared apartment out of your mind. His pathetic attempts to coax you up, because he’s been a bit too lonely, simply overly drunk, and he absolutely didn’t mean it. 

Three years of relationship ended just like that and a week later, with all the money saved on the previous two bestsellers, you bought this house. 

Old and very pinkish, waiting for its owner for a very long time. You didn’t ask much about why. Didn’t ask whether someone had died here or if it was haunted. At that point in your life, it simply didn’t matter. The only thing you were thinking about was how to get away from Sukuna’s begging to bring you back and cut yourself off from your editor’s constant prying about the newest text.

Shoko glanced at your furrowed forehead and sighed. "Here," she said, fiddling with her jeans’ pocket and placing something on the table. "I found it in the drawer of your night table. Maybe you could start by asking about them?"

You looked at the piece of paper before noticing it was, in fact, a picture. Old and a bit crumpled, it showed two young men. The first, closer to the camera, had a loose strand of black hair brushing his cheek. Eyes slightly lidded, looking down at his hands. He looked rather handsome, with a sharp jaw and a straight nose, no more than in his late twenties. 

The other man behind him seemed almost ghastly. With white hair and crystal eyes, he looked straight into the camera. Two raised fingers covered his lips, but with only such a bit of detail, you noticed that the beauty of his face was indeed unmatched.

You flipped the photo to see if it had a description. There was something, a few letters, but someone blanked them out with a black marker.

"Previous owners?" You asked, squinting eyes and trying to read what was written under the heavy marker. Unfortunately, to no avail. 

Shoko shrugged, chewing another slice of pizza. "A bit young for the owners, no?" You shot her a look, and she chuckled. "Right, sorry. They do look our age. But I don’t think they make cameras like that anymore. It must’ve been taken a long time ago."

Your brows suddenly furrowed, as if you had just remembered something. "You said you found it in the bedside table?" Shoko nodded. "I checked it before, but there was nothing inside."

She stopped chewing, chestnut eyes suddenly bulging. If the plate wasn’t already on her thighs, she would drop a slice of pizza, sauce-side down, dirtying her jeans. 

"Don’t joke," she murmured, seeing the wicked smile turning your lips. "Oh my god, stop! I really think there’s something wrong with this house!"

But the thing was – you did not, in fact, joke. After coming into the bedroom and opening all the furniture with handles, you truly didn’t see this photo. It may have slipped to the bottom of the drawer or stuck to one of its sides. You may also have missed one of the three drawers the table had, and indeed didn’t notice it.

Your thumb brushed the old photo. And only then did you notice a yellow, slightly hazy date in the corner. 

1966.

Shoko looked at the point your thumb just brushed over and pretended the goosebumps washed over her spine. 

"Sixty years ago," she muttered, staring at it with wide eyes. "If your neighbours are that old, surely they will know something about them."

Two hours later, after Shoko helped you unpack most of your belongings and returned to your city – though not before repeatedly assuring you, just call me if anything happens; I’ll get here as fast as I can – you finally found yourself in front of a neighbour's door.

The short stairs led to the ground floor, and you noticed they lived just beneath your kitchen. Thick wooden doors featured a small window in the centre, mostly covered by a curtain. You knocked once, twice, and before deciding to ring the doorbell, you thankfully looked down at the old mat with a don’t ring the doorbell or whistle sign.

"So what am I supposed to do?" You wondered, trying to peek through the blinds.

The inside looked a bit empty, dark, as if no life had graced it for a long, long time. But with a squint of your eyes, you noticed a gentle flicker of the lamp, shining somewhere deep within the house. 

"Hello?" You knocked again. "I’m your new neighbour! Just wanted to drop by and say hi!"

But the long silence that stretched between you and the wooden door was broken only by the soft pattering of rain. 

And so, with a photo in the back pocket of your jeans and gaze lowered, you turned away and walked up the stairs.

Not a second later, someone fiddled with the handle. You heard a whisper, and the door opened with a loud bang. "Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. Next time, try to knock a bit louder!"

You looked over your shoulder and saw a tall, old woman. With a strange waist-to-breast ratio, you wondered how her back handled the weight of such size. Blond hair, neatly brushed into a bob, and blue eyeshadow smeared on her eyelids.

You tried to suppress a giggle at the pink fur she wore, which made her look more like an old dancer than a senior lady.

"Oh, hello. I’m sorry to bother you, but I just moved in and wanted to say—"

"Of course, sweetie, come in, come in," she turned back to look at someone. "Darling, please boil the water for tea! We have a guest."

And so you slipped inside the dark house, only then noticing that the long corridor stretched further into the place. The woman led you right to the velvet curtain covering the rest of the home, and as she lifted it, a large, dimly lit living room spread before you. 

With multiple flickering candles scattered all over the place – decorating the chimney, shelves, and a low wooden table set right out from the sofa. Red cushions swallowed you whole as you plumped down. 

Only then did you notice at least five dogs running around the room. Barking, sniffing your slightly wet shoes, jumping on the sofa and trying to lick your cheek. You pushed them away with a low giggle before a blond woman took them all down to the old carpet and joined you on the couch.

"Call me Miss Forcible, sweetie," she said, looking towards the chimney. At the large picture showing two slim women dressed in tight gymnastic suits. "For I was unmatched for a whole life!"

A short gasp slipped past your lips as you looked closer. Both women looked as if they were in their late twenties, with beaming smiles and circus-like decorations stretching behind them. A waterfall of colours, ribbons and lights, and you could almost smell the familiar scent of burnt popcorn and the cheesy melody that mingled with children’s laughter. 

You recognised the tall lady with long, blond hair, but the other one, with an arm wrapped around her waist…

"And me, Miss Pink!" A slightly pitched voice filled the dimmed living room, turning your head towards a room that seemed to be a kitchen. 

A short, older woman walked out, carrying three cups of tea. A bit curvier than her friend, much, much smaller, she reminded you of an apple. Pink hair curled under her eyes, making her plump face look even plumper.  

Three cups of tea were set on the low table, while Miss Pink slouched in the soft chair next to the couch. Dressed in a green bathrobe braided with plastic feathers. Her rosy face smooched with a round, crimson blush, reminding you of those vintage china dolls with cheeks plump like peaches and a round bloom coating their pale skin.

"Oh, our new neighbour?" She asked, looking at her friend. 

Miss Forcible nodded, placing a cup in front of you. "Yes, darling, this is…"

You introduced yourself with a giggle, feeling a slightly intimate manner stretch between the two women.

"Such a beautiful name!" Miss Pink gasped, pushing a plate of buttery cookies towards you. "And what a beautiful owner!"

A shy thank you slipped past your lips as you bit into a cookie. Buttery creaminess spilled over your tongue, with a few sugary droplets moving under your teeth. 

Miss Forcible nodded and picked up her cup of tea. "So why here, sweetie? Isn’t Pink Palace a bit too… vintage for a young bird like you?"

You swallowed the cookie and took a sip of black, bitter tea. Miss Pink watched you with a gentle smile, like a sweet, caressing auntie. 

"I think the house is beautiful. And I just needed a little break from the city’s rush," you half-lied, not mentioning the break-up. "Oh, I’m also a horror writer and thought a Victorian house would be a perfect place to get a few fresh ideas."

A few dogs sat patiently by your legs, waiting for a few crumbs to drop onto the carpet. Something sweet lingered in the air, and the room was much warmer than your house. More cosy, homey, so you let yourself sink deeper into the couch.

"This house is full of ghastly stories!" Miss Pink gasped. "And if you visit a nearby town, I’m sure you’ll find some spooky tales. I think you can still visit the place where they burned witches," she giggled, and you followed. A minute later, a thought clouded her forehead, and thin, pale eyebrows lifted. "Actually, why won’t you ask the boys? They know everything about that stuff."

Your head tilted, and your hand froze over the second cookie. Miss Pink nodded, as if to herself, and Miss Forcible sighed. 

"Darling, they moved out a long time ago," she said, adding a sugar cube to her tea. The third one already. "She’s too young to know them."

Miss Pink hummed under her breath, chubby fingers fiddling with a bathrobe. "Ah, right, indeed. I seem to forget how much time has passed," she muttered, taking a sip of tea. "I wonder how they’re doing."

Now your ears pricked up and eyes shone with curiosity. It was a pity you didn’t have a notebook to write down this brief chit-chat, but your brain was already working at full speed to memorise every detail. 

"Who knows?" Miss Forcible waved her hand. "Moved out, went missing… They just disappeared one day. It was for the best; enough problems had been caused by their presence."

And then, you remembered. The thing you came here for. 

The picture felt like a burn on your skin, as if reminding you of a hidden mystery within its thin, paper-like form. You pulled it from your back pocket and placed it on the low table. A few candles cast a warm glow over the old photo, making it shimmer faintly.

"Are you talking about these two?"

Miss Pink and Forcible leaned in, squinting at the photo. One of the dogs leapt onto the sofa, nuzzling its furry head against your shoulder and waiting to be stroked. You scratched it with a giggle, as it bounced in place. Miss Pink gasped, pointing at the men with her long nail. 

"Darling, we made this photo!" She exclaimed, glancing up at Miss Forcible. 

"Mhm," the other woman hummed, still squinting her blue eyes. "I remember. On the day you broke your ankle."

"And they needed to take me all the way to the town’s hospital," Miss Pink said, turning your way. "We were fifteen then, just before a local acrobatic competition."

Your head tilted as a few questions began to bubble beneath your chest. "So it was…"

"Sixty years ago," Miss Forcible sighed, setting down her cup of tea. "They lived here for four years before their sudden disappearance."

Candles on the table flickered, though the air stayed still and sweet. Sugary, with a buttery scent clinging to your clothes. But you didn’t mind, taking another cookie from the plate. 

"Can you tell me a bit more about them?" You asked, swallowing the sweetness with warm tea.

But Miss Forcible only frowned, her gaze fixed on the low table. Blonde locks were neatly tucked behind her ears, and blue eyeshadow smudged across the eyelids and along the waterline. She looked young for a seventy-five-year-old, though wrinkles did indeed bend and curve across her slim face. 

"They were real gentlemen…"

"Only because they were nice to us doesn't mean they may be called gentlemen, darling."

Miss Pink pouted, shaking her head. "Well, they were quite nice indeed. And funny, especially this one," she said, her finger pointing at the white-haired man. "Although I don't seem to remember his name. He always gave me sweets and dolls," she added, this time her wrinkled finger moving to the black-haired man. "Made by him. Oh, and he always spent all day in the garden! It was so beautiful, I tell you, sweetie. I lived in the attic apartment back then, and we always had so much fun!"

A smile tugged at your lips as the image of such a vast space in full bloom suddenly popped into your mind. If only the rain stopped for a moment, you could go and take care of it. Ignore the book you haven't even started yet and your phone, which glimmered with a dickhead nickname at least five times a day.

"But the townspeople never liked them," Miss Forcible added, pulling a heavy sigh from her darling. "Outcasts, you may say."

"Why?" You asked, taking a sip of still-warm tea. 

It pooled in your stomach, rising as a fluttering, tender feeling.

But it seemed your question carried a sort of mouth-shutting spell. Both women looked at each other, a sense of something obscure clouding their foreheads in the same manner. A thought, a memory, long forgotten in the corners of their minds, was pulled back with a single question of yours. 

And, from their expressions, the memory seemed to be of no pleasant sort. But rather a nightmare that plagued their wrinkled heads, with gazes crossing and reddened lips sighing lowly. 

A long minute stretched between you, with warm candles flickering over a single buttery cookie left on the plate, and an old clock ticking tick-tock tick-tock, filling the room with its steady tune. 

Then, suddenly, Miss Pink’s eyes glimmered, and a life turned to her flushed cheeks once again. Wrinkled hand petted one of the dogs as she giggled under her nose and glanced at the blonde woman. 

"Darling, why won’t you invite the boys over? I haven’t seen them in a long time."

꩜ ꩜ ꩜

Five minutes later, you were standing under the long stairs leading to another neighbour. 

The words all of them are old and crazy said by your real estate agent, still lingered in your mind, and thus you simply deduced that Miss Pink simply had a sort of dementia. 

Miss Forcible, on the other hand, seemed to know something. Remember, of the two men, whose picture once again burned through the back pocket of your jeans. 

After finishing the tea, you decided to excuse yourself, as it seemed your questions were only making one, if not both, of the elderly women uncomfortable. Although it was a pity, as they truly seemed to be the only ones who could tell you as much about those two young men. 

The rain was pitter-pattering on your yellow coat draped over the loose jumper. A low huff slipped past your lips, seeing the sky still showing no trace of the warmth you longed for. Although the weather indeed looked rather perfect for indulging yourself in a story. 

Or at least its outline. 

Or maybe simply opening the draft.

You walked up the stairs, its old, rusty metal chattering under your steps. 

You knew nothing of the other neighbour, aside from the fact that he used to work in a circus. A tall man with a certain accent, as Miss Forcible said. Rather weird, smelling of radish and with little footprints following him all around. 

So when you knocked on the white door, you expected to hear another wave of barks. Or maybe a low meow, slipping from the endless darkness spilling behind the small window. 

This time, you didn’t have to wait long, as the door opened with a creak. If not for your rather quick reflexes, the man, at least two metres tall, would surely have hit your nose. 

"Excuse me?" You gasped, quickly jumping back. 

Your eyes followed up, and up, through the tight shirt hugging his torso, with a few stains on its white material. Through the long arms and wide chest, till fixing on a thick moustache and eyes squinted like a cat. Sandy irises looking up and down your drenched body, with a yellow hood of a raincoat protecting your head.

"Excuse you indeed, young lady," his voice was low and lined with a sort of bitterness. "Who are you, if I may ask?"

You took another step back, feeling a strong smell of radish emanating from his body. So the weird ladies were saying the truth.

"I’m your new neighbour," you pointed downstairs at the porch. "Just wanted to say hi, and–"

"Hello," he said and a second later, the door closed. 

Simply, just like that, leaving your mouth open and fingers digging into the wet palms. The darkness spilt behind the little glass window, with a white curtain covering the inside of his attic apartment. 

It’s not like you desperately wanted to come in, but… well. You did want that. 

To see the inside of his house, ask about the previous owners from sixty years ago. Although considering the timeline, there was a chance he wouldn’t even know them. And a man looked a bit younger, too, of no more than sixty years.

With a low, irritated sigh and dickhead slipping past your lips, you started walking downstairs.

Stairs felt slippery under your shoes, rain hit your cheeks, and the photo weighed almost a ton. Filling the inside of your pocket like little stones, till you felt each scratch and crumple of the paper. 

The hood obscured your vision, forcing you to focus on the metal stairs. Crystal droplets hit your ears, also making you rather deaf to anything else around you.

And thus you didn’t hear, didn’t feel the footsteps following you, until a heavy hand landed on your shoulder. 

You turned with a shock, twisting your face and letting a muffled gasp escape throat. 

The man who closed the door in front of your nose stood mere millimetres from you. With face eerily close to yours, finger pressed to lips and gaze fixed somewhere. Over your shoulder, down the stairs, towards the porch and the crying windows. 

"What–"

"My mice say, young lady cannot open the door," he whispered, still looking anywhere but into your eyes.

As if whatever he said was of the utmost secret.

Your forehead furrowed, and nose squirmed, feeling the strong smell.

"The door? What door?" You asked in an equally whispering tone. 

He, finally, looked at your face. A low hum filled his throat and moustache moved with a parting of his lips. 

"The small door. Don’t open them."

You didn’t check each corner of the house yet, but did not see any sort of the small door he was talking about.

Old and crazy, you remembered the agent’s enigmatic voice.

But the man… did not look crazy at all. Rather, something flickered behind his gaze, as if the little door he talked about was the centre of his recurring nightmares. The way his fearful gaze slipped between you and the porch of your house quickly spiked your interest.

And it also sent a shiver down your spine as he once again pressed a finger to his lips. 

"Don’t talk," bulging eyes quickly glanced to one of the big windows. "They hear everything."

"They?"

He nodded before finally pulling away. His tall, lean body straightened, with a few joints popping here and there. Only then did you notice he was wearing sports shorts. A little too tight, a bit too short.  

A face, twisted in fear just a few minutes before, now slipped again into this stony, a bit indifferent expression. As if whatever was plaguing his mind just now, simply withered.

"That’s what the mice say. Sometimes they are…" His finger swirled around his temple, lips whistled. "… a bit crazy. But never wrong. Don’t open those little doors, young lady."

And with that, he once again went back to his attic apartment. Leaving you shocked and cold, with a gentle wind brushing your lips and rain tapping faintly, tap-tap-tap, on your yellow coat.

The moment you slipped back into your house, the first thing you did, as a devilishly curious woman, was to search high and low for the little door the man had been talking about. 

With the afternoon long gone, the sun slowly hid below the horizon, bathing the grey sky in dark, purplish hues of the evening hour. A light rain still hit your windows, nevertheless letting a low melody of crickets fill the chilly air. 

And when the night fell, the house seemed to change too. Into something more wicked, lined with an eerie sensation, scratching the centuries-old walls. With the scent of all the people who lived here before still lingering in the air. The warm light of the old lamps twinkled dimly, lingering over your body that looked frenetically for the little doors. 

Head slipping into the bathroom, bedroom, or even down into the basement, though this time going down the wooden stairs took a bit more courage. The fireplace in the living room crackled and popped weakly, pop-pop-pop, filling the house with a cosy, woody smell.

"Where are you?" You muttered to yourself, standing in the kitchen and listening to the tapping sink. 

You would need to call someone to fix it, but your main goal now was to uncover the thing your neighbour forbade you from finding. 

And then, while looking through the kitchen drawers – you found it.

A key, black and lean, ending in a small, button-like shape. It felt heavy in your palm and looked quite old, as if it were meant for doors long gone, with a lock forgotten by the time.

A low hum slipped past your lips as you fiddled with it. The doors of the house were already rather old, yet this one seemed not to fit either of them.

Returning to the living room, you plumped down on a sofa with a sigh, eyes still fixed on the key. The black paint coated its long barrel, and it was slightly larger than what you were accustomed to.

The doors must’ve been somewhere – close, at the fingertips, as you could almost feel their presence nearby.

Somewhere… in this room.

The flickering of the flame bathed one of the walls in a gentle glow. The flowery tapestry was rather dark, with multiple ornaments twisting and bending across its surface.

And yet, something piqued your interest. 

The small bulge seemed to arrange itself into a low square. Your head tilted, and eyes followed the swollen lines just above floor level. 

You slipped off the couch and crawled towards the eerie shape, a key still clutched in your fingers. 

The palm pressed against the wall, and you knocked it once, twice, hearing the echo ring somewhere on the other side. 

The door.

But it seemed that, for some reason, they were covered by the tapestry. So with the sharper end of the key, you gently traced their outline, peeling the coating from their surface. 

A low gasp slipped past your lips, seeing the eerie, faded blue wooden doors in all their fullness. With no handle to pull them and only a big lock awaiting the key gripped in your fingers. 

Excitement bubbled in your chest, eyes gleamed, and fingers trembled as a key slipped into the lock. You turned it with a soft click, and dust swirled in the air, rising from the cracks that had been sealed for the past few hundred years. 

Your heart galloped, beating against your chest in low thumps until you felt the tremble wash over your body. 

Using the fingers, you pulled the old surface – slowly, slowly, till the door opened fully and…

And presented you a miserable sight of a brick wall. 

Old and dusty, with red bricks stacked one on top of another, filling the cosy living room with a musty smell. 

"You must be joking," you groaned, a low sound escaping your throat as you hit the wall with a fist. "I can’t believe it!"

Because, as you already thought, a new idea for a story would finally slip easily into your mind, all the dreams were shattered in a single second. 

And thus your head hung between your shoulders. After a few deep breaths, you took the key from the door and slammed it shut with a furious thud. The wooden surface bounced off the wall, leaving a small gap. 

Small enough to allow something, someone, to see you walk away with heavy, disappointed footsteps.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

No worries, we will meet the boys SOON!

art by by K05062688 - twitter button divider by @saradika-graphics

You lurched when it hit, flailing for balance before slamming into the deck. The impact of your head hitting steel made your vision swim, black blotches bursting across and darkening the already gloomy scene around you. The wave didn’t give you a moment to snap back to reality and let instinct make you grab onto something before it tipped the boat hard and sent you rolling across the deck.

You threw your hands out to latch onto something, anything, and you did. You caught the edge of the boat with a clammy hand and felt your shoulder pop as you gripped the side. But everything was wet. Too wet.

The boat jolted like it wanted to shake you loose and your numb fingers just slipped. 

Into the ocean you went.

Holy shit, that water was so fucking cold. 

You knew it was freezing, you'd gone through the training before starting work on the boat and had been submerged in the sub zero temps. The people running things needed to make sure you wouldn't clam up and drown instantly. It was awful, but it was manageable. You treaded water for the necessary time, teeth chattering away and that was that. You got out and blocked out the memory of being so cold your bones hurt.

The difference between training and real life? You had been prepared to be dunked in that ice water. Being thrown into the northern pacific ocean was a shock in more ways than you could count.

The water flooded your gear instantly, travelling up through every opening to envelop your entire body. 

It was like a vice. Crushing the air from your lungs as you slipped under the surface. It stole thought from your brain, movement from your body.

Your entire body tensed and froze up and you couldnt even think of anything but how fucking painful the cold was. 

It took everything in you to jolt your arms in an attempt to swim up. Nothing would listen properly, but the gasp of air you sucked in just before going under wasn’t going to last, not with how the water around you was crushing in. 

It was dark, the kind of darkness that stole light before the hope of it could reach you. A mere speck of a star twinkled below you and you knew you had to be upside down. Frantically, a last ditch effort to live, to not suffocate and die and fucking drown in the ocean, alone, you kicked out.

You couldn’t even really feel the motions your body made, but you were somehow moving. Towards that light, which had to be the spotlight from the boat, it had to be. There was no other option, you had to make it back to the surface.

You wouldn’t die here. You couldn’t die here.

But the trickle of oxygen still in your lungs was running out and they were burning. Your whole body was starting to burn, fire coursing through your veins like streams of magma, but you didn’t stop. The light got closer, but no brighter, it stayed blurry and small and just out of reach and you threw an arm out in desperation as something else bright flickered ahead. 

Maybe someone would see you, grab you, save you.

Please, god? Don’t let me die here.

It was the last thing that passed through your mind, synapses firing off and exploding, refusing to believe that this was actually happening. The oxygen keeping your brain barely afloat ran out, and the spots flickering at the corners of your vision overtook it all. The light you couldn’t make it to went out and you tasted salt as control of your body slipped away.

Something wrapped around your waist, and you hoped it was a rope or a line or something to pull you up. But you didn’t get to verify that because consciousness slipped away as it tugged. 

You just hoped you’d wake up again.

Your eyes cracked open, and just that was exhausting. Miraculously, you could feel your body again. But maybe that wasn’t such a good thing because it ached, like you’d been using every muscle at full capacity. It was as if you’d been wrung out like a wet towel. 

Could you move?

Your fingers twitched.

Okay. Good. Maybe… open your eyes?

Slowly, they cracked open bit by bit. They still stung from salty sea water and you blinked a few times, the blurry darkness surrounding you starting to sharpen and come into focus.

An exhausted and pained noise slipped out as you shifted a little more, feeling something soft and cool under your head. 

“Oh, are you awake?” A voice chirped from somewhere just out of your line of sight and you immediately felt relief. 

Oh thank god. Someone pulled me out, someone saved me.

But where the hell were you? Not on the boat, there was a ceiling high above but it wasn’t the one you recognized in the cabin. It was made of… stone? Had you washed up somewhere?

You tried to speak, but your voice was hoarse and you started coughing as soon as the first syllable of yes came out. Tasting salt from the sea water you swallowed, you turned your head to keep from swallowing it again and saw the person who had spoken.

It took a while to process what exactly you were looking at.

First thing you noticed was that he was quite good looking. Not in a typically handsome way, but in a way that was shocking. He looked like he belonged in the arctic with icy azure eyes, wide and looking you over. Locks of wet pale hair, bright white like fresh snow fell into his impossibly blue eyes. His skin was so pale it almost matched his hair, just with a slightly more pinkish undertone.

As you registered your surroundings more, things started to make less and less sense.

You were in a cave of some kind, surrounded by dark and damp stone. Your head propped on some seaweed with you laid out on the perimeter of smooth rock that looped a large pool of water in the middle. There was no mouth to the cave, just the inky water in the middle that the pale man was submerged in.

He was sitting in the water, so casually like it was a bath or a pool or anything but the pacific ocean. His arms were bare, in fact, every part of him you could see—which was quite a bit—was completely uncovered. Muscled arms crossed and leaning on the cold, wet stone with his chin propped. He cocked his head at you.

“Wh-where am-m I?” Was the first question you asked him, starting to attempt to sit up. You got about six inches off the ground, lifting up with shaky arms before they gave out and you rolled onto your side a bit, coughing again.

“Hmm, I guess it’s like… my home?” He offered. You frowned. 

His home?  

“You’re shaking, why?” He breezed right past the whole he lives in a cave with no entrance or exit thing like it was normal. 

“Oh, um… yeah, it-it’s co-cold in h-here.” Your teeth chattered. Cold was an understatement. With feeling returning to your body, you were fucking freezing.

“Oh, I see.” He nodded slowly, assessing you with eyes that cataloged every shift and shiver.

“Y-yeah, um, are-are there an-ny other p-p-peop-ple ar-round?” You barely got the question out with a stammer. You sounded terrible, how fast did it take hypothermia to set in? You didn't feel warm yet at least, which was the real sign of danger. How long had you been here?

“Other p-p-people?” He cocked his head again and the way he stuttered the word out would probably feel like he was mocking you. But he seemed so genuine, like he was actually confused that you nodded. 

“Y-yeah, h-hum-mans?”

“Oh!” He shot up, face lit up with recognition. “Humans, like you, right?” 

“L-like m-me?” What the fuck did that mean?

“Yeah, I know lots about humans,” He said proudly, sending another wave of confusion through you. “I found a box with pictures of humans in it that look just like you! They fell off one of those little moving islands into the water too and it showed what to do, so I brought you here.”

Your brain wracked, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on. Which was already a difficult feat considering your teeth were clenched and chattering so hard they might shatter and you felt exhaustion so deep your bones were tired.

A box? With pictures of humans that look like you? What the fuck was he talking about? And where the fuck did he take you? His home, but where exactly was home to this… person? 

You weren’t so sure of that now, not with the way he was talking.

“Oh, d-do you m-mean a fi-first aid ki-kit?” You asked, hope in your shaky voice. 

He shrugged, “Maybe, I can show you?” You nodded quickly. If it was a first aid kit, there might be an emergency foil blanket inside. He pushed off the ledge and swam across to the other side of the water and that's when you saw it. 

A flick of a light colored fin behind him in the water.

It was only a split second that you saw it and maybe to keep your mind from breaking fully, you disregarded it. It was probably just a fish.

He dug around in a pile of what looked like seaweed, pulling out a few random objects and moving a large rock out of his way easily. Your mind started to question things even more, but you pushed it aside. You were alive, and it was thanks to him, you’d accept whatever this was and be grateful you weren’t dead. 

Scrutiny and potential panic could wait until you weren’t worried about dying of hypothermia.

“Aha! Got it!” He called back triumphantly and held up a bright orange plastic box about the size of a toaster and relief washed over you at the sight. Definitely a first aid kit.

He swam back to you quickly, keeping the kit above water and held it out to you. You tried to sit up again and reached out, your hand shaking uncontrollably.

“You need to be warm, right?” He asked as your fumbling fingers closed around the box and you nodded.

“Mhm,” You pried at the clips on the box, your fingers numb and weak, it was practically useless.

“I can help if you want?” You figured he was talking about the kit, so you nodded again and held the box out only for him to flatten his palms on the ledge, and hoist the rest of his body out of the water.

What the hell had you been expecting? 

You’re not really sure. But as he twisted to sit on the ledge and cold fingers wrapped around your outstretched wrist, you gawked at the lower half of his body.

A fucking tail. 

Maybe you did die. 

He pulled you over to him, and a startled noise strangled its way up your throat. “Wh-what are y-you do—”

“Is this your skin?” He asked as he pulled you to sit on his lap, the box fell from your weak grasp. Too much was happening all at once. 

What the hell was he? 

You knew stories of mer-people, human hybrids with fish tails that lived underwater in lost, whimsical places like Atlantis or some shit. But it was a fairy tale, fantastical bullshit that Disney capitalized on and fed to kids to sell theatre seats.

This… guy? Mer-man? Whatever the fuck he was, he was real. And he looked nothing like the half-fish half-human ones you’d seen in movies.

Sure, he was human from his hips up, but everything below that looked like a shark. Just like a great white. 

He had a stark white underbelly, the back an icy light blue and speckled down his sides. He had all those little fins along his underside that sharks have and the large fin at the end that flicked side to side in the water was sharp and vertical.

“I-I do-don’t… wh-what?” You barely registered his question as he pulled at your bright orange rain gear. The first aid kit was in his hand, did he catch it?

“This,” He tugged at your sleeve as you sat practically paralyzed and shivering in his lap. “Is this your skin? Seems kind of loose, are you sick or something?” 

“No—we-well, um, ki-kind of?” You looked up at his face as he studied your jacket. He looked so human, bigger than a normal person but still. If you disregarded everything below you, you could convince yourself this was just a really hot, naked castaway that rescued you. Maybe that would keep your mind from shattering into oblivion. “I’m ju-just co-cold and it’s a ja-jacket.”

“A ja-jacket?” He asked, looking you in the eye again. His light eyes wide and sincere and filled with curiosity. You nodded and he hummed, like he was thinking it over. He let your jacket go and popped the clasps on the kit open to sift through the contents.

“Aha! See, they look just like you.” He pulled a soggy booklet out and gingerly peeled the cover back. Something glowed bright overhead, illuminating the pages with soft white light. You looked up at the source to see a lure protruding from his head and lit up at the end. 

You blinked and turned away again. 

It wasn’t the weirdest part of him, and at least it was helpful.

It was a CPR guide, the diagrams showed drawings of people in the same bright orange gear having chest compressions and mouth to mouth done on them.

Had he… given you mouth to mouth?

“D-did you… do th-this?” You slowly pointed at the diagram and he nodded eagerly, the lure bouncing a little.

“Mhm! You spat up a bunch of water after.” He smiled at you, lips pulling back to reveal brilliantly white and razor sharp teeth. “You taste nice.”

Your heart kicked at your ribcage. He had a shark tail, of course he’d have a mouth full of shark teeth too. He saved you, but maybe that was just to keep you alive for… something else.

“Are-are you…” You swallowed, breath catching as you struggled with the words. “A-are you going t-to… eat m-me?” It came out barely more than a whisper but he heard you, and he shook his head instantly.

“No! No, no, I won't eat you! You’re the first human who’s survived that I saved, I want to keep you.” He smiled again, showing his mouthful of the sharpest teeth you’ve ever been face to face with. It was probably meant to ease your worry, but the reassurance sent a wave of horror through you and your shivering worsened.

The first that’s survived? 

He wants to… keep you? Okay, well at least he’s not eating you.

His lure dimmed, the light going out and he put the booklet back in the box. “Right, I need to warm you up, hmm.” He hummed thoughtfully, closing up the kit.

“Wait!” You blurted, grabbing his arm before he put the kit down. “Th-there’s a bl-blanket in th-there. I n-need it." The moment you said you needed it, his lure lit up again and he opened the kit, putting it in front of you to root through. 

You fumbled through the contents until you saw the light glint off of shiny foil and you grabbed the packet. “Thi-is is it, c-can you, um, o-open it?” You held up the package and he nodded eagerly again, closing up the kit and putting it aside.

He took it from you and tore it open easily, his razor-like teeth cutting through the plastic like it was nothing. 

The sight made you shiver hard again, but not fully out of fear or cold. 

He was built like an arctic predator, all teeth and muscle and fins made for speed. For hunting. But he was being so gentle with you, helping you, saving you. 

Maybe you could disregard the fact that shark boy said he wanted to keep you and just let him try to take care of you. It wasn’t so bad.

“What’s that for?” He asked, handing you the open package and you pulled the sheet of foil out, stuffing the plastic wrapper in your jacket pocket—even in an emergency, you wouldn’t be the type to litter.

“It’s to k-keep bo-body heat in. Helps you w-warm up fa-faster.” You explained, shaking out the blanket. He hummed thoughtfully and you paused.

You’d need to take your jacket off. Actually, all your clothes were still soaked and practically frozen to you. You’d need to shed everything for the blanket to work properly.

“What’s wrong?” Shark boy tilted his head at you and you glanced quickly at him. 

He was practically naked, he probably wouldn’t think anything of you stripping down, right? 

Now that you think of it, you didn’t see anything where a guy would usually have… something. You didn’t know enough about shark anatomy to assume anything though.

“I-I need to, um, ta-take this off.” You tugged the sopping wet jacket away from your body. With a breath, you started on the buttons at the front. Your hands shook horribly though and you couldn't even get the first one open.

“Can I try?” Shark-boy asked innocently, like a kid asking to try a new toy. You glanced up at him again, his mouth was closed, smiling at you with wide eager eyes. He really just seemed fascinated by you and everything you did. 

It was kind of… endearing. You almost felt a little special with all of the attention.

“Um… o-okay.” You dropped your hands away and let him take over. He undid the buttons down the front easily but the zipper seemed to perplex him a little. He tugged it away from your chest to no luck and paused. “P-pull it d-down.” You instructed and he did as you said, humming with delight as he unzipped your jacket.

He peeled it down and off your arms, studying the bright orange PVC layer like it was one of the most fascinating things he’d ever seen. You started on the next layers, a thick hoodie and a thermal shirt and leggings under the matching PVC overalls.

“So what does it do—” Shark boy cut himself off as you shrugged off the straps on your overalls. “There’s more?”

“Mhm,”

“I’ll do it.” He said confidently, like he was an expert after taking your jacket off. You nodded and he pulled your overalls off, tugging each leg off as nicely as he could. 

Your hoodie seemed to stump him a bit and shark boy pulled at the bottom, then the sleeves, then the front, grabbing a handful of boob unknowingly. 

You squeaked, “W-wait! Ju-just—”

“Can I rip it?” He interrupted and you froze.

Why did that kind of… turn you on? Oh god, was there something wrong with you? You’re in a life or death situation with a shark-person, and you’re getting hot at the thought of him tearing your clothes off? 

It should be a no, right? You’d probably need the layers for when you returned to the outside world. 

It would be a when, right?

Well… he did say he wanted to keep you. 

“Um, I-I guess so,” You conceded and with that, he gripped the collar with both broad hands and tore your hoodie open so easily it was like it had been made of paper instead of tightly woven fabric.

Oh god. Yeah… it was hot. 

If you weren’t close to succumbing to hypothermia and shivering your ass off even harder being exposed to the air with just the wet thermal layer clinging to you, you’d be heating up.

“Oh, huh,” Shark boy hummed, pulling the bisected hoodie down your arms. “You’re much smaller under all that stuff.”

“Mhm,” You squeaked again, glancing up at shark boy. His lure was still lit up and illuminating his face. 

He really was quite good looking.

“So, um, are you al-lone h-here?” You asked, rubbing your arms and he nodded wistfully. “Oh, I'm s-sorry.” 

“It's okay,” He shrugged, his big hands gripped your biceps and he smiled at you. “I'm not alone anymore.”

“Right,” You winced. You'd deal with that later. For now, you needed to get the soggy last layer off and do your best to warm up under the foil blanket. 

“Right.” He agreed, looking content. “This one too?” He pulled at the sleeves of your thermal shirt and you nodded once. 

He wasted absolutely no time, ripping the shirt clean open and you gasped as cool damp air met your cold, bare skin.

“Oh.” He paused.

What a day to have skipped wearing a bra.

“You're a female, right?” He asked, excitement underlying but undeniable. You glanced up at him again, still sitting on his lap—on his smooth shark tail and against whatever instinct that told you saying yes might end up with you compromised, you nodded. 

He lit up instantly. “Oh wow, I've never met a female before.” 

It probably should have made you feel panicked, scared. Made you want to run or at least distance yourself from this shark guy. But as he looked at you with awe and excitement, pulling you a little closer to his broad and insanely toned chest, you more just empathized with him.

“Never?” You asked as he slipped your shirt down your arms, leaving you bare from the waist up. Your nipples hard already with the freezing cold, but it felt like they perked a little more under his gaze. He shook his head slowly and the lure on his head seemed to glow a little brighter as he looked you over. 

Shark boy was alone here, never met a female before. Was he a virgin? Was that even a thing with his kind?

What even was his kind?

Cold fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings. He seemed a little more uncertain about them and when he peeled them away from your skin experimentally and let go, a loud and wet slap echoed through the cave that he chuckled at.

You jolted a little from the slap. “H-hey.” You said firmly and grabbed his arm again, his skin cool and smooth under your hand. 

"Oops." He met your eyes again and grinned. It was boyish and cheeky, his expression dripping mischief like he'd found some fun new toy. It would have been disarming if not for the glimpse of razor teeth he flashed your way. "These too, right?” 

“Mhm,” You hummed quietly and he almost… smirked?

Again, what had you been expecting?

Of course he ripped them right down the seam and left you completely bare. The cool air hit and you realized he even caught your underwear.

He paused again, hands hovering over your thighs with the scraps of your leggings bunched in them. You could feel his eyes on your body as you shivered, starting to squirm with the sting of cold, humid air on your skin. 

“I n-need the bla-anket. P-please.” You added for politeness’ sake. Though, maybe manners were the least of your worries at the moment.

It seemed to snap shark boy from the moment and he jumped to action once more. He leaned and grabbed the foil blanket, and handed it to you. 

“Tha-thank you,” You smiled at him and wrapped it around your shoulders. You left it draped over you and shimmied the remainder of your pants down, peeling them down your legs and off your feet along with your sodden socks. 

Your boots had disappeared at some point while you were unconscious. They were always a bit too big but it allowed you to wear extra thick socks under so you didn't mind. 

Naked and shivering hard, you wrapped the blanket tight around yourself, the material crinkling loudly and cutting through the quiet in the cave with every shift.

Shark boy—you probably should get his name, if he has one—pulled you closer to his body and wrapped his arms around you. He wasn't warm, but it still felt… nice. Safe.

He had saved you.

Maybe you'd look past the whole keeping you here comment for now and just lean into him.

“Is this okay?” He asked softly, his voice lower like he didn't want to disrupt whatever peace had fallen over you both.

“Mhm,” You hummed, letting your head rest back on his shoulder. He had a heart where you'd usually find it in humans, and you could feel it thumping steadily against your back. “Wh-whats your n-name?” 

“Name?” He chirped above you and you nodded.

“Yeah, wh-what do I ca-call you?” You figured an introduction was due if you were going to be sitting naked on his lap.

He hummed thoughtfully, sending the vibration of it into your back. “Hmm… you can call me… ah, right! Gojo. Yeah, call me Gojo.” He pressed his cheek to your head affectionately, arms tightening a little around you.

“Gojo, I li-like that. It’s n-nice.” 

“I like you.” His tail flicked in the water, splashing a little and you thought his lure might have flickered above you. “You're nice, and warm. What's your name?” 

“Th-thank you, Gojo,” You told him and he nuzzled your head, echoing your name slowly like he was savoring each syllable. Committing it to memory.

“I like that a lot, it sounds nice.” Gojo said it again and if you weren’t half frozen still you might have blushed with the fervour in his voice. 

“You should go to sleep, I know that's important for humans.” He said, confidently again like he was boasting his knowledge. You guessed he didn't get much opportunity to talk about it, or anything really. What with him being alone.

“Don’t worry, I'll keep you safe.” 

You looked up at him again, he smiled, just a peek of sharp teeth visible. 

With those things, you had no doubt he'd be able to keep you safe. You also had no doubt he could probably kill you before you could blink, but you were choosing not to think about that.

Returning his gesture with one of your own, you brought your knees up to your chest and let your cheek rest against his shoulder again, letting your eyes slide shut. Gojo wrapped his arms fully around you and squeezed, his lure dimming to leave you in muted darkness again.

It was reassuring, and even though you could definitely tell Gojo wasn't fully human even with your eyes closed, it still felt nice.

Going from being thrown off a boat and almost drowning to whatever this was with a shark-human hybrid whatever the hell Gojo was, felt a little too easy. Maybe you got brain damage from lack of oxygen.

That really sounds like a problem for the you that wasn’t succumbing to hypothermia though.

When you woke again, you felt significantly better than when you'd fallen asleep.

You were still a little cold, but the shivering had subsided and you could actually feel your fingers again.

The blanket crinkled as you shifted and blinked your eyes open. 

“You're awake!” A voice chirped above you. 

Oh, right.

You looked up at Gojo, blinking sleep from your eyes. He was bright even in the darkness of the cave. His eyes, his smile, his hair, his skin. It all seemed to glimmer with a faint flickering illumination of the water dancing across his handsome features.

“Mhm,” You took a moment to really look at him. You'd been so out of it and so overwhelmed that you hadn't really processed him fully. 

His lure was lit, but barely. Just a faint glow almost like a nightlight that cast shadows over his face. Pretty, pale lashes flicked and brushed his high cheekbones when he blinked.

“Do you feel better?” Gojo rubbed your arms over the foil blanket, the sound of it shrill. You nodded quickly.

“Yes, yeah, much better.”

“Oh, you sound different.” He observed, head cocking to the side. His lure bobbing with the motion in a way that you couldn't help but think was so cute. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Mhm, really. Thank you, Gojo. You... you saved my life.” You supposed a little flattery wouldn’t hurt your situation. And boy, were you right.

“Yeah, I did, didn't I?” His chest almost seemed to puff up a little, chin lifting and a quiet splash came from the water as his tail flicked. You guessed that was kind of a subconscious thing.

You nodded and shifted a little, turning to the side so you could look at him properly. 

“I've always wanted to talk to a human, but none of them ever made it.” There it was again, no survivors. Had he done this with others? Tried to save them? “Can I ask you some questions?” He sounded eager, excited at the potential.

“Of course,” You supposed it was probably the least you could do considering he had saved your life.

Immediately, he started to shoot off questions. Some piggybacked off the one previous but most made it clear that he'd been wanting this for a long time and had quite a bit of time to think about the day he'd finally get to speak to a person.

Why did humans put scraps of stuff on their bodies? Clothes.

What was the weird shuffling humans did with each other? Dancing.

What was with the odd compilation of noises that humans did the dancing to? Music. 

And so on. You learned a little about Gojo as well while he rattled off an almost infinite amount of prose. 

The knowledge he did have about society and people was mostly from things he’d found in shipwrecks along the ocean floor.

He showed you some of the stuff he’d found and asked some questions about them. Like the compass, glass cracked and the needle stuck on north, a wristwatch, also stopped, the hands stuck at 5:17, a rotary telephone with the two handheld pieces. He had an interesting looking sword, two pronged and asymmetrical with jagged blades and a broken chain clipped to the hilt, pulled from a trench far from where the cave was.

Some more modern items were thrown in too, a laptop that almost snapped when you tried to open it. What looked like a depth sounder, spiderweb cracks spread across the screen. A couple of cell phones that were likely from over a decade ago and might even come back to life with a rice bath and a fresh battery.

Some things you guess he picked up because they were just pretty. A necklace with a fat red gem, bracelets that glittered despite the layer of dirt and grime. Rings that had probably once meant promises of forever to people that probably weren't around anymore.

You wondered if he pulled any of it off of bodies stuck in those ships. 

You didn't ask.

You learned that Gojo can survive out of water, with the partial human anatomy he can at least breathe out of water, the three raised lines on either side of his obliques were where his gills were closed off while he was out. It was why he didn't die with you sleeping on his lap for hours—but he does need to stay wet, his tail especially. 

He went between sitting next to you on the ledge, to sitting you on his lap so you were off the cold ground, and swimming around to grab stuff.

Watching him go back and forth, grabbing items from the other side of the cave, you noticed that he was quite nimble. His huge tail was flexible and strong, Gojo went back and forth carrying items, covering the distance quickly without ever using his arms. 

You couldn't help yourself. You asked if you could touch it.

When would you ever get an opportunity to touch a shark and not get your hand bitten off? 

He agreed quickly and wasted no time asking the same of you, you guessed that was fair enough.

His tail was cool to touch, just like the rest of him, and what seemed like his bright white underbelly was impossibly soft. So smooth it felt like touching velvet, the other icy blue side felt similar, just a little rougher. 

Gojo’s fin flicked a few times as you ran your hand along his tail, splashing in the water and the smaller fins down his sides by his hips and where you thought his knees would probably be twitched when you grazed them.

The first thing he touched were your feet when you sat on his lap again. You laughed and fought from kicking as he poked and prodded. He was quite intrigued by your legs in general but when you wiggled your toes for him he breathed a “Whoa.” Absolutely fascinated by your anatomy.

It was still kind of funny even when he lifted and pulled your legs apart. He just seemed curious as he did it, like the differences between you two were the most interesting thing in the world. You wondered again as he tilted his head lower and peered between your spread legs, if he even had the right parts to do anything. 

Gojo’s head snapped back up, his lure bobbed as he met your eyes again.

“Can I taste you again?” He asked earnestly.

“What?” You blinked, closing your legs.

“Like in the picture?” He said, like it was obvious. “It was nice, I liked it a lot.” 

“Oh.” You swallowed hard, it was one thing for him to give you mouth to mouth to save your life, but this was kissing. Was that ethical? 

You're sitting here with a mythical shark-person, where did ethics fit into a situation like this? If Gojo wanted to kiss you, you guessed you weren't really opposed to that.

“Um, I-I guess so? Sure.”

You weren’t sure what he would taste like, a part of you really hoped it wouldn't be like fish. He didn't stink, he mostly just smelled like salt. Something a little sweet underlying.

It was uncoordinated and a little off the mark as his cool mouth pressed to yours. He did not taste like fish, thank fucking god. He tasted almost just like he smelled, salt and something a little sweet in the saliva he exchanged with you.

He didn't really know what he was doing, just putting his mouth on yours. You laughed when he puffed his cheeks and blew a gust of air into your mouth, telling him he didn’t need to do that this time. 

“Oh. Okay, let me try again.” He demanded redemption and you lifted your face to him again. Gojo put his lips to yours, and stilled. You fought the urge to laugh again. You didn't really see the harm in taking the lead and showing him how to kiss properly. If you were going to do this, it may as well be good.

Your lips parted a little and you tilted your head slightly, a hand coming up to touch the side of his face gently. 

Gojo seemed stunned for a moment, like the fact that there was more to this than just putting your mouths together was enough to make him freeze. But he caught on quickly and followed your movements. His fingers thread through your hair, careful to not tangle the knots already there even more.

Your tongue met his and he made a small, excited noise that melted into a moan. 

You almost forgot that this wasn't just a guy you were kissing. 

But as your lower lip caught in his mouth, you were reminded of that mouthful of shark teeth as one sliced into your lip.

“Mm!” You pulled back, a hand flew up to your face and pressed to the fresh cut, pulling away to see bright red smeared on your fingers. “Ouch, ooh, careful with those things.” You jabbed jokingly with a light chuckle, sucking on your lip and tasting warm metal as you glanced back up at Gojo. 

A smear of your blood was still on his lip and as his tongue came out to swipe over it, his lashes fluttered and he groaned. 

“You… taste so good.”

You gulped. Oh god.

How could you possibly forget? 

Gojo is a fucking shark.

Now that he's tasted your blood, would he change his mind about eating you? You didn't have the guts to ask what he ate, but you knew it probably wasn't anything that didn’t bleed and have a heartbeat at some point.

“You look scared,” He pointed out, a crease forming in his brow but the curve to his lips didn't falter. “You don’t need to worry, I won't bite you… not very hard.” 

He brought his face closer to yours again, the light on his lure was definitely flickering now. He sniffed, and the water splashed as his tail flicked around in excitement. 

“Mm, I like you so much. You're my favorite.” 

You swallowed hard, leaning back just a little. “Oh?” 

“Mhm, I want more. Do you taste like that everywhere?” 

You weren't about to die of hypothermia anymore, and you were a little ashamed to admit that the question sent a wave of warmth pooling deep in your gut. A quiet breath like a sigh left your lips and you shifted again, pulling back a bit more to put distance between you as you thought on what to say to something like that.

But Gojo caught you, hands on your arms. The foil crinkling loudly under his grip as he held you in place under the weight of his bright blue gaze.

“You mean like… blood?” You breathed the word out, barely louder than a whisper and he smiled again.

“That too,” He chuckled, like watching you try to follow him where he was leading you was the most entertaining thing he'd done in a while. Like you were the most entertaining thing he'd encountered in a while. One hand glided down to your hip, his eyes following the motion. “Can I try? You smell really good too.” 

Ah. 

Well, of course he could smell your dripping sex. What else couldn't he do? 

Your thighs pressed together at the idea of him tasting you. Thanks to that mouthful of razor teeth that had already cut you once, you were uncertain. Gojo seemed to sense it, splaying a hand over your thigh.

“I won't hurt you,” He squeezed once and you looked from his hand, back to his face. “I promise.” 

Shit. Maybe you did lose some braincells. You could blame it on that.

Gojo saved your life after all, he likes you. He wouldn't literally eat you. 

…Right?

“Yeah, okay,” You nodded slowly. “Just, be careful with the tee—agh!” 

You didn't even get out the full sentence before he had you flipped around, practically upside down. You threw your arms out to balance as your legs hooked over Gojo’s shoulders. One hand wrapped around a thigh and the other curled over and prodded at your cunt.

“Mm! Oh my—what are you doing?” You gasped, clenching around his head. It felt like he was looking for something.

“Shouldn't there be a hole?” He asked quizzically, dragging a finger through your slit and rubbing around. “I don't think it works without one.”

“What? What does that me-ean?!” You squeaked as his exploratory finger found what he was looking for and he hummed with delight.

“Ah, good! Oh wow, it's so slippery, is that normal?” His thick finger pushed in deeper, prodding your walls like he was just… feeling around. Getting familiar with your cunt.

“Um—mmm… fuck, ye-yes?” How did you end up here? 

“Huh,” Was all he said. He withdrew his hand, leaving you empty, and licked a long stripe up your cunt. 

You had to give it to Gojo, he was quite observant. He took note of how you jerked when he flicked over your clit, and did it again. Watching how you gasped and arched a little.

“I like that noise,” His lips closed around your clit, “Mnnh!” He mimicked you, sending the vibration of the noise into you and you did it again, a hand threading into his soft, damp hair. He grinned and you felt his teeth against you.

“Ca-careful, remember, Gojo?” You reminded him, securing your grip in his hair just in case, mindful of the base of his lure hidden. Not sure how he felt about it being touched.

“I know, it doesn’t hurt, does it?”

“N-no, it doesn’t,”

“See? I won't hurt you, I know what I'm doing.” Gojo reassured, planting a wet, messy kiss on your clit with an audible smack!

“Mhm,” You hummed. 

You seriously doubted that.

Regardless of it, he figured out what he was doing quickly. He held your pelvis up and your legs wide open to him easily, your shoulders slumped on his smooth tail. You were completely at his mercy like that, and it only made the situation hotter. 

Paying the most attention to your clit with little sucks, grazing so lightly with those teeth that threatened to cut you open, but didn't. Each time you felt them you tightened your hand in his hair, yelping the first few times he did it in surprise just for him to wink at you. 

How did he even know how or why to do that?

He explored every bit of your cunt with sloppy licks, slurping at your arousal and humming at the taste. 

“Mnnh!” You threw your head back, eyes fluttering shut as he tongued and teased your hole. Lapping and pointing his tongue sharply to push deep inside, he hummed into you as he discovered the source of your slick.

He pulled his mouth off you, nipping lightly at your inner thigh. You startled at it, but didn't pull him off. Legs were fine, you guessed. 

“Keep doing that. And say my name again, I liked that.” He practically purred his requests to you, a light sting starting in your thigh with his teeth just barely breaking skin. “Can I bite? Just a little?”

This was all brand fucking new to you, but you had at least some experience. Gojo was just doing all of this for the first time, just figuring out what he liked.

You guessed you kind of owed it to him to help him work all that out.

You took a deep breath, “Ju-just a little one, please be careful, Gojo.” He nodded, those god damn teeth peeking out with his lips parted a little.

He looked you over, trying to decide where best to sink his jaws into you. He sniffed close to your skin again and tapped your hip with two fingers. “Here?”

“Mhm,” 

You knew it would probably be somewhat painful, but nothing would prepare you for the sensation of those teeth slicing into you. Tearing open skin and sinking into your flesh. It was white hot, and flooded your entire system like electricity. 

A scream tore from your throat, and melted into a guttural moan. 

It wasn't entirely painful, you realized.

Gojo moaned, his eyes fluttering shut as his tongue ran over the blood streaming from the countless little wounds. That felt better than you would have expected.

“Mnnh… ohh my god, Gojo!” You cried his name out, just as he asked and he reacted instantly. He sucked at the bite, pulling the flow of your blood into his mouth and he shuddered. Swallowing the mouthful with a whimper, his hands shaking and gripping your legs hard.

You shook again, shivers shaking through your whole body. Your skin was alight and felt like pure ecstasy as he sucked hard one more time before releasing the bite, pulling those teeth from you. 

“Wow,” Gojo sounded almost high, his voice somehow low and gravely while far off and dreamy. 

Maybe that was just you. 

His tongue dragged over the bite slowly, collecting the crimson leaking from the fresh wounds there. You dared a glance at Gojo, and he looked just as carnal as you expected. No, more than you were expecting.

His impossibly blue eyes were glazed, he stared somehow at and through you. His features slack and a lazy half smile curling his stained mouth.

He looked so satisfied as he licked his full lips, catching the blood smeared on his mouth and trickling down his chin. Like a predator finishing a meal, you supposed that was kind of what you were looking at. 

It felt more intimate than when his tongue was buried in your cunt. The trust of having an apex predator like him, teeth sunk into your flesh and praying he didn’t bleed you dry. And he didn’t.

“It’s amazing. I feel… so good right now.” He sighed, his cheek resting on your thigh as he came down from whatever cloud he was up on. 

Suddenly, it was like he actually saw you, his eyes focused solely on you. “I want more. I want all of it.” He almost growled, the sound greedy and hungry. 

You swallowed hard, heart kicking at your ribcage as something deep and primal in your brain screamed at you to run away. That whatever Gojo was, was dangerous. That here, in his domain, he loomed over you on the food chain.

He could eat you. The dark look in his eye told you he would eat you.

Gojo rubbed his cheek on your thigh, it almost felt lovingly gentle when juxtaposed with the harsh bite still throbbing and leaking on your hip. His hands glided up your sides, feeling up your body. 

“Gojo, I—”

“Don’t worry, I really want to, but that would be bad. I know that.” He placed a chaste kiss on your thigh, leaving a smear of deep red behind. “I’ll keep you safe, I like you too much to let anything bad happen to you.”

“Oh, well that’s, um… good?” It was better than him seeing you as nothing more than food.

“Mhm,” He hummed in agreement, taking your legs off his shoulders. You sagged, your back resting on Gojo’s tail, legs still up in the air but in a slightly less compromising position. 

Something hard pressed low into your spine, you had a pretty good idea of what it was. Where had it come from though? You had no idea. 

Gojo took a deep breath, eyes lidded and still dark but earnest as he said your name. “I want to mate you.” It sounded like he was asking for your hand marriage or something, the weight with which he said it.

“Mate… me?” You echoed and Gojo nodded quickly. 

“I’ll fit. I’m pretty sure.” He squinted at you, eyeing your belly. “I want to try, you’d be the perfect mate, I know it.”

Sex. He was talking about having sex with you. 

Maybe it’s that he was so protective of you, that he wanted you more than any other human man had ever. Even after just a short time of being around him, Gojo had a way of making your heart race with fight or flight while also seeming like the safest place in the world.

Maybe it was that he literally saved your life.

Maybe he was just really hot, even with that shark tail, and you were really horny. And maybe a little curious as to what it would be like.

Maybe it was everything, plus the bite mark still throbbing deliciously on your hip that made you nod slowly and agree.

“I like you too, Gojo. Yeah, let’s, um… let’s try.”

He didn’t say anything, just grinned and pulled you up to sit face to face with him, still on his lap. As you shifted upright and scooted back, your cunt rubbed on what was definitely his dick, but it felt… different. He wasn’t human, and it’d be naive to think he’d have human anatomy.

Gojo groaned quietly with the movement. You started to glance down, to see what exactly you were working with before you tried to fit him inside you. But Gojo took your face in one hand and lifted your chin gently to him. 

He kissed you again and caught you off guard with how smoothly his mouth opened, teasing the seam of your lips until they parted for him. He really was a fast learner.

He flipped you again easily, biceps flexing as he held you close to his chest and laid you down under him on a layer of your damp, shredded clothes. He broke the kiss as he reached down between you. Your legs hitched up around Gojo’s waist as he fumbled a little, his face scrunched up in concentration as he prodded around for your entrance. You tensed a little with cool fingers rubbing and poking gently. 

As Gojo’s thick fingers curled into you, his face lit up and you kept your eyes trained on him. He smiled, pleased with himself. His tail was flopped to the side, the large fin just barely breaking the surface of the water and sending splashes echoing through the dim cave. His lure bright and flickering just over your head as you let out the noise he liked.

It was so different to see someone—a man—be openly enthusiastic and excited about things. Gojo communicated clearly, paid attention to your body language, and laid his feelings out in the open. 

Was he… kind of the ideal guy?

Sure he was half shark, but… was that really such a bad thing when you thought about everything else?

Yeah, okay, he said he wanted to keep you, but it shows he’s not afraid of commitment. And he saved you. 

Okay, maybe that sounded a little stockholm syndrome-y. But would it really be that terrible?

He pulled his fingers from you and nudged—

You immediately tensed. Eyes going wide and you finally glanced down at what was happening between your legs. 

Not one, but two thick, blunt tips were pressing at your entrance. 

Before you could really think twice on it, on how Gojo might wreck you with two thick cocks—lengthy and pale and a little curve to the top one—prying you wide open. He pushed his hips into you and stretched your cunt to accommodate all of him.

You gasped and bit back a whimper, tensing up, walls clenching around the intrusion that was Gojo. But he sunk in further, forcing your cunt to open wider the deeper he went. It felt like you were stretched to the limit. He threw his head back with a deep groan, the flickering light bobbing as he somehow pushed even more into you and you somehow kept taking it. Your legs squeezed, toes curling as you felt Gojo fill every bit of your cunt as he kept shoving more into you. 

With a hard thrust, both blunt heads bullied against your cervix and you cried out. He stilled, breathing hard. “Wow, see?” Gojo marveled, gaze roving down your body to land low. “I fit inside you. We’re definitely mates.”

It was kind of a miracle that he fit. Maybe he was right.

“You ca-can… move,” You said quietly and he glanced up to meet your eyes for a moment.

“Oh, okay,” Gojo pulled his hips back, dragging out slow, and pushed all the way back in. “Like… that?” He whined a little, tail slapping the water as he bottomed out again. 

“Mhm!” You managed out a hum and a short nod, nails digging in as you gripped his shoulders hard, but he didn’t seem to mind. His gaze trained low again, he set a bit of a rhythm. He was probably watching as he pulled out and shoved back inside. How he branded the shape of himself into you.

It was like he was reshaping you, molding you to fit him with every thrust that grew more confident, more assured in the snap of his hips. 

“Oh wow, look at that.” Gojo leaned back and smoothed a hand over your stomach, fucking into you hard and slow with a mean angle that pushed the already curved cock into a sensitive spot. “I can see myself inside you.” 

You lifted your head somehow with that and saw exactly what he was talking about. Your stomach bubbled out a little, and as he grinded into you, the bulge moved. 

You watched as he rubbed the bump and pressed down. He moaned as he picked up the pace again and your head fell back, feeling his hand push against his cock, rubbing hard against your walls. The pressure made your eyes roll, mouth hanging open and gasping breaths. 

Every movement sparked pleasure that whited your brain out, wiping any thought from your head but how hot your skin felt, and how stuffed full you were. 

You were made aware that ‘mating you’ wasn’t just fucking you. It was a claim. Neither you, nor your body would never be the same after this.

Gojo wrapped an arm under you, his body lowered to press against yours. He was still cold, but the exertion had you so overheated that you welcomed his cool skin. Wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, feeling the soft texture of his tail under your calves. Your arms draped around his shoulders, clutching and gripping at the muscles that flexed under your hands.

Gojo brought his face to the crook of your neck, still making movements with his hips to keep fucking you as his mouth closed around your throat. 

His tongue glided over your hammering pulse.

You tried to say his name, but it caught in your throat. 

He didn’t bite, he sucked. His teeth pressed lightly to your skin, barely pricking. You almost couldn’t feel the sting with everything else going on, but you did. He licked the blood beading from the tiny pinpricks and the moment he tasted you again, control seemed to crack. 

Gojo whined out, biting down slightly harder, his teeth cutting into your throat. He pumped into you hard and fast. It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did, having his teeth sunken into your neck, licking the trickle of blood as he split you open on two thick cocks. 

But it did. You clenched around him, walls gripping and slowing his movements a little. He faltered a little, pace stuttering and you thought he might come. But instead he released your throat with a groan, like it fucking killed him to do.

“My mate,” He growled, his fin slapping and splashing the water uncontrollably.  “I want to do this forever, I fit inside you and its so nice—mnnh—you’re sooo warm,” He moaned, grinding into your cervix. His cocks were leaking inside you and you whined with so much pressure filling you you couldn’t think. Being fucked and held on the edge of climax. “I want, I wa-want to… mm!”

Gojo planted a fast kiss on your lips and pulled out of your cunt. The shocking loss and sudden emptiness hurt and you started to protest, but you were shut quickly up. 

Gojo flipped you over, carefully and he made sure you didn’t smack your head or any limbs on the ground. He pulled your hips up to his level and rubbed along your slit, lined back up to your hole, and pushed in again.

As he bottomed out again, he felt deeper somehow and as the tips of his cocks kissed your cervix, Gojo moaned behind you. He sounded just as lost in it as you were. “I want to fill you with my pups, can you do that, mate? Can you take it if I fill you up?” He rubbed over your belly and held firmly, feeling himself push into his hand. 

It didn’t really register with you, what he was really saying. In your blissed out mind held on the edge of coming, you knew he wanted to breed you, but that was impossible. You’re two different species. 

He could ‘fill you with pups’ all he wanted, none would stick.

“Yes! I can take it. To-touch me, please, Gojo!” 

“Touch you?” You nodded and he dipped his hand lower, drifting over your stomach to between your legs. “You mean here?” He rubbed a slow circle over your clit and you twitched hard, walls pulsing around his cocks as he fucked a slow rhythm into you.

“Ohh my god, mnh, yes!” You moaned out, you were drooling on the ground. 

He was fucking you stupid, the half shark virgin, was fucking you harder than anyone ever had in your life.

He dragged through your walls, every ridge and vein catching. He curled over you, cool chest pressing to your back, one arm wrapped under your chest to hold you up, the other hand cupping your cunt. He rubbed dizzying circles on your clit with two fingers and you twitched and writhed under him, hips bucking back to push into his thrusts.

He put his mouth on your shoulder, but he didn’t bite. Just pressed his lips there until your orgasm hit and you squeezed tight, letting out a choked cry as he bullied into you.

Gojo moaned, his fin was swishing in the water so hard and so fast it sounded like a propeller as he squeezed you tight, and bit down on your shoulder, hard. 

Tears pricked your eyes instantly and you could only whimper as Gojo sank his teeth into your flesh and sucked. 

Sure, it hurt, but why did it feel so good too?

He thrust into you hard, grinding deep as his cocks both swelled, twitching and about to burst. His jaw tightened and made a pitched noise deep in his throat. You choked on a sob as the blooming pain rolled through you like a wave, ecstasy making your eyes roll and stream tears.

His whole body shuddered as his cocks kicked deep inside, and ropes of cum spurted. It wasn’t hot, more just lukewarm, a little cooler than your body temperature as he flooded you. It didn’t stop for a while, not until there was so much pressure that you felt heavy and swollen from everything filling you.

You sagged, body drooping with exhaustion but still connected to Gojo. He pried his teeth from deep in your shoulder and you winced. He licked the bite, cool tongue gliding over the wound to collect blood still flowing, and hummed. He rubbed your belly affectionately.

“Are you okay? Does the bite hurt?” Gojo leaned into your periphery, a hand still pressed to your stomach. You shook your head, none of them really hurt at all. Not that you could feel much anyways. 

“Good,” Gojo hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder what our pups will be like, I hope they look like you.” You didn’t have the energy or the heart to crush the fantasy of you being his mate and giving him babies, so you just nodded for now and let your eyes close.

“It takes longer with a human female, I don’t mind waiting though. I’ll keep you safe till they come, then I'll put more in you.” Gojo nuzzled your shoulder, still stuffing you and keeping you plugged up and full of his cum. 

The realization of what he said hit and your eyes opened again.

“Wait, you can reproduce… outside of your own species?” 

“Mhm, just humans though. You’re close enough to our kind, it still works.” He sighed, the light from his lure dimming a little as he pulled you close and rolled onto his back, laying you on him and keeping his cocks in you. He rubbed your belly again, affectionately like his child was actually inside and not just a womb full of cum.

“I’m so happy I found you,” His tail swished in the water languidly. He sounded genuinely happy, he was probably lonely before the boat dumped you in the ocean and in a weird way, so were you. 

Sure, you weren’t alone, but you didn’t have a relationship or anyone to tell you not to go work on a deadly boat in the freezing ocean. 

Maybe staying with Gojo wouldn’t be the worst option. How many others did you really even have?

You hummed and put a hand over his on your swollen belly. “Do you have to stay in cold water, or can you go somewhere warmer?” 

“Nope, I can adjust to pretty much anything so we can go anywhere.” He squeezed you a little. 

Thank god for that, you didn’t know how much longer you’d survive in the freezing cold. You weren’t built like Gojo and his kind.

Wait a minute.

“What do you mean, our kind?”

“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.

Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.

Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“Mm. Bold claim.”

“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.

“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”

“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”

You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”

“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.

“Barely.”

“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”

“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”

“That’s most people, though.”

“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.

It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.

You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.

“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.

“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”

You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”

“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”

“That’s not better.”

“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.

The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.

“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.

You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”

“Hey, I’m off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”

You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.

Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.

“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do—”

“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”

“Shame,” you say.

Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.

“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”

It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.

Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”

“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”

The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”

Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.

Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”

“Not my dragon,” you remind him.

He winks. “Technicality.”

With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.

You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”

“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.

He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.

You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”

“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”

You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”

He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.

You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”

“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.

You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.

A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.

He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.

“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.

“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.

He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”

“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”

“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”

“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”

You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”

Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.

“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”

“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”

You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”

“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.

Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.

“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.

You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.

“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”

You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.

“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.

He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”

He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.

Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.

“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.

“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.

“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”

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

He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”

Sukuna huffs happily in response.

Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”

Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”

Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.

“Satoru!” he bellows.

Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.

“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.

“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”

You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”

He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”

The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.

Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.

“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.

“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.

You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.

“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”

“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.

“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”

“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”

He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.

Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”

The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.

“I’d rather not,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.

The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.

You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.

At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.

“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”

You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”

“Sure, you did.”

Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.

“I’m working.”

He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”

“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.

“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.

“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.

You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.

You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

“You did good,” Satoru says.

“So did you,” you say.

He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.

You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”

“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.

You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.

You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.

You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.

You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.

“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.

Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.

“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”

“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”

You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.

“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.

“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”

“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”

“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”

You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.

He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”

“It’s just a rag,” you say.

He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”

He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.

“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”

“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”

He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”

“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”

You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”

“That’s because I have a working brain.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”

You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”

“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”

Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.

“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”

“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.

You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.

“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”

“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”

You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.

Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”

He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”

“Your continued survival.”

“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.

“Show-off,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.

You focus very, very hard on the roof.

When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.

“Done?” Satoru asks.

“For now,” you say.

“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”

At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.

You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”

You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.

“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”

Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.

You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.

Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”

“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.

“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”

You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.

“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”

“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”

“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”

You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”

“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”

The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.

“But then?” you prompt.

“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”

Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”

Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.

“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“And by we you mean…”

“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”

You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”

“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.

“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.

That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”

It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.

You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”

“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”

You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.

An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.

“You should be more worried,” you say finally.

“I worry plenty.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”

“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.

“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”

Your stomach sinks. Already?

Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”

The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.

“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”

“You don’t know that.”

He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”

“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”

“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”

You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”

“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”

You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”

“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”

“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.

“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”

“He’s effective,” Yaga says.

“He’s insufferable,” you say.

“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”

You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.

“Did somebody say my name?”

Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.

Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.

“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”

“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”

“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.

Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”

You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.

“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”

“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”

You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”

He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”

Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru says. “Wingspan, firepower, mood swings. Got it.”

“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”

“Of course, boss.”

Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.

“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”

It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.

“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”

You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.

“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”

Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.

You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.

Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?

You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”

It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.

Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”

You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.

Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.

You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”

“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”

“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”

The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.

“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”

“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”

You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”

Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.

“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Eighty percent sure.”

You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.

Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.

“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”

Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”

You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”

“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”

You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.

The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.

“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”

“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”

Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.

Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.

The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.

Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.

You feel hands.

Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.

You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”

“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”

With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.

You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”

“I saved you,” he says.

“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”

“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”

Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.

Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”

“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”

Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.

You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.

Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.

“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.

“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”

“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”

“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”

You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”

“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”

“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”

You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”

“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.

You pointedly do not stare.

“You’re ogling me,” he says.

“I’m glaring at you.”

“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”

“Die.”

“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”

Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.

Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.

“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”

“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.

“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.

You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.

“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.

“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”

You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.

You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Oh, my Gods.”

The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.

“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.

“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”

The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”

You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.

“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.

The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”

“Stolen?” you ask.

He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”

You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.

“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.

The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”

You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.

Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.

You want to believe him. You don’t.

“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.

“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”

You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.

“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”

The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.

You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”

You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.

Later. You’ll think about it later.

The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.

Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.

Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.

“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”

“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”

Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”

You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.

“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”

Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.

“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”

Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”

“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”

“It’s meant to.”

Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.

“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”

“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”

“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”

Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?

Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”

“Go,” Yaga growls.

Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.

“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”

“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.

You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.

The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.

The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.

Instead, you find the apprentice.

He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.

“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.

The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”

“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”

He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”

You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.

You slip inside.

The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.

It’s empty.

You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.

Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.

The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.

Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.

You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.

The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.

Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.

A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.

Sukuna.

The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.

He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.

He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.

He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”

Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.

The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”

Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.

Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.

Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.

The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.

Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.

You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.

In the centre of it all: Yaga.

The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.

Satoru.

He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.

You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.

“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”

Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.

Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”

“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”

“He’s not yours,” you say.

Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”

Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.

“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.

Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.

“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”

“You set them on us. You set them on him.”

A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.

The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.

“You’re working with them?” you say.

“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”

You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.

“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”

“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”

Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.

“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”

Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.

You almost laugh.

Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.

You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”

“He will be.”

The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.

The Night Fury roars.

The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.

You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.

“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.

He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.

“Miss me?” he drawls.

You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.

Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.

A horn splits the night.

It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.

Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.

The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.

“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”

“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.

The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.

Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.

“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”

Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.

Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”

You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.

Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.

Satoru’s lips move.

Eighty percent.

You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.

Eighty percent.

Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.

The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.

You make the choice first.

Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.

The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.

The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.

Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.

You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.

“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”

You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”

Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.

Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.

It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.

Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.

He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.

You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.

“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”

“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”

You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“Nearly. Keyword.”

Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.

You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”

“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”

“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”

Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.

Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”

“He is not,” you say flatly.

“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”

You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.

You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.

The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.

Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.

It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.

“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.

You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.

The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.

It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.

His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.

Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.

The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.

You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”

You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.

Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.

He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.

His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.

You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.

Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.

“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.

“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”

He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.

“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.

He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.

Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.

“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.

The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.

“Was that—” you start.

Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.

Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”

Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”

The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.

You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”

“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”

You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”

Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”

But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”

Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.

“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.

“Step in? He barged in.”

Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.

Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”

The café seems to come to a standstill around you. 

Servers, customers, even the new intern that’d been blatantly dozing off at the counter jerks his head up and throws a glance at your table—or more accurately to figure out the utterly inhuman voice that’d erupted from your table. 

It was deep. It was gravelly.

It sounded like - in its alien desperation to assimilate to this society - it’d meshed together as many human voices as it could possibly make, and in the end had come up with something that sounded like everything but.

And, of course, that voice had come from your boyfriend of three years.

Toji Fushiguro.

Though he was either ignorant or uncaring - knowing Toji, it was likely both - to the stares that were being thrown his way. He was far too busy fussing around this…symbiote and its separate thoughts and voices, batting around his head as though shooing away a particularly annoying fly. But you’d seen it—fuck, for the briefest second, you’d seen it…the way that this black, murky substance not quite of Earth-like matter had flickered over Toji’s handsome face for a second.

Slime-like skin.

Haunting white eyes.

A long, loooooooong tongue.

You shudder just imagining it.

“Sorry ‘bout that, doll.” Toji grits out- “His name’s Venom and he’s a real pain in the ass.”

You’re barely thinking twice before you utter, “And…how can we fix this?” 

Voice nothing more than a whisper. Though perhaps owing to those suddenly-honed senses of his, Toji can hear you perfectly. “According to my hypothesis, there should be one way in which once the symbiote is completely satiated of its more…base needs, then it parts peacefully with the host. But this is still unfounded- besides, I’d never fuckin’ ask you to-”

“I’ll do it.”

Toji pauses.

“Eh?”

And you’re meeting his shocked expression with one of pure steel, “I’ll do it.”

.

.

.

In almost no time, you’re back in Toji’s laboratory and bent over his desk—what had meant to be a trail run- what had meant to be a simple discussion with the symbiote to test Toji’s hypothesis had ended up with the most looooong, lecherous thrusts being pumped into the back of your cunt.

Your thighs clench together, moans echoing out and hitting the four corners of the walls.

Just the simplest plaps! of Toji’s ravenous hips comin’ down onto yours was enough to send your heels skittering- forced to stand up a little straighter. He’s cleanly lifting you off a few inches just with the probin’ thrusts of his cock—and as Toji bottoms out once more, he’s rushing you straight into your nth high of the night.

Peak after peak.

Thrust after thrust.

The seventh round that you were feeling his thick, throbbing cock piston you through—though according to Toji, they were called trials. 

Trials during which those waves of bliss shred through your core n’ straight up to your muddled head- one that’s immediately getting bombarded by that same gravely tone from before.

“Mmm, you smell sweeter when you cum.”

You startle, “Wh-what was that?”

“Fucked so stupid you can’t hear? Humans are so interesting…” As you’re tentatively turning your head over your shoulder, you’re seeing that Toji’s figure was suddenly taller…towering…covered in that black, goo-like substance from earlier—his face splits from cheek to cheek with a sharp-toothed smile, and suddenly he’s letting escape the most bone-chilling laugh. “I wonder how much sweeter you shall smell when I plant you with my seed-”

“Okay, that’s enough-” Toji’s struggling to gain dominance of the symbiote- though you still weren’t sure how exactly the system worked. You’d determined that it was a dual rule, of sorts, in which one could ‘fight’ the other for control of the body. 

And right now, your boyfriend was the clear winner.

Groaning as he’s winning back control—and with the regaining of his body, he’s bombarded with the sudden sensations of your hot cunt enclosing around his shaft. Sucking. Slurping. Just so thick and throbbing to be even deeper inside you- you’re unsure whether this was just your overstimulated brain talking, but you could’ve sworn that Toji felt even bigger than usual-

“You’re welcome for that, heh.”

You jump, “Wh-what was that?”

“You’re fuckin’ welcome.” The symbiote in Toji’s body utters, and you’re shivering at the sensation of Venom’s looooong lavish tongue dripping down the side of your throat. Licking. “Venom can change shape however we like, we can make ourselves bigger…”

And you can’t fucking give a response to that—you can’t. Because just then that mazin’ tip of Toji’s cock is expanding far beyond what you’re used to.

He’s shovelling in even more inches than you knew he possibly had- he’s thrashing against your cervix and digging in as though he’d probe even deeper if he could- he’s swelling up so much inside your tight walls that it honestly feels as though you’re about to be split down the middle—

“Mmmm, became even sweeter. Heh, you liked that.” Those honed teeth of his graze over your neck, easy enough for him to tear through. “How about curved?”

Immediately bendin’ in such a delicious curve- one that strikes the end of his shaft directly against your g-spot. He doesn’t even have to try. 

Your thighs quake as you feel his flared mushroom tip swabbing n’ stirring and messing up your insides with such an extreme shape. Plunging. Prodding around. The degrees of his curvature bent juuuuuust the right amount that it’d hit most of your tender spots-

“Or what about tentacles-”

“Wait-”

“That fuckin’ jerk.” Soon enough, Toji’s interrupting whatever lecherous plan the alien had for you, and instead using his original cock to pinpoint your insides.

Though Venom might have had the ability to change his shape- absolutely nothing could match Toji. Nothing could match the way he’d already memorized the locations of your sweetest bundles of nerves n’ how exactly you liked them stimulated—whether it was the quick, rapid strokes of just his very flared tip, or the achingly long strokes that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your back arches, and your moans crescendo louder than ever as your boyfriend reaches down to twiddle with your sensitive nub. “Right?”

Attempting to look back at him through your sobs, “Wh-what was that, baby?”

“I said—” Toji seethes out between haaaard strokes of his rugged cock- absolutely vicious. He wasn’t taking his time with you today, he was poundin’ your poor cervix raw with his tunneling tip. “Wasn’t he a fuckin’ jerk? Thinking that he’d be able to fuck my girl…”

“Y-yeah…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Venom was hearing every single word being said. Likely simmering beneath. Likely attempting to regain control and make you spill the truth-

“Uh-huh?” But Toji was on a roll now. As the words spat between his scarred mouth grow faster, so do the ministrations on your pulsing clit. “Wasn’t he just delusional? Thinking that you’d like that alien cock- heh.”

Pathetically nodding along—unsure whether that was for the question or for just how good it felt. “Yeah, mmmm- fuck.”

“Right? And wasn’t he wrong?”

“Yeah-”

“Wasn’t he useless?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Wasn’t this pussy missin’ me?”

“Fuck, yes.” 

And what you’re faced with next wasn’t a question, an insult to Venom, or anything else that you might have expected- it was a sudden spank!

Right on top of your clit.

Right before Toji’s already-elongated cock swivels a few inches deeper than you remember him being able to before. Thicker. Meaner. The top of his shaft was swelling into a fatter circumference, and you swear you can hear the squelches of orifices you’ve never known being opened up—

His sharp canines gnaw down on the shell of your ear, and shivers run down your spine at the guttural tone of his voice. “Then why are you so fuckin’ wet, my little liar?”

“O-oh.”

Shit, he’d known.

He’d been able to hear you, too.

And now you were paying the price: you were feeling Toji’s relentless cadence but with Venom’s ability to bend and prolong his shaft as much as he wanted to. His tendrils of symbiote substance glissade down his cock and stretch out your walls just a bit more—wrapped just around where Toji’s already-massive length was.

And if you thought that that wasn’t enough- you’re damn near losing your mind at the feeling of those fingers twiddlin’ at your clit starting to tingle. Starting to transform.

Before you know it, they feel strangely…tentacle-like. They reminded you of Venom’s own tendrils, though with a sultry suctioning sensation to it that made your body wrack with pleasure- “Oh my god—fuck, Toji, how are you even-”

“You forget that Venom is a part of me now.” He murmurs through a grin, hips only accelerating. Cock only lengthening- fingers only suckling. “And you’re not getting out of this any time soon, doll. At least, not until we have our hypothesis.”

“Shit…”

“Hypothesis schmipothesis. I get to breed her after.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Superman.

“My love…” Just the way that Nanami uttered your sweet, sweet pet name…it was anything but. As though he was a man that’d worshipped every name, statue, and deity in the world—and the only one to answer his wretched prayers was you.

He whispers your name.

Lightning strikes.

Nanami was silhouetted against the tall floor-to-ceiling window of your apartment; his red-clad feet hovering just a few inches off the ground, chest emblazoning the famous ‘S’ of which you could only see the ghost-like outline. Like a faint memory. That long cape of his drapes behind his broad shoulders, flowing in a breezeless wind. His head was bowed. His face utterly expressionless. 

Moonlight falls upon him like a knighthood, but something more untoward.

The night was dark and so had been the day of fighting crime—or so you’d assumed. Usually, when your boyfriend arrived home it was with kisses to your cheek and bouquets of flowers. 

You had no idea what happened today, but…he doesn’t respond to a single one of your calls. Not a single one of your pleas. 

The only thing you can do is take a step forward-

And he jerks as though he’d just been shot by several of the lightning flares outside. A thousand bolts of electricity and even more, more, and more. Even though he had his gaze turned downwards, Nanami doesn’t need to see to sense you-

He already knew.

“My love.” He repeats, as though a broken CD. There was a wisp of something so carnal in his tone, something dark and drenched in…a desire that you couldn’t put your finger on. It was something that made shivers cascade across your body, however. “My love, don’t-”

“Don’t what, Kento?” You’re insisting, even though you fight yourself not to take another step forward as per his wishes. “I need to know what happened, baby.”

“You need to know.” He repeats once more—was he even capable of anything else? You’re starting to grow even more concerned and reconsider your internal pledge when- “I was injured.”

Concern pours over you like a bucket of cold water, “Injured? Where-”

“Not physically.” Nanami spits out through clenched teeth, every syllable difficult for him to enunciate as though coated in glue n’ sticking to the roof of his tongue. In the pale moonlight you could see that his skin was covered in a sort of perspiration - something almost feverish and flushed. “It’s- fuck, I need you to know-”

“Kento, I’m scared for-”

“I need to fuck you.”

And as he finally rushes out the confession, large exhales seep out of him like every bit of his remaining sanity—a weight had been lifted off. But little did he seem to realize that that weight was a keystone for a dam. 

And now he felt like he was about to fucking burst-

“Lex Luthor- latest invention—fuck.” Interrupting his own explanation with a rugged groan - not one that was quite pained, but not…not either. “None taken, no casualties.” Something crossed between rage and ecstasy. How very like Nanami to utter of other before himself- “But I was injected with- fuck—”

You take a step forward, “Kento-”

“-aphrodisiac.”

“Oh.” Heart stopping. Without even thinking, you’re taking a quick scan of his figure to make sure that he wasn’t bluffing about no physical wounds, and when all seems clear on his upper half, your eyes can’t help but drop to the area between Nanami’s chiselled legs - and your sweet boyfriend’s Superman outfit had always been particularly flattering on his body, but this—he looked about nine inches straight through his tight latex and throbbing. Aching. 

You can speak no longer, and him barely enough- “Stay away.”

Another step. “Kento.”

“Darling, I’m going to ruin you.”

And another. “I don’t mind.”

There isn’t the burst and then the frenzy of lips on lips, skin on skin, as you might’ve expected at first. No, not at all. Your words linger in the bedroom for a few more seconds - tight and tempting, just when you think that the tension in the air is going to stretch so taut that it might never snap—Nanami moves. 

Just the slightest action: he stops hovering. Setting his feet down on the windowsill for the first time - and it hits you just then why he hadn’t been touching any bit of your apartment for so long.

Because the moment that Nanami came in contact with any - any - part of you, he was going to go fucking insane. That is, if he didn’t have your pretty pussy to take it out on—in almost no time, you’re finding yourself pressed flat against your king-sized mattress and having your boyfriend’s thickened tip swirlin’ your insides. 

He was just so hot and needy.

Perhaps even greater in girth than you remember him - there was a vein down the middle of his length that stood out n’ massaged every inch of your insides. Throb-throb-throbbing away inside of you as the crowned edge of his shaft bottomed out- fuck, he doesn’t even spend the long, sensual hours of foreplay as he usually would.

Nanami merely throws your legs over his half-uniformed shoulder, merely clasps onto one side of your hips, merely tunnels his angry cock in and out—

In and out. In and out. You’re feeling him glide his handsome nosebridge down the column of your throat- stopping just where you were most sensitive, he’s twitchin’ in-between your puffy folds as he takes in your pheromones. Groaning, you swear you feel him grow even bigger inside of you—“My love—”

It’s that absolutely broken tone of his that makes you jerk your head in response. Blinking up tearily at the blond man, “K-Kento?”

His shaggy, golden bangs were curtained over his eyes n’ covering most of his gaze now - and you’re unsure whether you should be thankful or concerned that you couldn’t measure the sheer primal desire in them anymore. It was obscured from you—and all you’re getting revealed of him are the constant grunts whenever his ruddied cockhead hits the back of your pussy, his shivering hips, his mantra of your name. “I need to know…my love, I need to- fuck, are you okay?” 

“I am—” Strangely enough, it made your cunt grow even wetter to know that he’s caring so much about you even when he was in the depths of the effects of the aphrodisiac-

His mind was wiped clean of anything but his base needs- and yet, there was always a part of him that knew you were what’s most important. And the superhero reaches one roughened hand down to sweetly cup your face, dragging the tip of his thumb down to wipe away any beads of sweat- “Are you s-sure? I need you to be sure-”

“I am sure, Kento.” Insisting. And though you feel just a little awful for interrupting his well-meaning pleas—you also needed to feel his thick, textured cock hitting eeeeevery single inch of you. And though you’re at his complete and utter mercy, you can’t help but squirm your hips around to swivel more of his solid inches inside. “Please- fuck, I need more of you. Don’t hold back-”

“Fuh-fuuuuuuck—” A zig-zagging vein pops out on his forehead, freckled with sweat. “Don’t say that-”

“But I am saying that.” Wrangling your legs off of his sculptured shoulders- or at least, you’re attempting to. But Nanami only needs to drift a single hand up to keep you pliably in place—he’s locking both ankles behind his neck with one hand, long fingers holding them gently yet sternly. It’s all he needs to halt your restless hips as he hits a sensitive spot and ploughs iiiiiiin.

Thrust after thrust.

Again and again.

Every single one of them locates that cute target of your nerves- instantly, it was almost like magic. That deliciously curved end of his shaft manages to maze his way inside, spreadin’ apart your gluey walls and heading straight for that area—all he has to do is follow the channel of your cunt until he’s led straight to that spot he bashes nicely. 

Sloppily.

“Darling, you’re close.”

“I-I am?” Eyes shooting wide open- fuck, he’s right. It takes only one more thrust of his vein-covered cock for you to register the thrills of adrenaline shooting up your spine. You’re arching straight into his chiselled chest, “Oh, shit…I am.”

“My love didn’t know?” Nanami nearly titters. “S’okay…your Kento’s going to fuh-fuck you through it. Your Kento’s going to make you feel so good—ngh.”

And as he utters this, his cadence only grows sloppier.

“May I…” Just so cautious of the way you’re being jostled to n’ fro - of the way you’re nearly hitting the headboard, and the roundness of his balls smack! against your cunt. Nanami has enough clarity to feel almost…sheepish about the way that you’re clearly dumbed down on his cock. His greedy, greedy cock. “May I make you cum- oh, may I go…just a little harder?”

“Kento—” You’re pouting, “I want you to go harder-”

“I-”

“I want you to go the hardest.” And as he’s still half-uniformed, you’re able to reach up and twist your fist in the smooth fabric. Tugging him down, you snarl- “If you want me to cum, Kento, then you better not hold back.”

And Nanami doesn’t answer. He doesn’t utter a single syllable.

He’s merely slowing his hips down and reeling his hips back, back, backwards—he lets the rounded tip of his cock circle your hole for a few seconds. Just the slightest few seconds, before that pulsing length of his shoves deep inside- not even stopping at your g-spot, he’s heading straight for your womb. 

That soft, sopping womb of yours- “My love…” Just the last thing you’re hearing before you’re cumming, “My love, it’s going to take now.”

Blabbering, “Wh-what—”

“It’s going to take.”

And a thick, ropey warmth floods you deeeep from your core- spreadin’ into every nook, cranny, and crevice until you’re feeling a little lightheaded. “Did you really mean…” As your voice murmurs out in pure disbelief, those clingy wads of his cum get pinpointed into even the tiniest sweet spots inside of you—places that you weren’t even sure you had. He’s pressing his thickened tip against the sides of your walls and watching as your sweet, sweet juices get sprayed out. “You- you really didn’t mean…”

Nanami utters nothing but a few raspy groans, eyes locked on the forefront of your core as he shovels inside. Inside and inside. “I did.”

There was an intensity in his eyes that you swear you’re feeling against your skin- and you did. It burned. “Did it seriously—”

“It did.” And his round, reddened tip ends up sticking straight against your womb - fucking you through your own high, fucking you through his drivelling wads of seed. A final swat. “It did, my loves.”

And you’re noting the change of your pet name.

Because you already knew what he meant- it had taken. Nanami Kento was using his superhuman sight to peer through you, watching as his cum trickles into the deepest depths of your womb—and his mouth quirks up into a handsome grin as he notes that it’ll be…

A daughter. 

.

.

.

“Congratulations”

You gape at the screen.

And a quick glance at Nanami reveals that he was doing the very same- though perhaps in not such an outward manner. As soon as possible, you’re staring right back at the screen that showed a little bean of something your doctor was pointing towards and explaining—something that flows in one ear and out the other.

You were still registering that there was a little bean of something.

You don’t know when - it might be second, it might be minutes, it might be days later - but Nanami speaks. Something silent and barely-there, a breathless whisper as though he was afraid that it’d shatter the mirage shown on screen, “A-and…the…?”

He can’t complete his sentence. Though Dr. Shoko Ieri is a professional, and she picks up on what your husband means quite quickly.

He clasps your hand - newly-minuted gold wedding ring cold against your skin - and waits as she peers at the screen once more. Because he knows this—he knows this. He’s seen this with his superhuman vision. 

He’d told you a few months ago just then…

And yet, Nanami’s heart flips. 

She smiles warmly at the two of you, “It’s a girl.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Batman.

“It’s you.” Geto chuckles, “Why did I know that it would be you?”

The sound of his low, throaty laugh is enough to send shivers down your spine—-and…perhaps even lower. Though that’s not something you wanted to unpack right about now.

You had to remember where you were: the mansion of Geto Suguru, billionaire, playboy, mysterious down to the core. The mansion had been as expectedly gaudy and gilded as most rich people loved their homes, but what had drawn you to it the most had been the safe room, of course.

And so here you were standing with a couple gold bricks in your bag and a few more to be packed up- that shouldn’t take long, you assume. And with a careless sigh, you’re ignoring the man himself and getting back to loading them back in—“So? Happy to see me?”

“Oh, less than.” Geto replies. 

“Don’t lie~” Purring, the skin-tight latex of your suit twinkles underneath the rich yellow lighting as you’re turning back to him. You shoot a flirtatious wink his way, “I know this is going to be the source of your wet dreams for years after.”

“Nightmares, more like.” He hobbles a step closer. It puts you on edge.

“Then how about we keep some distance from our nightmares, hm?” You’re gathering up your large loot—much heavier than an average person would be able to carry, though you’re holding it daintily between your fingers with ease. “I come to rob you, you catch me robbing you, you let me go—it’s a win-win for everybody. I really wouldn’t want to use force…”

“And I wouldn’t want to use force either.” Geto smiles so pleasantly, “I don’t really care about the gold- but there’s a pearl necklace in there that used to belong to my mother. How about you leave that and be on your merry way, hm?” 

You pout, “But I liked the pearl necklace.”

And his gaze grows just a little sharper, “I’m afraid that can’t happen, kitty.”

“Oh, I loooove it when you call me that~” Fluttering your lashes at him.

He takes a step closer, “I know your games, Catwoman.”

“And yet you fall for them every time, Batman.”

Did you forget to mention that Geto Suguru - billionaire, playboy, mysterious and also perhaps the most attractive man you’ve ever set your eyes on - was also Batman? Despite that, you still had the most infamous crime-fighting vigilante wrapped around your finger as though he was nothing but a low-grade thief.

And he was trapped in your web now (what was the cat version of that, anyway?)

Leagues below you. He’s biting down on his plush, pretty lip to hold back a whimper as you’re reeling your hips aaaaaall the way back to squeeze his blushin’ tip—holding it there for a few seconds before you give the superhero a good bounce. 

Making him throw his head back with a groan- Geto lets out a slew of swears once you’re starting up the sloppiest cadence. Back and forth. “D-don’t get ahead of yourself, kitty…”

“What was that—?” Pretending to gasp, you’re teasingly leaning your body forwards in a mocking attempt to hear him better. “What was that, Bat? I didn’t hear you- was that a stutter I heard?”

“Fuck off-” Spitting between clenched teeth. Geto’s clasping onto either side of your naked hips, using that strength of his you loooooved being manhandled by to roll your hips in figure-eight motions - just drag-drag-dragging the outline of his cock along your sweet insides. You could feel every ridge n’ crevice of his veins decorating your walls, massaging them into something even softer he loved to fuck up into. 

The two of you were sitting - barely - on the luxurious armchair he had in his safe room. Creaking and ricketing with age every time that Geto arched his hips backwards and gave you a thorough probe—inside. And though you couldn’t say that you planned to end up here, you didn’t quite deny that you had plans to end up in his master bedroom - why else would you have gotten caught?

The both of you knew that if you’d actually wanted to steal something, then you would’ve been out of this damn mansion hours ago. 

Gritting his pearly white canines, Geto crushes your hips further down into his and ruts up into you—“Sh-shit….” 

“What was that about stuttering, gorgeous?”

“Fuck off—”

“I’m fucking you, actually.” He spits between clenched teeth, gyrating your hips around so that the cute nub of your clit rubs up against his fuzzy base. It’s such a carnal feeling to have those curls of jet-black massaging where you were most sensitive, getting more n’ more drenched by the second. By the motions of your dripping wet pussy. He’s snarling, “That’s fuckin’ right- wipe that smug look off of your face. I already know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh?” And you’re just barely managing to scrounge up whatever’s left of your sanity together to respond. “And what is that, Monsieur Bat?”

“C’est l’homme chauve-souris.” Geto rolls his amethyst eyes, “And it’s that you think you have me- fuck, underneath your kitty toes.”

“Kinky~”

However, he’s learned not to entertain you with yet another outburst—instead, Geto’s pulling all his energy into inching his hips backwards and planting another thorough thrust deep into the depths of your cunt. So hard that you think he might just have left a mark.

So accomplished in his grin that you think he might’ve been aiming for it

You wouldn’t have been surprised to know that billionaire playboy Geto Suguru liked to let everyone know that he was fucking you- especially you. The hottest cat burglar in all of Gotham. 

The same one he’s been infatuated with since the first time he saw you.

But he was fucking you like he hated you.

The sweetest thing he’s doing yet is cascading a hand down your front- left fingertip teasingly pressing your pussylips apart. It doesn’t take him long - not long at all - to find your pretty clit and draw a few circular motions on top of it—watching as you buck and whine straight into his hands. 

And the meanest thing he’s done yet is reach his other hand behind you.

Because suddenly you’re feeling something cold and metallic click! into place.

You gasp.

You should’ve known that crime-fighting vigilantes often worked from the shadows; from a darkness of which even your feline eyes cannot piece through. You didn’t have eyes in the back of your head, did you? Although perhaps Batman had a gadget for that, too…

And although you already know that you’re fucked- it’s not until the jingle of handcuffs emanates from behind you that you’re really letting the situation sink in. It’s not that you’re afraid of Geto or anything he could do to you, but…it’s just that you’re afraid of what you might do given this forced proximity.

Something stupid like- like admit your feelings to the ever-elusive hero or something. Disgusting. 

On top of that, you’re unable to motion your hips as you were doing so previously. Stuck pathetically grinding back into thrusts that he was already planting onto your cunt, the fatness of his girth sending you to the edge- 

You’re whimpering are you can’t do anything you’d usually do like clasp onto his pretty throat or shove your fingers down his mouth. “Sugu…aw, c’mon—”

“Now I’m Sugu?” Geto snickers, “What happened to Bat? Or loser? Or fuck off? Or I never-want-to-see-you-again?”

Fluttering your lashes innocently, “You know I jest.” To no avail, you’re attempting to slip out of those handcuffs as you’d have done with any other normal ones - but you knew better than to underestimate Batman. As you expected, no matter how much you’re squeezing and molding your hands against that metal, it keeps on adjusting to your shape and restraining you. Keeping you hostage. Only one look at him and you already know that Geto’d spent a fortune creating these…perhaps just for you. “C’mon, baby, let me out of these~”

“No can do, kitty.” He chuckles. And the audacity of this man- he’s straying his right hand down your spine and groping your ass—“Next time we’re keeping the suit on because I wanna pull your tail.”

You scoff.

And he raises one dark brow. Thumb pressing down even harder on your clit, “What was that?”

“N-nothing…” You whimper, entire body wracking with shivers. It’s a few more sloppy thrusts before you can thrust yourself to speak without your voice cracking again—you didn’t want to give more ammunition for his entertainment. “Oh, Geto Suguru, when I get out of these handcuffs I’m going to fucking-”

“Kill me?” He smirks, “We can see you try.”

“You think I can’t?”

Geto shakes his head. “No, I expect it. Just make sure you kiss me first.”

And you can’t deny - neither to yourself or him - that that’s leaving you even wetter than you’d anticipated. The sheen of your arousal dripping through his dark happy trail, leading down to that perfectly chiselled six-pack of his. 

He merely cracks a grin and plants his right hand on one side of your waist—drilling into you even harder than before.

“You know I love you, Bat.” You’re grumbling out almost reluctantly past the clogged mess of whines and moans and tears in your throat. 

“Mmm, love you, too, kitty.”

.

.

.

“Mister Geto, I have collected those crime reports that you requested me to-” Miguel’s deep tone halts immediately at the sight before him. He’s standing by the edge of Geto Suguru’s sprawling master bedroom - the subject of countless features in architectural magazines, and the dreams of high-society alike - eyes widening at the dual figures of you and his employer, bundled up and clearly unclothed beneath the covers. 

Clinging onto one another.

The crime-fighting vigilante and his criminal lover.

Though it wasn’t necessarily a secret around these parts that no matter how many women and men Geto Suguru meets, there will always be a certain cat-eared crime-lover he goes back to…Geto himself wouldn’t appreciate it if such word spread now, would he? This wasn’t the first time he’d crawled right back to you and this won’t be the last- hold on. 

Were his sunglasses deceiving him or was his cold, uptight employer actually smiling in his sleep? Heavens above, this might just be the last time.

This might just. 

Miguel settles for the thought that he’d tease the billionaire about it over dinner—very, very late dinner by the looks of it. 

He leaves the report on the nearest desk - of which there were many, because this is Geto Suguru that we’re speaking about - and heads towards the door. 

Taking one last peak.

Yeah, this might just be the last time. He trusts his intuition, that he’ll be walking into this scene more often than not in the coming years.

Yeah, this might just be for good. 

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Nightwing.

“Who knew that the Nightwing…” You’re purring—smiling like the cat that’s got the cream - or more like the hero that’s just caught her rival. “-sex symbol of Gotham, hottest man of the year, wanted by men and women and everyone in-between…”

And Choso merely bucks weakly beneath you - his hips stutterin’ with every single fucking milimeter that he’s shovelling inside of you.

Choso was red and furiously hot between your legs—thick. Throbbing even harder as he feels his ruddied, red tip scrape the bottom of your pussy; his fat cock twitches there a few times as he registers the soft, spongy platform he was feeling—this was…Those beautiful, brown eyes of his widen as it sinks in. Gasping. Shaking.

And it takes merely two - two - seconds of being stuffed inside you for the famed hero to throw his head back and cum.

And you’re finally finishing your sentence, “-a virgin.”

How had this all happened? How did you end up here?

You could blame it all on the spiked punch, you could blame it all on the lavish ceremony - the highs and lows of the red carpet, ah, they always did tend to make you feel a little more reckless than usual—what’s that saying about all publicity is good publicity? Or perhaps it was the fault of the Hero Awards altogether.

Gathered here with the most elite of the elite, the best heroes from around the world; where they patted one another on their backs and paraded in designer. Reporters starved for the attention of the saviours as much as any competent villain.

Though you couldn’t say too much about them - you yourself were here, too.

But you told yourself that you were here solely for one award—and one award only. All those about best costume, best comeback during a fight, best fancam, best fistfight didn’t matter (though that wasn’t to say that you weren’t grateful, it’d been sweeping wins for all of which you’d teared up). 

You were here for Best Hero of the Year.

The best.

The strongest.

The most battle-savvy.

The most competent.

The best of the best.

Once that nomination letter had arrived, you’d held it to your chest - in pure disbelief - for a long hour afterwards. It was an honor to be nominated—the greatest honor. 

To win this award a panel of seasoned heroes would tally up all of your fights for this year, then grade them based on a variety of aspects such as difficulty, saves, assists, honor; the total would contribute towards a count that determined the winner. And though you’d been cautious about not winning - there were many other wonderful, more experienced heroes nominated - you just didn’t expect for the announcer to open up the golden cue card and read…

Fucking Nightwing.

Which is why you’d cornered him at the after-party - for a congratulations between you two that’d turned into passive aggressiveness, and passive-aggressiveness that’d turned into a proper argument you’re sure the reporters caught wind of, and an argument that ended up with you and Choso tangled up in your hotel room.

Pressing him down with your hips- you’re trembling at the feeling of his warm sap gushing out of you. It’s creating an ivory sheen down the inner sides of your thighs, smearin’ down Choso’s chiselled hips in a way that was just so lewd—and you’re more than happy to make an even bigger mess. 

To throw your head back and grind your hips down onto his.

Choso hiccups, his upper half attempting to surge upwards- only for you to press one pretty finger down on his shoulder. And just the softest push has him tumbling back into the plush pillows, “Shit- y-you can’t just…do that to me.”

“Do what, baby?” You smirk down at him. 

And right as he opens those cute, trembling lips of his to answer—you’re tightenin’ your thighs around his waist and jerking your hips even harder against his. His prominent v-lines massage where you were situated, and Choso groans as his blushin’ cocktip manages to push and pinpoint even the tiniest orifices inside you.

He’s still drooling out beads of cum, pooling at the base of his cock. So much of it- shit, was he still cumming?

Or was he cumming…again?

Unsure of what you were feeling, you’re veering your gaze down and attempting to get a better look. And sure as day- not only was it your translucent slick n’ his precum that was flooding you from the inside, but Choso’s ivory cum sprays out and and mixes into something so lewd-

“Fuck- fuck…” Your mouth waters at the feeling of being stuffed to the brim - so much of it that you’re wondering just how overworked his hefty balls must be. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, “You’re cumming again, Cho—”

“Th-this is exactly what I mean.” Choso sobs out, eyes glittering with tears, “You can’t just do that to me- you can’t make me feel so…stupid when you fuck me.”

Amused, “Stupid, huh? I don’t know if I have to try-”

“See, m’so gone that I’d agree—” That soft whine of his makes you so much wetter. Peering up at you with his half-lidded gaze - boring his dilated pupils into yours, hanging his jaw maddeningly. He presses a simple jerk of his ruddied cockhead into the deepest depths of your cunt - dead fucking serious. “I’d agree that m’stupid. I’d agree that m’pathetic.”

“Awwww…” Arching your back, he’s attempting this cute attempt at ruttin’ into you that you’re indulging in. You let him thrash his needy cockhead again and again and again-

“I-I’m nothing but a fuckin’ ngh, virgin that doesn’t deserve to fuck a pussy like this.” His lips wobble out- and you might have said something about him being too hard on himself…you might.

But the dirtier that Choso was speaking - the harder he was on himself - the harder he was getting.

Longer. Girthier—and his thorough thrusts were spearheading even faster by his tip. Taking out the tension in everything he was saying by ramming straight into your cervix - hard and fast. It twitches right at the very back of your spongy womb…and you’re swearing that a grin grows across Choso’s face as he registers that displeased expression on your face- who did he think he was to try and gain control over you?

“Now now—” You’re pressing both palms on top of his sweaty chest, and you can’t deny that they felt so toned and muscular underneath your touch. “Trying to be a big boy, Nightwing?”

“Only for you.” He croons.

“Cute.” You wrinkle your nose, “But that’d be a lot more smooth if you weren’t cumming- again.”

“Fuh-fuck.”

When was this? The third time? The fourth? Either way, all Choso knows is that he can’t stop those furious zaps of pleasure from coursing through his entire body—every inch and vessel and atom. It’s collecting at the mushroomy tip of his cock, red and swollen, then dribbling out as cum. 

Not even.

Choso barely manages a few pearly white droplets before he’s shooting fucking blanks-

Head throwing back. Gasps echoing out of him. Chest heaving and heaving as you’re riding his overstimulated cock craaaaaazy-

“What was that about Year’s Best Hero?” You’re tittering out, staring into Choso’s utterly pretty face as he’s cumming through tears. Spark upon spark. Strong enough to make his toes curl, and you’re ruthless in the way you’re wrapping your warm pussy around him and milking him dry-

His pinkish lips wobble, “Wh-what was that…”

“How’re you gonna fight crime if you can’t even- ngh, handle a pussy?” 

“W-well, I didn’t expect to be facing such a…formidable foe.” Blabbing out - utter nonsense at this point. He was pussydrunk—if only those at the Hero Award could see him like this. “You could take on a second job as a villain…j-just with that pussy…and also just f’me…”

“I take that as a…compliment?” 

“You’re welcome—ngh.” Choso whimpers out- before there’s a sudden twitch at the crown of his swollen shaft. And those brown brows of his furrow, “B-but don’t be nice to me, however, it’s gonna make me cum- again. Mmm.”

“Oh, Choso…”

.

.

.

The glitz. The glamour. The fans begging you to sign their tits. 

At the very next Hero Awards, there’s a buzz like never before. 

For several reasons, of course: first of all, the matching outfits between you and the famously handsome Nightwing (though you’d argue that yours is the one that looked better, secondly because some drama-lovers anticipated a rerun of the infamous fight between you and aforementioned handsome hero, and last but not least—because of the new category of awards you’d been nominated for.

Most Inspirational Hero Couple.

And it was no surprise that Choso had won this one, but at least this time—you’d won it, too.

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Hulk.

It happened not when he was angry, or excited, or panicked.

The results of a top-secret experiment funded by The University of Tokyo, intended to create human super-soldiers: it had been a failure. And Dr. Ryomen Sukuna had known better than to get his hopes up for such a volatile test subject—he was an expert in the field, 7 PhDs in a variety of sciences from biochemistry to radiophysics, he knew that it could take months, years, even decades before they observed even a mere anomaly similar to what they’d been hoping for.

But fuck- Sukuna had really thought he’d done it. He’d made humans immune to gamma radiation.

At least, he’d thought he did.

Ryomen Sukuna blinked his eyes open after the sudden explosion of radiation, and at most he’d expected to see his laboratory wrecked, his data completely wiped. At most.

He didn’t expect to be seeing it from eight feet high.

He didn’t expect to be seeing it with four eyes.

He didn’t expect to wield four massive arms in an attempt to find any shattered piece of glass from which he may see himself from-

Two mouths let out simultaneous gasps. 

One of them slashed across his muscular stomach.

He was a monster.

It didn’t take a single one of his PhDs for Sukuna to know to flee the scene- not just the building, but Tokyo itself. Sirens loomed in the distance, and the acrid smell of radiation left him in waves- bystanders running to the rubble without realizing the danger. He knew you’d be alerted soon—you.

How could he ever face you like this?

Lo and behold he’d ended up at a squat village in Aogashima island; 358km away from Tokyo with only 160 residents. It was here, tucked behind sprawling mountainsides, that Sukuna had come to discover the little intricacies of his…condition. Through trial and error, through testing upon himself and attempting to control that four-armed version of him. Attempting. 

And so the question: what made him transform? 

He discovered that this monstrous state - which he dubbed to be a Curse state - was triggered by sudden increases of his heartbeat. Rarely anger, or excitement, or panic. What else might possibly raise the disgraced scientist’s heartrate well over 200 bpm?

Arousal.

Which is exactly what he’d been learning to control through his breathing techniques, his meditation, and his celibacy- not that he’d want anyone but you. But fuck…the dreams he’d have of you.

Nightmares, when he wakes up as the monstrous King of Curses. 

Heaven, when the exact source of his nightmares - and wettest dreams - comes knocking at his shunted door one sunny summer day. A furrow between your brows. A furious word or two slipping out at the first sight of him. 

Fuck.

.

.

.

One year, two months, and a few days since…the incident and you’d finally located where your ex-boyfriend (and former colleague) had disappeared. 

And you’d expected him to have sunken into his work in one way or another. 

You’d expected him to have holed himself away in some rural town—as he’d confessed to wanting to do on some nights, just with you. You’d even have expected him to have been working on some strange new project after the failure of his last one- he was the type to take it to heart. A little dramatic, but you expected this.

You just didn’t expect…his transformation.

Right before your very eyes.

Four arms. Four eyes. Two cocks that’d stayed twitchin’ in his baggy pants for a mere few minutes of your conversation- before you had your face pushed into pillows that smelled like him, legs struggling to keep you up, begging for more as Sukuna digs those two ruddied cockheads between your pussylips and sliiiiides in-

Just a few inches.

Just a few.

Before the resistance of your tight entrance gets too much- and Sukuna’s leaning back a bit to allow his cursed second mouth to spit down on your pussy. Hard.

The impact makes you shiver, sticky substance gluing your pussylips together. You swear you hear his second mouth snicker as he swabs that cloying texture with his cockheads, and uses his hands to manhandle you into pliable position - one hand cupping your abdomen and pulling you up- the other digging into the left side of your hips- the other reachin’ down to thumb apart your swollen folds and help him fuck his lengths inside. Thick and throbbing.

In short, slow semi-thrusts. He was just trying to fit inside. “Kuna—” Breathing out open-mouthed against the pillows. Needy.

“Needy brat.”

“Kuna.”

“Sh-shit.” And he wasn’t doing a single bit better than you. Sukuna was letting his head drop into the clammy crook of your neck, gnarled canines grazing on top of your skin- you feel the scowl across his face stretch even more as he pull-pull-puuuuuulls those hot erections backwards.

And then probes aaaaaaall the way back in - languidly. 

“Fuck-” You’re gasping out—seeing pure white behind your eyelids. You almost couldn’t believe it. Sukuna was already sizable- but in this form?

He had his round, reddened tips just barely lodging between your swollen folds. Just so big. Pulsing. Pushing apart your slick walls with his circumferences, throbbing away inside you. Rubbing back and forth a few times to savor the squeeze of your hole - like heaven - before he’s stuffin’ every single nook, cranny, and crevice like never before. 

And the carnal burn between your legs was only made sweeter by the way that Sukuna himself trembled on top of you. He’s letting out a coarse grunt-

Gasping. 

“Fuck—fuck, is this okay?”

And a part of you melts at the utter tenderness in his tone - mixing with a hint of fear. Of disbelief. Ryomen Sukuna was never the type to be vulnerable, not even when the two of you had been dating—but as you look over your shoulder right now, you see that those devilish red eyes of his were observing every minute expression as though searching for a hint of rejection. Of disgust.

A hint that he’d been right about his changed form.

He was inhuman in his physique now, and…and he understands if you’d been scared away at any point-

But you’re only arching your spine and veering your hips back into him- cutting off whatever whirlwind of thoughts was bound to consume him. You’re picking up the pace that he’d been unsurely slowly down, bouncin’ down onto those slick-glossed shafts. They filled you up deliciously. “You don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easily again, are you?”

“I-”

“I’m more than okay, Kuna.” 

“And yet-”

“And yet, why won’t you fuck me even harder—” Huffing, you’re managing to get up onto your elbows and gain a bit more leverage. “Spent so long looking for you, y’know…”

“Tch.” The scientist grumbles, but you could feel the way those rotund tips of his twitch just a lil’ inside of you. “Should’ve known-” He’s matching your pace with his own, slamming the lines of his toned abs against the globes of your ass cheeks. “-that you’d be an utter slut for monster cock.”

“Cocks.” You correct.

Just then, the wetness of his second tongue trickles down your pussylips. Gathering up every wad of honeyed slick you were leaking out- he was glissading his tastebuds along every inch of you he could reach: your inner thighs, your cute ass, nearly reaching around to fuck your pretty pussy. “Don’t forget the tongue, too, girlie.”

“I c-could never…” You’re keening out.

“Oh?”

And with a grin, Sukuna second-guesses no longer—before he’s leaning his chiselled front over yours. The hard ridges and lines of his muscles massaging your back, he hooks his fourth muscular arm around your neck and pulls you into a damn headlock-

“Fuh-fuck-” Sukuna hisses through his canines - honed and longer and ready to bite. He ruts into you like a damn animal—“Shit, how I missed this…”

“Shouldn’t have run away then-”

“From the fuckin’ freak?” 

Just the slightest press against your throbbing g-spot - it’s like a trigger for the sweet, sweet squeeze of your walls- so warm n’ hungry for his cocks. And Sukuna jerks into urgent attention, 

And now he wasn’t fucking you slow- he wasn’t taking his time.

Ryomen Sukuna had his muscular hips arched n’ reluctant to part from yours. Probin’ those girthy inches of his inside—

You’re attempting to claw at the headboard for dear life- but his keen eyes immediately catch the sliver of action, and Sukuna wastes no time before tightening his headlock ‘round you until his biceps bulge against your throat, hauling you back into his vicious ploughs. “What?” He breathes, scalding hot against the side of your cheek. “Where are we going, girlie?”

“We?” 

“We. I could never forget her.” He’s rasping out against your skin, sending vibrations across every axiom of you. “Always thought of her—”

“A-and what did you think about?” You’re whimpering.

He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. And you’re disappointed as you feel Sukuna take as much time as his heart desires, pulling out of your pussy with a cute pop! Before he swirls his ruddied tips to soften up your entrance once more, and gives you a thorough thrash- going even deeper than prior. He’s making the eyes roll to the back of your head- he’s finally bottoming out. “I thought about how she might take every inch of me…”

“Oh.”

The tip of his second tongue dips out as though to fuck your cunt simultaneously. 

.

.

.

When you’re accompanying Sukuna back to Tokyo, it’s hand-in-hand.

Large and warm against yours. There were more callouses on his fingers than you remember there being - not those of laboratory test tubes, and flasks, and flipping on centrifuges; but the hardship from the year you didn’t have him—and he didn’t have himself, either. 

But you’re tugging him into the airport, now.

Two tickets booked and a meeting at The University of Tokyo already planned - the two of you didn’t plan to let anyone know of his transformative abilities for now. Perhaps never. 

There were things that the two of you hadn’t sorted out yet: like how would Sukuna explain away his disappearance to the science board? How would you both stay in your cramped Tokyo apartment when he turned into his Curse mode? How would you manage to work on controlling it when…

But you knew the two of you would find a way - you always do.

As you’re standing at the terminal to your flight, the ones at the farthest end of the line, you’re turning around to a lilting voice calling out both your names. Your full names. Who knew such a thing…Faced with a grinning woman in a jet-black suit, tinted sunglasses, and the most accomplished grin across her face. She introduces herself as Tony- or as you may know her: Iron Woman.

And would you and your hulking boyfriend perhaps be interested in a little something called—

Sukuna’s breath hitches.

—The Avengers?

♡ INO TAKUMA - Flash.

“Mr. Flash- Mr. Flash! Just one more question, please…”

“Mr. Flash?” Ino gets a sheepish expression across his face at the esteemed title- one that makes the rest of his team roll their eyes. And he’s turning to the reporter that wastes no time shoving his mic in his face; camera already rolling, news headlines running.

All part of the job—it’s already been an hour since they’ve saved the city (yet again) and they’re still being interviewed, with no sign of it stopping anytime soon. 

And so Ino plasters his camera-ready smile on - the rest of the team might not be as savvy as he was with the media, but he was one of the most popular up-and-coming heroes for a reason. Hah. The people loved him, and he loved the people. He takes the mic from the reporter faster than he can blink, and the man startles out a laugh.

“Woah, did you get that?” He turns uncertainly to the cameraman, who nods though he himself wasn’t too sure. Turning back to the red-clad hero- “You sure are fast. Tell us, Mr. Flash, does this speed affect you in your normal life, too?”

Ino answers, “Well-”

“And what about in the more…intimate aspects?”

He’s somewhat taken aback, “What do you-”

“What about in bed?”

Ino’s jaw has never dropped faster—ironic, isn’t it?

And that reporter leans in with a smile that’s turned wicked - one that said he’s going to get paid a lot of money for this particular clip. “Tell us, Mr. Flash, do you last nothing but a flash in bed?” Those beady eyes then turn to you—not too far away and interviewing another one of his team - ever since the two of you started dating, you’d been careful to not let anything slip about it, going so far as to avoid interviewing him as you once did as a hero reporter.

Though you suppose that some whispers did let slip.

For the man was staring at you, though he asked the question from Ino. “Or perhaps there’s a certain…someone that might know the answer to this question?”

That clip of him open-mouthed and gaping takes over social media within a few minutes - it garnered some strange frenzy of amusement and morbid curiosity. Some defended him fervently against the intrusive reporter, some argued that if one was a hero then they should expect strange questions, others condemned such questions all together- where were the boundaries?

Everyone else argued back.

But most…oh, you could’ve already guessed that most couldn’t help but speculate the real answers for both questions: the bed situation and the ‘certain someone’.

Ino, of course, was bemoaning his haste.

Or at least he would-

But right now he had you splayed-out underneath him and letting him fuck you maddened—the slender length of his cock pistoning in and out of you at a frenzied pace.

“Fuh-fuck-” That pretty, pinkened mouth of his droops open with a wet gasp—and Ino shudders as the ruddied tip of his cock swerves around your insides. Stars burst behind his teary eyelids as he’s sprinklin’ out yet another few droplets of him, trickling it deeeep into the back of your womb as he’s fucking your wet channel through it.

He’s shuddering his hips forwards and locking his knots of seed against the softness of your womb- “Fuck, you’re making me c-cum again, pretty…” And it’s about the fifth time in the past hour that he’s repeating this, “B-but I’m really not a flash in bed, right…?”

Such doe-like eyes stare at you, those long lashes of his glittered in tears. And you can’t help but say, “Mhmmmm—you’re really not, Taku.”

“But then why do you sound like you’re making fun of me?” Those trembling fingertips of his take purchase upon either side of your hips, and Ino’s mahogany brows furrows as he concentrates. “This round- this round, m’gonna prove it to you.”

“Taku, baby, you’re pussydrunk-”

“Even better.”

It’s been hours.

Fucking hours.

And Ino hasn’t stopped ruttin’ himself into the warm wetness of your pussy- he can’t stop himself. 

It’s been too long - at this point he wouldn’t even be able to give you a number - since you’d successfully steered him away from that reporter and accompanied him to his penthouse. Since you’d reassured him that he totally wasn’t too fast in bed and that you definitely did think the sex lasted long enough. 

But still.

He didn’t last a flash in bed.

He really, really didn’t—which is why a young dawn was filtering through the curtains- but Ino Takuma still had his cock lodged thoroughly inside you and was showing no signs of stopping any time soon. He’s reaching down to wrap both your legs around his toned waist, folding you in half n’ kissing your sweaty forehead with his.

But his point was getting harder and harder to prove with every round that he’s fuckin’ you through - bottoming out deeply at the back of your womb, and letting out the prettiest shivers as he feels you clench. “Fuh…oh, fuck.” Uttering mere minutes after he’s started this round, “I-I think m’gonna…”

“What’s that, baby?” You’re reaching up to loop your arms around his neck, tugging the beautiful boy towards you. 

“Nothing.”

Batting your lashes up at him, “Awwww, c’mon- you know you can tell me anything, Taku.”

“I-it’s really nothing.” He insists.

“Hmmm, alright then…” But you knew- oh, you already knew. The more rounds that Ino was plunging you through, the more n’ more pussydrunk that he was growing—the shorter he lasted. Which wasn’t entirely anything bad- you honestly found it cute how it’d only take a few sweet slides down your tight pussy’s channel for Ino to utterly fall apart.

But he’s soon feeling that prickly sensation of his high, and he only starts tunneling between your sopping pussylips even harder. Brows knitting. Fingers digging into your flesh. “M’not gonna cum, sweetness-” He hiccups, “I-I’m not gonna cum, promise-”

“Mhm, I trust you.” You’re coaxing him, “I know you’re gonna last, baby.”

There’s a breathless note in his voice. He looks up at you in surprise, “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I know you can handle it- hah.”

Fervently nodding, “Yeah- yeah, and m’gonna make you cum—”

“Mhm—” Lewdly smiling up at him. He’s just so entranced by that sinful expression upon your face that he doesn’t notice the way you’ve planted your feet firmly on the damp mattress- suddenly rolling your hips up into his own. “So why don’t I…help you, my hero?”

“H-help—oh.” Stunned. Cutting himself off with a groan. 

Ino’s eyes squeeze firmly shut, and he’s shaking viscerally at the sudden plap! of your skin hitting against his own. It’s a different kind of burn when it’s you who’s taking control - and even though he’s on top of you, it feels like he’s the one that should be squirmin’ and gasping.

It feels like he should be the one who’s cumming first-

“No—” Ino’s gritting out through clenched canines - there’s a low trundle of something in his tone that sounds like desperation. Before you know it, he’s increasing the speed of his hips—plap! plap! Plap!

That rounded, red tip of his finds the spot of your nerves just perfectly- and Ino doesn’t waste a single second before he’s starting to bludgeon it with his thrusts. So many times that it starts to feel a bit raw.

Pinning you down using the weight of his lower half, Ino digs his right hand instantly between your two trembly thighs. Brushin’ apart your pussylips with a singular swipe of his thumb- your head explodes in so many bursts of pleasure as he starts twiddlin’ with your pretty, plump clit. “No, no, no- don’t think that I don’t know what you’re hck! doing, sweetness.”

Fluttering your lashes innocently, “And what’s that, Taku?”

“D-don’t think that I don’t know you’re trying to make me—” Pausing to let his crowned shaft push into your womb with a resounding squelch! “-cum first.”

“So what if I am, hm?” You counter, “I just really, really love the way it feels when you’re filling me up-”

“I know what you’re doing there, too—” He’s snarling down at you- just so gone on your pussy by now that he likely doesn’t even realize he’s drooling. Those dilated pupils of his bore straight into your own as he angles his hips to constantly bash your poor g-spot, circlin’ every sensitive orifice. “I know what you’re doing- fuck, I know what you’re doing…”

And you can only squeal as the sheer pressure of his cadence increases-

“And I know what I’m doing, too.”

Because if you thought that was fast- then you weren’t ready for just how rapidly Ino’s fingers could make you fall apart. They were just so loooong and pretty, flexible enough to twist your nub in constant circular motions, flexible enough to make you sob.

It doesn’t matter how badly you’re attempting to buck away - Ino keeps his fingers firmly into the wettened crevice between your legs. Twisting his wrist into aaaall sorts of degrees just to see which one made you scream the most- 

“Please—” You’re bawling out after only a few minutes of this, legs shaking. “P-please, that’s unfair-”

“How so?” One amused brow raises. Perspired.

“B-because you’re gonna make me cum-” And to anyone else that would’ve sounded like a petulant complaint, it would’ve even sounded like a sore loser that couldn’t take on the challenge—but Ino knew. And you knew, too. “-using your powers—”

And the superhero can only grin, “So?”

Thrust after thrust.

Roll after sloppy roll of his glued fingertips - they were running your body taut. Without much effort, Ino’s able to make his blushin’ divot massage against your pussy at a rate where his hips almost looked like a blur—not even half of the Flash’s top speed. 

And the fact that he was going easy on you made you huff in complaint.

Without thinking much of it, you’re back to ruttin’ up into him - definitely unable to meet his cadence, but you knew you didn’t have to. 

You already had him wrapped around your little finger.

It takes only a few needy slams of your treacly pussy against his cock - all the way down to his thickened bottom - for Ino to throw his head back and groan. “You’re gonna…fuck, you’re gonna kill me, girl.‘

“Huh? But I didn’t do anything?” In a mock-innocent tone, “I certainly don’t have any powers to use.”

“Did you forget p-pussy power?”

You smirk.

And as he’s increasing his pace, you only have to whimper out his name for Ino to falter- for him to shake his head and continue. And as you’re attempting to gain the upper hand, he only has to buzz your throbbing nub with his electric speed for you to lose your mind. 

Eventually—you think you’re about to cum.

And before you can accept the thought of losing, you’re grabbin’ Ino by his pretty throat and dragging him down to kiss his lips. “C-cum inside me, Taku.”

It’s a tie.

You’re crashing into your high, and Ino’s crashing into his. 

Both the steaming hot pleasure of your orgasm flooding your core- and the few droplets that his overworked cock manages out. Creamy white sap. Thinner than usual—he was fighting not to merely cum blanks. Whimpering. Bucking. Fucking you like a damn animal…You’ve both experienced so many throughout the night that your current waves of bliss rip through you hard and fast.

Though Ino himself wastes no time bumpin’ his crowned cock into every tiny ridge of your wet channel. Scrape-scrape-scraping down the spots where you were most sensitive, and dragging it out for as long as he can.

You’re gasping as it leaves you numb from your toes, pulling his sweat chest against yours. “F-fuck, that feels so good…”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” And as the shudders of your high pass, you feel Ino’s cock grow just a little more limp inside of you- well…for a mere few seconds, that is. 

“T-tie-breaker?” He whines.

.

.

.

The next time the two of you are spotted out together, it’s for an interview. Of course.

In which you’d ‘cornered’ global superhero Flash after yet another one of his successful missions - before any of the other reporters could manage to get their claws on him - with the question they’ve all been asking—“Do you really last as quick as a flash in bed?”

You’re hearing the shocked gasps around you from the other reporters and bystanders. None had dared ask this question so directly since that clip had gone viral - and in the peripheries of your vision you could see that interviewer from before gnawing his teeth at the fact that you’d stolen his limelight. Surely thinking you’d have about as much luck as him, however…

But of course, Ino already knew you were about to ask this. 

His grin stretches underneath his mask as he turns to you, cameras rolling. “I should be asking you that, pretty. Dinner at 7?”

“There you have it, folks.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Spider-Man.

“S-so I guess what I’m trying to say is…” The masked intruder starts, his voice stuttering adorably through his lines. Though adorable as he may be, that doesn’t make you forget the fact that he was a man…tall…well-built…and clearly a crazed fanatic of the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man who’d broken into your dorm—“Uh…I come in peace?”

You’re raising the frying pan in your hands even higher, “I know how to hide a body-”

“O—okay, woah-” He’s immediately taking a few steps back, which you suppose you wouldn’t expect from a dangerous intruder. But then again, maybe he was just new to the job?

If so, he should probably have his pay docked - he was utterly failing at being intimidating. For he’s flattening himself against the window from which he’d entered just a few minutes ago, hands raised in surrender and the whites of his masked eyes widening. Damn, that costume was pretty good…

“I come in peace. I swear I come in peace- I’d just been running from a bad guy, and your dorm just happened to be…the first one I saw? Either way, I promise I’m no danger and I’ll just be on my way now so-” He immediately hastens, “Put…the frying pan…down.”

“Make me.” Raising it even higher, he flinches.

“Okay- oh my god, okay—” It really didn’t take much to make the man surrender at all, immediately giving up on any peace-keeping. He scrambles around the room and you’re worrying that he’s looking for something to challenge your frying pan with- but it seems that he’d just been brainstorming how best to go about with…whatever this is. Because in no time, you’re practically seeing a light bulb go off beside his head, and the man raises his palms as though to brace you.

And you can’t deny it, you found yourself a bit interested. “Um, yes?”

“Get ready- look—” He utters through the web-patterned mask covering his face. “Don’t faint but…”

“But?”

“I’m…Spider-Man.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

You’re assessing the man from head-to-toe—or at least what you could make out of him from the most elaborate cosplay of Spider-Man you’ve ever seen. It could honestly have been impressive if it wasn’t for the fact that he was in your fucking dorm.

But you digress.

“Okay, so do you want the frying pan- or I’ve also got a rolling pin-”

“What? No—no, listen.” The man insists, “I really am Spider-Man- it’s true! You’ve gotta believe me-” Though your deadpan expression gave away just about how much you believed the words that were falling from his masked mouth. And so he’s groaning in frustration, “Look- look, if I just showed you a few tricks would that work? Would that finally prove to you that I’m Spider-Man?”

Unimpressed, you cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

And then the first thing he does is shoot a clingy web from one hand, it launches at an incredible speed and sticks to your ceiling. That’s going to be hell to get out…

“Hm…” You narrow your eyes at him, “Impressive. But I’ve seen better at Party City.”

“That’s not fucking Party Cit- anyways.” He runs a hand down his weary face—or at least what you expect his face to look like beneath that mask. And as soon as you blink, you’re finding this…intruder(?) climbing up your walls. Literally.

All hands on there, glued to it with an invisible adhesive. 

You gape, “That’s not…”

“And how about this? This is even better—” Before you can refute that previous trick, too, this man jerks his head up (or was it considered down? You weren’t quite sure given the way he’d crawled all the way to your ceiling by this point) and basks in the silence for a split-second.

You wondered whether he was actually sensing something or just pulling your leg-

“My spider senses say that your vibrator’s plugged in but it isn’t charging.”

You almost want to throw the frying pan at him. However, you’re managing to tamper down the urge long enough to walk silently to your room and back—fuck it, he’d been completely right. You still sort of want to throw the frying pan at him.

But as though he’d sensed that, too, Spider-Man raises his hands up to cover his head.

So you’re setting it down on your table with a defeated sigh, “Alright, I believe you…Spider-Man. What’re you doing here?”

“Like I said-” He finally lets go of the ceiling and stands in front of you normally now, “-bad guy had been chasing me. That one was just a little…above my paygrade so I had to stall until Iron Woman could get here- which was about five minutes ago. The fight’s still going on, however, and I should probably lay low for now.”

Awkwardly shuffling, “So then…”

“So then if I could just stay here until then, um…”

“Um, sure.”

“Sure.” He twiddles his thumbs, “So- is there anything you’ve wanted to know in particular about Spider-Man?”

You smirk.

.

.

.

“Always wanted to know how—hah, big it is.” Biting down on your lower lip, you’re managing to hold back a pitchy whine as his solid tip enters your hole.

Puckered and plump.

Just the cutest pink- he was the perfect girth and size. 

Big enough to make your entrance quiver just feeling him kiss up against you, slender n’ smooth enough that he’s already starting to eagerly ease inside of you. And as you’re lowering yourself down on him, the superhero grabs onto either side of your ravenous hips like a lifeline—letting out a few ragged swears as he jerks his hips up and thrusts-

“Y-you should know…” He’s wincing at the feeling of your cunt - so hot and wet. Wasn’t this just heaven? 

Turning around to look at him- he’s rather glad you’d chosen a reverse cowgirl position. Because at least then you wouldn’t have seen the way he wiped away fucking tears—sobbing at just the feeling of being inside your wet pussy. “Mhm, spidey?”

“You should know that this is my first time.”

“Oh.”

And with that being said, he’s thumpin’ out the most thorough hit at the very bottom of your pussy. He doesn’t have the experience of just eeeeasing in his incredible length- he’s chasing the back of your cunt like a man starved. 

Like a man in unbearable pain every second he isn’t feeling the hotness of your cervix, the globes of your ass, the sensation of your walls squeezing around him like an embrace. So hot and wet. So sweet. So addictive-

“Addictive?” You’re giggling back at him, “Pussy talking already, huh?”

“I-I don’t even know what that is…” He’s babbling out, voice thicker than before.

And you can’t help but glide your palms down the smoothness of his exposed thighs, feeling every curve and divot of the corded muscle beneath. His body was just to die for - toned but not overly muscular. More like a sleeper build.

And you’re having soooo much fun moving your hips ‘round in all sorts of ways that made his muscles bulge—

“Fuck- fuck.” He’s stupid after just a few strokes. Bucking. Moaning. Hands tugging on the edge of the mask that found itself firmly upon his face, he’s attempting to loosen it and gasping for air-

“You should take that off, too.” You’re turning around and huffing at the sole scrap of fabric that kept you from seeing - what you assumed to be - Spider-Man’s pretty face. The only thing you could see of him were those stray curls of…white? Perhaps they were a super platinum blond? They wrapped around the nape of his neck and slightly leaned towards his jawline, drenched in sweat and flushed right down to his tone pecs.

The way that he’s squirmin’ and letting out the most unfairly erotic grunts every time you’re swallowing him up only left you so much more impatient. So much more impatient. “I s-swear I won’t tell anyone about who you are…fuck, and isn’t it getting super hot in there?”

“It is…” He murmurs, more to himself than anything. “But, what if—”

Peering back at him as he trails off, “What?”

“What if I don’t look how you expect?” 

“It’s the personality that matters.” Nodding in conviction, and then a sly smile stretches across your face at the way that makes his cockhead throb-throb-throb harder inside you. You’re wasting no time before increasing the speed of your hips until your hamstrings scream—“And the cock…heh.”

“S-so filthy.” The hero mutters, “But what if I’m…not your type?”

“Ugh—” Almost rolling your eyes- it was cute just how shy he was, really. But the first thing you’d wanted to do upon finding out that he was the real Spider-Man was to fuck him - so how much of a hint could you really give? “Baby, my type is loser heroes, and I think you fit the bill.”

“Thank y- hey.” 

Just a few more sloppy thrusts - just a few more - and the man beneath you finds himself completely n’ utterly gone from the force of your hips. The sweetness of your cunt. 

The way you’d tighten your legs around him any time he swabbed near your sweetest spots. And he was chasing that particular bundle of nerves with such fervour- he was gasping as he feels himself veering even soooo much closer to the throbbing of your deepest walls- he was reddening the skin ‘round his pelvis through sheer impact. 

And just as he thinks that he couldn’t get even more drunk on the texture of your pussy…

 You’re whimpering out a sweet lil’ echo of his hero name—

And the superhero beneath you lets his head loll behind into the pillows with a groooooan- mouth falling open at the feeling of your cunt surrounding him. Clenching. 

Clamping down, you’re holding him hostage better than any villain ever could.

His heavy balls were nearly full enough to burst- and he’s thinking that he’s gonna cum just as soon as he rams his blushin’ tip almost straight into the target of—

And then his spider senses tell him that your fingers are thinking of reaching for his mask.

But before you can even let the thought come into proper fruition in your mind, he’s taking nothing but a single split second to web your pretty wrists together and flip the two of you over. Just because he’s pussydrunk doesn’t mean he isn’t one of the world’s best superheroes, hm? 

Now fucking you with your face smushed into the pillows, your knees bracing on the mattress. His cock pounding out a single thrust between those sweet, sap-covered pussylips of yours- the hero hits your g-spot instantly.

And that’s all it takes for you to topple right into your high.

Pleasure rushing through your body in waves. Fingertips clenching at the sheer force of it. You’re seeing stars behind your eyes at the sensation- “Sh-shiiiiit—” Perhaps one of the best orgasms you’ve ever had in your life- and not only was it wound up by a virgin, but the virgin was none other than Spider-Man?!

Jaw dropping open—though it was in slight shock, he’s taking the opportunity to lean and spit.

Making you moan as the gluey wad skids down your tastebuds, “Ohhh, you’re a secret freak, huh?” And though you’d meant it as a half-joke, the hero is leaning his chiselled body dooooown to whisper into the side of your ear. 

“Maybe.”

Then there’s the rustling of fabric.

Of masks being removed, perhaps? It takes your mind a few more moments of him slammin’ his rugged cock inside you to realize…

And then the white-hot feeling of your orgasm coursing through your veins is suddenly overtaken by the realization that Spider-Man - maskless and exposed - was right behind you. Looming. Looking for your reaction, you suppose…you feel a jolt go through your body as you realize that he was waiting for you to turn—bearing all of this for you.

And you wondered what he would look like.

Pretty, sure.

Slightly nerdy—perhaps, he never struck you as the jock type.

Someone sweet. Someone kind. 

Maybe that was just your wishful thinking.

You turn around and there he is - Gojo Satoru. You fucking knew him—he went to your university. The white-haired ace of the Physics Department; always roaming around campus with his textbooks or camera, always with his head buried and rarely meeting anyone’s eyes, always in the library to the extent that he might as well have been part of the furniture. 

Always with his camera lens pointed at you, though he doesn’t think you saw him enough to notice.

But of course, you saw him.

Of course, you saw him.

He’s the boy you’ve had a crush on since freshman year.

Gojo doesn’t meet your eyes now, either. He’s without his thick-rimmed glasses and has to squint just a little bit, looking self-consciously down at himself and fuck- you have to resist the urge to beg for missionary then and there just so that you can stare into his deep, azure eyes as he fucks you.

Instead, you just say- “Did you know that nerds are also my type?”

He beams brighter than the sun.

.

.

.

The next time you’re beside Gojo Satoru, it’s hand-in-hand and entering your next lecture. 

You could feel the stares, the gasps, the whispers.

The nerd of the physics department, and one of the most popular girls on campus- or at least, that’s what Gojo claimed. Professor Yaga himself lets his bushy brows raise just the slightest inch once he spots the two of you—and it makes your nerdy boyfriend blush right now to his ivory roots.

“Sweetheart—” He’s whispering to you, “How about we swing around the city today? Promise I’d never let you drop.”

You smile, “I’d love to, Toru.”

Oh, you can imagine that the Daily Bugle is going to go into haywire. 

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Daredevil.

“Do you trust me, angel?”

You can’t keep the smile off of your face, “Who would I trust if not the best lawyer in Tokyo? Maybe even the world?”

“Why only maybe?” Higuruma smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges—just barely visible past the frames of his sunglasses. Your boyfriend was just so handsome when he was in his work clothes: one amongst the many crisp suits he often wore to court, hair slicked back n’ not a single strand out of place, his cane by his side. But he continues, “You know how I’m a…lawyer of sorts?”

“Oh really? I had no idea.” You jest.

“How about we try something tonight, my angel…” And as you’re peering down at him in curiosity, Higuruma starts to loosen his tie just the slightest bit—and you’re suddenly understanding what he means. “How about a simulation of this aspect, though in a far lighter tone?”

Your jaw drops, “R-roleplay?”

.

.

.

“Denied.”

“Hiromi, baby—”

“The court finds you guilty on all counts of seduction.” Higuruma’s deep baritone rasps down at you, punctured only by the slamming of his gavel on his desk. Bang! Bang! Bang! Those pressurized vibrations send shockwaves down your own body, and the lawyer’s grin stretches as he watches you affected by such a thing.

How cute…he couldn’t stop but let your orgasm edge for the nth time tonight.

Edging you.

It’s later into the night, you’re spread out across Higuruma’s neat work desk- your back against the frigid texture of the mahogany, your front arching into his own. He presses his suit-clad front against your naked tits—the harsh texture of his heroic suit - as per your request - rubbin’ against your nipples n’ sending you into an absolute frenzy. 

He was such a tease.

Grinning as though he knew exactly what he was doing- even though the tone of his voice speaks of nothing but faux innocent. The lawyer speaks, “You’re moving around so much- something wrong, sugar?”

“A-absolutely nothing.” You’re managing to echo out.

“Good.” Higuruma utters, pure devilish desire in his tone. And he doesn’t need to say his next words for you to already know where this was heading- after all, one of his hands reaches for where his gavel was upon the table - using his radar sense - and the other presses down on your hips.

Right above where his thickened length was pressed between your pussylips—Higuruma feels his hand down upon your stomach as he sinks himself inside. The throbbing, cylindrical intrusion of his cock glissading inside- “Because we’re having a retrail.”

And then the gavel comes down right on top of the wooden desk.

It creaks and nearly splinters—but all you can think of is the way that Higuruma was fuckin’ his rotund tip into you as though there was no tomorrow. He wasn’t wasting a single second.

Court time was precious, y’know?

So you best believe that Higuruma had your hips pinned down with his own powerful ones, the scritch-scratching of his tufted happy trail rendering you stupid. Fucking you in hard, purposeful thrusts - each one aimed precisely for where you were most sensitive.

His swabbin’ thrusts didn’t just hit deeeeep into the back of your pussy, but your boyfriend was ending up pressing against your sweetest orifices, your soft roof, the door to your womb—dragging his thumb down the knob of your clit.

With those honed senses of his, you’re lasting barely two pumps of his accurate cock before he’s locating your g-spot—fuck.

And giving it the most merciless strike ever.

He knew where it was from the slurping sounds of your cunt - the way they’d grow just a little damper as he headed for that one spot, he knew where it was from the counts of your breathing - how you’d let them grow a bit more ragged as he veered his cocktip even closer, he knew where it was from the smell of your cloying slick—growing even wetter n’ more drenched in honey as you’d find yourself spearheaded by him. 

Rough.

“State your name.”

And so the trail commences.

You’re doing so as he says- a monumental task given the way that Higuruma’s greedy hips don’t stop taking you for a single second. In fact, he’s kissin’ your g-spot at a constant pace and seeming to only ask you questions when he knows you’ll be affected by the sudden bursts of pleasure. 

“State your age.”

Your mouth opens. But instead of your age, comes out a jumbled mess of pleads and his name—because just then, Higuruma had reached his dominant hand down and pinched your pretty, puffy clit. So needy that you’re trickling out wads of slick from between your pussylips.

Your hole’s clenching so thoroughly around him that he almost has to falter, too. “Now, now…” Tutting - and you knew that that was never a good sign when it comes to lawyers, but especially Higuruma. “Is that a refusal to testify? I’m afraid this won’t help your case, my angel.”

“I-it’s not…” Hot tears run down your cheeks - and in response, he’s only squeezing your poor clit even harder. “Promise I’ll tell you.”

And it’s only after you’re finishing your response - syllable after syllable - that Higuruma finally lets go of your sensitive nub. That too with such a level of reluctance—if you hadn’t known any better, then you’d have said that that was a sullen pout slashed across his lips as Higuruma lets go of that sultry appendage.

His fingers instead slide uuuuuup and down your wettened crevice- the perfect feeling of where his throbbing cock kept on pumping in n’ out. Higuruma’s lips slightly part as he touches upon the sheer difference in girth, in the way that your cunt was struggling to keep all of him bulging inside of you and yet you were still yearning for more. “Hmmm, state your crimes now.”

“I-”

“Not you.” Higuruma interrupts, “I’m calling up another witness.”

And yet, there was no other witness - at least not that you could see. And surely you weren’t that dumbified yet that you couldn’t conjure up the vision of someone else here when—there was clearly no one else here.

None but you, your boyfriend, and…your pussy.

Higuruma Hiromi - the best lawyer in Tokyo - had his head leaned lovingly down and his brows furrowed as he listened to the precious sounds of your pussy. As if he was deeeeep in the middle of the conversation, understanding every single slurp, squelch, and the most sultry gulps as yet another inch of him is being swallowed.

All of it reaches his ears like music. And he hums as he feels the sound of it send shivers through his very being- “Ahhh, I see…” Straightening up, he leers down at you. “My witness states that your crime is seduction.”

“G-guilty…or wait- no.”

“Guilty?” Higuruma questions in faint amusement, “Do you admit to the charged and- hah, forfeit your right to an orgasm?”

“No—” Whining out needily, “No, please- I need to cu-”

“Objection, hearsay.” He cuts through you coolly - through his cock was rutting into you in a way that was anything but. “You do not need an orgasm, angel. But does the defendant believe that she deserves one?”

“Y-yes.” You shamefully admit.

“Does the defendant believe that she is guilty of the crimes of seduction?”

“Yes-”

“Does the defendant believe that she is worthy of a second chance, however?”

Arching your back into his. “Of course.”

“Hm…we might have to settle this with a jury.“ Those dark brows of his furrow, between them a perspired bead of sweat tracks down his forehead. And it doesn’t take long for your smart boyfriend to know just whom to ask—before you know it, he’s veering his head down and using his super-heightened senses to listen to every single sound of your pussy.

To listen to your arousal.

To smell it- just so sweet.

To let his brain come to a conclusion—“The jury has come to a unanimous decision.”

Your heart jumps to your throat.

“All counts- not guilty.” And then with a few more fervent rolls on top of your throbbing clit, Higuruma drags you all the way to the precipice of your high and—and this time - just this time - he actually lets you topple over the edge. 

Straight over it.

White-hot flashes. Warmth filling you up like a flood.

It starts from the tips of your toes and then shoots all the way up to your poor, sparking brain. The superhero grins as tears track down your cheeks at the final release that you’re been waiting so long for, and he grins as you’re shaking through wave after wave of your high. “Good-” You’re gurgling out cutely, “S-so good-”

Head dropping back against the pillows.

The rounded edge of his cock shovels in as he’s bursting your high through you wildly—

“What can I say?” He hums, “I’m a really good lawyer.”

A/N. Confession time: Higu and Kuna’s ones were the hardest to do because I’ve never watched Hulk or Daredevil WHOOPS-